The curtains were drawn in Olga’s bedroom as she and Tatiana dressed for dinner, the single sliver of light tracing up the dragonfly wallpaper the only indication that the Alexander Palace and its grounds were still bathed in evening summer sun. Wrapping her customary pearls around her neck, Olga glanced at Tatiana’s reflection in the mirror, her bony back visible as the maid helped her into her corset.
“I suppose I just don’t understand why Dr. Gedroits won’t let us do our usual rounds anymore,” Tatiana was saying, her voice floating atop a recording of a French pianist that Aunt Olga had given to them after their last tea party. She studied her reflection in the mirror, fixing a diamond earring into place. “It seems such an inconvenience when we’ve gotten to know the men in our own wards so well.”
Olga smiled at the maid. “Thank you, I think we can finish up on our own,” she said, and the maid curtsied before collecting Olga and Tatiana’s discarded nursing uniforms. “I think she just wants to make sure that all the men receive the same standard of care.”
Tatiana huffed as she stepped into her evening gown. Whereas Olga had chosen a midnight-blue dress with a lace overlay, Tatiana had opted for a berry-hued Empire-line—both were a few years out of date, as Mamma had forbidden them from purchasing any new clothing for the duration of the war, but the colors alone felt refreshing after so many long days in their uniforms. “Same standard of care...isn’t it better for us to get to know each of our patients? To learn how they behave when they’re in pain; to be able to monitor their progress from the very start?” She slipped the dress’s straps over her shoulders and smoothed the bodice straight. Tonight, Papa had called together a small gathering of family and friends for a dinner party. The occasion paled in comparison to the leisurely dinners, long speeches and glittering balls they had been accustomed to just a year earlier, but now it felt almost indulgent. “It seems a better system for us to learn all there is to know about a handful of men rather than to spread ourselves too thin.”
“I agree, but it seems the good doctor does not,” Olga replied, picking up a square bottle to envelop herself in a rose-scented cloud.
“Well, we must keep the peace with the good doctor,” Tatiana muttered, inspecting her reflection in the vanity mirror one final time before circling to the door, sidestepping to avoid the lingering mist of Olga’s perfume.
“Very true.” Olga lifted the needle on the gramophone, the tinny sound of Erik Satie squelching into nothingness. She could hear Anastasia and Maria setting out from their bedroom next door, and took her time putting the record back in its sleeve. “One war is enough to be getting on with at the moment.”
They walked down the hall, passing Alexei’s suite of rooms: playroom, classroom, music room. “I suppose it’s not unbearable,” Tatiana continued, her heels clicking against the parquet floor. “Viktor and I will simply have to find time together outside my rounds. Perhaps we could go to the hospital after dinner, I doubt Mamma would mind.”
Under the guise of adjusting her gloves, Olga slowed as they reached the staircase. “Yes, I meant to talk to you about that. Viktor...are you quite sure about him?”
“What’s there to be sure about? He’s fun, isn’t he? Gallant, too. He’s got so many good stories.”
“He does,” Olga tried, disconcerted at how much she sounded like Dr. Gedroits, “but what do you know about him, really?”
Tatiana slowed. “I don’t know what you’re on about, Olga. I know no less about him than you do about that Shakh-Bagov you spend all your time with.” She stopped talking as they passed two footmen on the landing, who bowed before continuing up the stairs. “What’s this about? Because I don’t much fancy a lecture.”
Olga paused. Even now, five days later, the feel of Mitya’s lips still lingered on her skin. Though they’d not yet had an opportunity to repeat their liaison in the garden, Mitya had taken once more to helping Olga on her rounds: wrapping bandages and making beds, his smile the highlight of her hectic days. The moments she stole with Mitya were no more than any other young couple might expect. Was it really right for her to try and talk her sister out of the same experience?
“You know as well as I do, we have to be sensible about all this,” Olga said finally.
Tatiana’s expression darkened. “Why’s that? Because you’ve been so sensible with Shakh-Bagov? I’ve seen him following you around like a lovestruck fool, watching you moon over those little love notes he slips into your trolley when he thinks no one is looking.”
