Snow mounded in the deep casings of Freedom House’s windows, piling high on the balcony where, in more temperate months, Mamma watched the clouds grow gilded in the sunset. With the arrival of the new year, the temperature in Tobolsk began to plummet, and the furnaces meant to warm the house through were impotent against the relentless cold. To ward off frostbite, Olga and her sisters had taken to wearing their winter furs indoors atop layers of sweaters and skirts, but the chill air crept mercilessly through any cracks in their armor: up sleeve cuffs to bite at their wrists; past thick knitted scarves to caress their cheeks.
In such cold, movement was a necessity rather than a luxury, and Olga was thankful for the distraction of outdoor activities: sawing wood with Papa; building Snow Mountain to ever-greater heights. Now the mountain loomed over the courtyard, as wide at the base as it was tall, with a broad, shining ice slide. Alexei, standing at the top clutching a makeshift sledge, looked precarious as he waved down at Olga, his breath clouding in the air.
Olga waved back. “Are we certain it’s safe?” she muttered, leaning closer to Tatiana.
“It’s too late now,” Tatiana replied. “He’s already up there, and you know as well as I do that he’s only coming down one way.”
She looked up at her infinitely breakable brother, bouncing on the balls of his feet to keep warm. The structure was solid enough—Papa and Gilliard had made sure of it—but so much could go wrong in the pursuit of joy: recklessness, carelessness, haste—
“This was a mistake,” she shouted, stepping forward. “Alexei, don’t—”
Before she could finish, Alexei sat down on the sledge and kicked off, launching himself down the slide with a devilish whoop. Olga closed her eyes, waiting for the sound of Alexei slipping, a scream of pain—but then Alexei was at her feet, laughing.
“Such a worrywart,” he said, brushing snow from his knees as he rose. “Really, Olga. It’s just snow.”
Snow that can lead to ice, ice that can lead to slipping, slips that can cause bruising, she thought. Bruising that can lead to disaster, without Father Grigori to save him. “Alexei, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go again. What if something were to happen?”
“Come now, he’s fine,” Papa said, resting a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Not letting a young man enjoy the snow is positively un-Russian! Remember skiing down the hill in Alexander Park?” He looked up at Snow Mountain’s three solid tiers, his cheeks pink. “This is half the height of that.”
Olga recalled the gentle slope of the hillside, manicured to smooth perfection by Papa’s honor guard: sliding down on wooden skis, carving long, graceful curves into the snow.
“Go on, Olga,” said Tatiana. “See for yourself. It’s just a bit of fun.”
Alexei held out the sledge; Olga took it and started up the steps she’d helped to freeze in place. She knew she was overreacting. The structure wasn’t even all that large. It was a child’s plaything, a distraction, but her legs still shook when she reached the top. She crouched low on the mountain’s modest peak, trying to ward off an unfamiliar dizzying sensation: usually she was fearless when it came to heights.
“A bit quicker than that!” From down below, she could hear Anastasia’s snort of disapproval. “The sun has already started setting, and other people want to try!”
With a deep breath, she wrenched her eyes open and stood. Above the protection of the fence, wind breathed life into her scarf, sending it billowing around her neck as she twisted to look over the barrier. The view was breathtaking: the setting sun’s rays stretched long across the neighborhood, twisting the shadows of the guards beyond the gate into fairy-tale creatures; snow glittered in the public gardens, softening the flower beds into unfamiliar mounds as her fear dissolved on the air.
“Come on, Olga!”
She sat on the sledge, gathering her skirts beneath her before digging her heels into the hard-packed snow. She looked up to admire the view once more and caught sight of a curtain twitching in a second-story window: Mamma, her face obscured by the sunset glare.
Olga kicked her feet onto the sledge and propelled herself down the ice slide—the ride was glorious, exhilarating, over far too soon. As the sledge reached the bottom of Snow Mountain it banked and rolled; Olga tipped over onto the snow, laughing.