“I’d be grateful if you were to leave him out of this,” Olga shot back. At the bottom of the staircase, she could hear the sound of Papa’s guests arriving—too few to be considered a proper party, too many to count as a quiet family dinner.
Tatiana huffed. “And what about Dr. Gedroits and Sister Nirod? They spend all their time together, and no one seems to give them a second thought.”
Olga paused midstep. “Dr. Gedroits and Sister Nirod? Really?”
Tatiana continued on, looking amused at Olga’s lack of worldliness. “Though I suppose she’d say their case is different, as Sister Nirod isn’t a patient.”
Olga shook her head, amazed she’d not seen it for herself. Dr. Gedroits and Sister Nirod... It wasn’t all that surprising, really. She thought of herself and Mitya, taking comfort in each other’s company, the strains of war bringing them closer together than they ever would have become in peacetime. With her heavy workload not only at the Annexe, but also at the civilian hospital, Dr. Gedroits was shouldering her own wartime burdens. Why shouldn’t she have a companion to help her carry them?
But she wasn’t here to discuss Dr. Gedroits. She continued on down the stairs, keeping her voice low. “Shakh-Bagov and I have an understanding. A connection—”
“And you don’t think I have that with Viktor?” Tatiana removed her glove and scrubbed the tears from her cheek with an impatient hand. “When I’m with Viktor, I forget my worries...” She pulled her glove back on, stretching the silk above her elbow. “He’s a distraction,” she said, anguish laced beneath her matter-of-fact tone of voice. “Because if I think too far into what might be, I can’t focus on what is.”
When Olga stepped out onto the balcony, Tatiana was already at the other end of the table, doggedly conversing with Uncle Sandro and Aunt Xenia. Given the temperate weather, Papa had arranged for dinner to be served on the balcony that wrapped around Mamma’s reception room, the heavy candelabras set atop the long table providing ambiance, more than lighting. Beyond the wrought-iron railing, swans nested in the pond, flashes of white in the dark water; on shore, a scarlet-liveried footman threw them stale bread crumbs brought out from the kitchens.
Papa had arranged the dinner in honor of Aunt Olga’s return from the front, where she’d been serving as a nurse in a medical “flying column.” Alongside Olga’s immediate family and Aunt Olga herself, Grandmamma had made a rare appearance at the Alexander Palace. She sat next to Papa, listening to Aunt Olga’s stories with a thin smile.
“Let me tell you, it’s been a nightmare in terms of personal comfort,” Aunt Olga said airily over the soup course. She swiped a hand through the air, deterring a wasp that had been seeking to land on her wineglass. “I’m no stranger to roughing it—I’ve had more than enough picnic lunches on the Shtandart to prove it—but this is something else entirely. Do you know, I often went three days without a rest?”
“Your stamina does you credit,” said Papa. He lifted his glass of mineral water, sparkling in cut crystal. “I’m proud you’re doing your part for the war effort.”
“Well, we must all do what we can for Russia,” Aunt Olga replied, lifting her glass in response. “And we’ll be rewarded for it, in this life or the next.”
Olga glanced at her aunt. According to Felix Yusupov, Aunt Olga had asked Papa to grant her a divorce from her estranged husband, but her request had been denied. Did she hope, perhaps, that her good example might persuade Papa to allow her to marry her beloved Captain Kulikovsky?
“Indeed, we must,” Papa replied, setting down his cutlery; wordlessly, the footmen lining the palace wall came forward and whisked away the dishes. “In fact, I’ve an announcement to make. I’ve informed Stavka that I will be taking over personal command of the military.” He looked down the table at Alexei and winked. “We’re leaving for Mogilev on Monday.”
The group fell silent; Grandmamma twisted in her seat, candlelight illuminating her raised eyebrows. Olga exchanged a glance with Tatiana, unsure what to say. Papa’s announcement was news to her, as much as it was to the rest of the table: it didn’t bode well, surely, that Papa felt he needed to exercise direct control over the military.
At the far end of the table, Dmitri Pavlovich set down his glass. “Well. Let me be the first to congratulate you, sir.” He placed a hand over his heart, his thumb brushing against his St. George’s Cross. “Might I ask, what prompted your decision?”
“Nikolay Nikolaevich’s incompetence, for one.” Mamma dabbed at her lips with a napkin, leaving a pale stain on the white linen. “We’d reached an impasse, hadn’t we, dearest? There was just no avoiding the facts any longer.”
Papa beamed. “I’m rather looking forward to it,” he said. Below the balcony, Olga could hear the swans in the pond, their wings a flurry of sound on water as they fed. “A chance to do my part properly, as it were.”
The next morning, Tatiana jumped out of the motorcar as it pulled up in front of the Annexe, barely sparing a backward glance for Olga as she strode through the double doors. Inside, Olga caught sight of Kiknadze, smiling broadly as he greeted Tatiana with a bow.
Olga waited in the car, giving Viktor and Tatiana a moment alone before she traced her sister’s footsteps into the hospital. She often found herself on the back foot when it came to Tatiana—somehow, her younger sister seemed so much more mature than she felt, in all the ways that counted. Whereas Olga had allowed Dr. Gedroits’ disapproval to color her opinion of Kiknazde, Tatiana thought for herself, accepting Kiknadze’s merits and flaws with a wide-eyed pragmatism that Olga couldn’t help but admire. It wasn’t right to hold her to a different standard of behavior—not when Olga herself had formed a similar attachment to Mitya.
She’d delivered Dr. Gedroits’ rebuke: Tatiana would have to decide whether or not to heed it.
The dining room smelled of burnt coffee, pots of jam and blackened toast in racks positioned like sentries along the long table. At the far end, Mitya sat hunched over a newspaper, reading intently. He curled his wounded fingers around a cup of coffee, and Olga couldn’t help marveling at his ongoing recovery.
He rose to his feet at Olga’s approach. “No uniform today?”
“I’m not on shift,” she replied. “And I can’t stay long. Tatiana and I just wanted to look in on our way to the station to say hello.”
“I’m glad you did.” Mitya folded his newspaper. “Do you have enough time for a walk?”
The grounds were wet after early morning rain, and Mitya’s stick sank into the grass, leaving a pocked trail as they walked past the hospital’s outbuildings to the park across the street. Dressed in his uniform, the gold thread of Mitya’s epaulettes glinted in the September sunlight, the smell of pomade wafting from his neatly parted hair. But for the stick, he looked the picture of vigor, his gentlemanly demeanor enhanced, rather than diminished, by his lingering limp.
Once they’d reached the park, Olga threaded her hand through Mitya’s crooked arm, smiling at how her hand fitted perfectly into the crease.
“You’re quiet today,” she commented. “Is something the matter?”
“I’ve received my orders,” he replied, in a voice that fell just short of cheerful. “I’m to rejoin my regiment in two weeks’ time. I daresay you’ll be glad to see the back of me.”
Two weeks... She tightened her hand around his arm, his jacket heavy beneath her fingers. “Don’t say that,” she said. How could he be leaving when they’d only just reached an understanding? “You know I’ll be praying for you.”
“And I for you.” Mitya turned to face Olga head-on, his dark eyes honeyed amber by the sunlight. “I know it’s presumptuous of me to ask, but would you write?”
Olga wrapped her arms around his neck, the rasp of his jaw rough against the delicate skin of her cheek. The thought of him returning to the front line terrified her, but she knew better than to let herself get carried away: it wouldn’t do to let him see the toll his departure would take, not when he needed the confidence to go.
He broke away, resting his forehead against hers. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he whispered, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.
“So have I,” Olga whispered back. “Two weeks...”
“Two weeks,” he replied, his smile fading. “Will you? Write?”