“See?” Alexei helped her to her feet. “What did I tell you? Nothing to fear.” He grinned and snatched the sledge from Olga’s grasp, darting back to the base of the mountain. “Shvybzik, shall we go together? Let’s see if we can slide all the way to the gate!”
Olga watched as they climbed, still savoring the giddy feeling of the slide as Tatiana and Maria began throwing snowballs up at the mountain.
Papa sidled over, pulling his cigarette case from his overcoat; he held them out, but Olga demurred. “It’s good to see you laugh,” he said, lighting his cigarette. “You’ve been so quiet these past few months. I’ve missed that beautiful smile.”
She watched Alexei and Anastasia scrape snowballs from the top of the mountain to pelt back down at Tatiana and Maria. “I suppose so,” she replied. “Though there’s not been much to smile about, has there?”
He let out a tobacco-scented breath. “I disagree,” he replied, lifting his face to the setting sun. “It’s a beautiful day, and we’re all together. That’s reason enough, I think.”
She shifted, crossing her arms to keep her fingers warm; she glanced back at the house, where a handful of soldiers huddled by a bonfire, passing a cigarette between them. One of them watched Papa carefully, the bottom half of his face concealed in a heavy scarf, and Olga thought once more of the letter Papa had slipped into the cuff of his sleeve. “I’ve heard from some of the guards that we’re to be subject to rationing. Is it true?”
Atop Snow Mountain Alexei and Anastasia balanced on the sledge, and Papa waved his encouragement as they kicked off. “It’s no different from the rest of the country,” he said finally. “It’s important to show the people that we share in their hardships.”
“The people don’t have a household of fifty,” Olga pointed out. “What are the kitchens meant to do? How can they feed our staff, the guards, and our family?”
“The monastery has offered to supplement our larder with whatever we need—eggs, fish, bread. We might end up eating simpler fare, but that’s always been my preference. Better for the digestion.” He looked at Olga, a smile twitching beneath his beard. “You aren’t worried about our food supply, are you? You shouldn’t concern yourself, my dear.”
Though the courtyard was full of people, no one, it seemed, was paying attention to their conversation: the guards at the bonfire; Olga’s siblings, climbing up the mountain. Mamma, her face pressed to the window. “Shouldn’t I?” She stepped closer, lowering her voice to an undertone. “Why is that? Won’t we be here much longer? Should we be making preparations to leave?”
Papa lifted his cigarette to his lips.
When it was clear he wasn’t going to answer, Olga stepped closer still. “So, what should concern me, Papa? Because no one is telling me what’s happening—no news, nothing.” She reached for Papa’s cigarette, her hands trembling as she pulled it from his fingers. “What’s going to happen if the Bolsheviks decide to separate us? What if they put us out in the streets, or into prison? What if Alexei has another attack? What if we’re never allowed to leave this courtyard again, if I don’t ever get to see beyond this little patch—if I don’t get to find a husband, have children...” She jammed the cigarette in her mouth, more to stop herself from crying than from a real desire to smoke. “Have you thought of that, Papa? Have you made any plans, anything at all?”
Papa lifted his arm and collected Olga close; she leaned into the strong column of his chest, tilted her head onto his shoulder.
“My dear girl,” he whispered. “I forget you’re not a child any longer. It’s not fair for me to keep you in the dark.” She pressed her face into Papa’s scarf, the scent of his aftershave permeating the wool: citrus and cedarwood, putting her in mind of the greenhouse gardens at Livadia where the lemons grew as plump and large as cricket balls.
Olga drew back. “Tell me there’s reason to hope.” She closed her eyes, picturing Papa’s letter, whisked from person to person through Tobolsk to Tyumen; enclosed in the lining of someone’s jacket as they bought a third-class train ticket to Petrograd. Perhaps the return of Pankratov’s soldiers to the capital could be a blessing in disguise; perhaps those who’d grown sympathetic would help rally their cause. “Tell me there’s something I can do—something to be helpful—”
Papa hugged her close. “There are a thousand reasons to hope,” he said finally. “Be patient. Think of your sisters. You mustn’t give them cause to despair, not now. Support them; help your mother. There’s always hope, so long as we’re together.”