She leaned into his chest. “Of course.” He wrapped his arm around her, blanketing her with the scent of soap and leather. “Every day, if you’re lucky.”
He looked down, his lips upturned. “If I was lucky, I would be staying here with you.”
“I wish you could,” she replied, “but it would be selfish of me to want you here until the end of the war.”
She felt the rumble of laughter, deep in his chest. “Spoken like a true Romanov,” he replied, drawing away so they could continue walking hand in hand. “Much as I’d like to deny it, I’d be lying if I said I was looking forward to getting back to the front line. I’m told the shortages are getting worse.”
“That will come to an end soon,” Olga said, pleased that she could at least put his mind to rest on one of his concerns. “Papa is going to the front today to take over as commander in chief.” She breathed in the sweet smell of needles on the forest floor; overhead, nesting birds rustled in the green. “He’ll set the shortages to rights.”
Mitya’s hand twitched in hers. “He’s doing what?”
“He’s dismissed Grand Duke Nikolay Nikolaevich.” Olga glanced up at Mitya. “I thought you’d be pleased to hear it.”
He paused once more, leaning heavily on his stick. “I’m—surprised, that’s all. What prompted that decision?”
Olga recounted last night’s conversation: Mamma’s pride, Papa’s determination. “Necessity, I suppose. It’s hardly a secret that the war isn’t going as well as he’d like. He says he must do his part.”
“His part?” Mitya stared at Olga, his tender expression gone. “Isn’t it his part to lead the country?”
“Of course, but the army is central to the country, isn’t it?” Why did he sound so incredulous? “I think it’s a mark of his courage that he’s decided to go. He feels we ought to get the military back under control after our defeats, become more strategic in our approach—”
“He’s not a military commander, Olga. He’s got no practical knowledge of battle.” Mitya shook his head, birdsong trilling in the trees. “I know he’s your father, but I worry he’s not thought this through.”
Olga bristled. “He’s my father, but he’s also your tsar,” she reminded Mitya, a small ember of anxiety lighting within her like a spark on paper. “Ordained by God; sworn to defend Russia from all foes.”
“Ordained by God...” Mitya muttered. He ran a hand along his jawline, staring down at the deadfall beneath his feet.
“He knows what’s best for Russia,” Olga retorted. In her mind’s eye, she ran over the end of the dinner; Grandmamma’s uncharacteristic silence as she said good-night, bumping her cheek against Olga’s; Dmitri, silently draining his glass of water. “His faith will lead us to victory. Can’t you see that?”
Mitya continued through the trees, his stick sinking into the earth.
“Can’t you see that?” Olga asked, her conviction faltering. How could Mitya not understand that Papa was doing what was best? It was a decision Papa hadn’t taken lightly; moreover, it was a decision that could turn the tide, make right Nikolay Nikolaevich’s spectacular failures.
Mitya paused beneath the yellowing shade of a beech tree. “The military is bleeding,” he said finally, his fingers white against the head of his cane. “We’re losing men at a rate that we cannot afford; we’re ill equipped, both with ammunition and supplies. My men write to tell me that the army has begun rationing bullets; that the German army is a far more formidable foe than we’d ever imagined. Your father is many things, but he’s not a military mind. Surely he would do better appointing someone more experienced—”
“He feels it will speak to the men—the knowledge that their tsar is with them, in the fight.” Olga could feel her cheeks burning, her indignation at Mitya’s stubborn refusal to see reason. “How is that any different from what you told me to do? You told me to be here, showing our brave officers that I care. How is Papa’s plan any different?”
Mitya looked as sick as Olga felt; from beyond the confines of the park, they could hear the sound of motorcars; horses’ hooves, clattering across the cobbled street. “And who will lead the country while the tsar is at the front? The Duma?”
“My mother,” Olga replied. “She’s been supporting Papa for years, she knows everything there is to know about domestic affairs—”
Mitya dug his cane into the ground, his jaw tightening on words he clearly didn’t want to say.
“What? What’s wrong with Mamma?”
“Please,” he muttered. “Please, let’s change the subject.”
“What’s difficult about it?” Olga could feel fire licking up her spine; anger, at Mitya’s reticence. She resisted the urge to cross the small patch of grass that stood between them, to put a finger under his chin and make him look her in the eye. “You’re the one who asked; you’re the one who has so much to say on the subject. What’s wrong with my mother—the tsarina, your empress—overseeing the tsar’s affairs at home while he’s at the front? Tell me, what’s so wrong about that?”
He looked up, his dark eyes flat with some unfathomable emotion: her Mitya gone, shielded behind the cool façade of a soldier. “Is that a command or a request, Grand Duchess? Because it no longer feels like we’re speaking as equals.”
Olga stepped back. She could feel Mitya pulling away as they stared at each other across the sudden gulf of her position—a gulf that had always been there, invisible, as she tried to cross the breach. Pavel’s parting words echoed in her mind: You are the Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna. Her title had torn them apart. Here, now, she could see that same look of defeat on Mitya’s face.
She’d deceived herself in thinking that theirs was a connection built on mutual trust, mutual attraction: that her refusal to use her title at the hospital meant the rest of the world had forgotten it, too. Dr. Gedroits and the sanitary, the patients and other nurses, all smiling at her insistence on being called Sister Romanova rather than Grand Duchess: they’d done it as a means of placating her, in deference to the title Olga had never wanted. Was this how all of her friendships—her romances—were to end, with the inevitable, maddening reminder of her position?
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “You must know I didn’t mean it like that, I think we both got—”
“Carried away.” Mitya exhaled heavily. “I understand. I do. But you must try to understand, too. I’m a soldier. I live and die on the orders of those in charge. Your father is my tsar, and I will follow his orders to my last breath, but I cannot pretend to have faith in him as my commander in chief.”
Slowly, he bowed his head once again, the gesture feeling like some final, horrible goodbye. What he’d said was tantamount to treason—enough, certainly, to have him stripped of his position in his elite Grenadier regiment. As grand duchess, Olga knew she ought to report him.
But as Olga Nikolaevna?
“Let’s—let’s forget this conversation ever happened,” Olga said quickly. “We can talk of other things; forget we’ve had a disagreement, move on—”
Mitya looked up. “How?” He shook his head, anguished. “How can we ever truly know each other if we can’t disagree? If I’m not able to speak my mind?”
“Of course, you can speak your mind,” Olga replied, taking his hand in hers.
“Even if I’m critical of your parents?” Mitya shook his head, his grip slackening. “We must face facts, Grand Duchess. Our duties don’t lie with each other.”
“And what if you mean more to me than my duties?” Olga turned his hand over in hers, tracing the lines of his palm with her finger: head, heart, life.
“Do I?” Mitya’s smile softened further. “Will I still, when I’m back at the front?”
“Two weeks,” she whispered. She didn’t want to look up, to face the possibility of rejection in his eyes—but they would never stand on an equal footing if she didn’t give him the option to go. “I want you to know that you’re more than a—a distraction, to me. If you want me to write to you, I’ll write; if you want me to pray for you, I’ll pray.” She lifted her head, meeting his anguished gaze. “If you want nothing more to do with me then I’ll leave you alone. From this point on, I will leave you be, if that’s what you want. I don’t want you to feel a sense of obligation holding us together.”
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his hand so they were palm to palm once more. “The fact of the matter is that you will always be above me,” he whispered. He lifted her fingers to his lips, kissed them one by one. “I’m in love with you, Olga. Not with the grand duchess; not with the Romanov. With you. You have my heart. For as long as you want it, my heart is yours—but I must be free to speak my mind, even if it’s something you don’t want to hear.”
Olga wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry; whether hers was a feeling of relief or sadness. She leaned into his chest once more, and he wrapped his hands around her waist: a soldier and a nurse, a couple set, finally, on the same footing.
“No special treatment?” she said, and Mitya chuckled.
“No special treatment,” he replied, as she lifted her chin to meet his kiss.