Olga picked apart the threads holding together the hem of her beaver coat, the seam nearly invisible beneath the profusion of fur. The detailed work hurt her eyes, and she held it closer to the window to catch the light: it would be easier, she knew, to split the silk lining, but such a fix would be evident to anyone who bothered to look. No, going along the seam itself was the better course of action; furthermore, the heavy weight of the fur would conceal any signs of tampering.
She set down her scissors and pulled the seam apart; surreptitiously, she glanced at the door before reaching into her pocket and pulling out five large gemstones and a small opal brooch. The final stone—a square-cut pink diamond—had once sat nestled in an exquisite diadem, but Mamma had broken apart the setting when they left Tsarskoe Selo, reasoning that it would be easier to transport individual jewels than full sets.
Medicine, Mamma had called them, when she’d asked Olga and Tatiana to conceal the jewels in their clothing. “They’ll be too squeamish to go through ladies’ underthings, so put the most valuable ones in your corsets,” Mamma had instructed them in an undertone whilst packing for her departure with Papa. Between the two of them, and with Anastasia and Alexei’s help, they’d managed to conceal most of what Mamma had left behind. Even now, Anastasia only had a few glittering jewels left in the basket at her feet. Medicine, Mamma had said, to be used at some later date, in some later world, to heal their family’s fortunes.
Olga shifted the coat on her lap, using it to shield the diamond from view so she could inspect it more closely. Devoid of the setting that had once made it elegant, it looked needlessly large, its beauty self-evident, but its value nonexistent. There was nothing this diamond could do, here: milk, now, was a luxury; heat was a luxury. Without the ability to exchange it for money, the diamond was little more than a trinket.
Still—its value might return one day. She dropped the diamond in the cavity and folded the hem back over, trying to make the seam straight.
Across the room, Tatiana sat with Alexei. Under her guidance, he threaded a needle, his brow furrowed as he knotted the end of the thread. He could be a frustrating student, easily stymied by failure, but just as she was a patient nurse, Tatiana was a patient teacher: she set three small rubies in the cuff of Alexei’s greatcoat and folded the seam back over, showing Alexei how to stitch just beneath the crease to make it look as if the alteration was never there.
She finished sewing the seam back together, her cheeks burning as she cut the thread. Mamma and Papa had left weeks ago, and the thought of her last conversation with Papa hadn’t lost its sting: how could she have been so callous? Most evenings, she sat up late into the night, endlessly rehashing what she’d said as she listened for footsteps outside the bedroom door. She’d cut her father to the core, and though she’d kissed him goodbye before his departure, she’d not forgiven herself for setting harsh words between them. Why was she so incapable of holding her tongue?
Still. She didn’t regret her words, only the timing—and the timing had been anything but inconsequential. The last few hours before Mamma and Papa’s departure had been torturous: the solemn family dinner, marred by the presence of Matveev’s guards along the walls; the silent vigil that had followed in the sitting room, waiting for Yakovlev to retrieve them.
Mamma had cornered Olga when Papa was taking leave of Alexei in his bedroom.
“Forgive each other,” she’d said, her voice aching with the strain of it all. “You’ll never forgive yourself, otherwise. Don’t let bitterness fester.”
But though Olga had made up with Papa, the memory of her words still lingered like smoke in her mind. You could have saved us all, if only you’d been brave enough to do so. Was Papa, too, haunted by Olga’s accusations?
In their last moments at Freedom House, Mamma and Papa had stood arm in arm in the graying dawn, neither attempting to hide their tears as they hugged their children goodbye. Outside the gate, two bow-backed tarantasses awaited, hauled into view by anemic mares. Even in the midst of her grief, Olga couldn’t help noting the indignity of it: was this the best Matveev could conjure for the former emperor—a peasant’s conveyance?
Even Yakovlev seemed embarrassed at the lack of consideration. He’d ordered two of his guards back into the house to find a horsehair mattress to set atop the bare boards, and Maria had unraveled her long shawl to lay atop it: Maria, as always, looking to Mamma’s comfort. Yakovlev had offered Mamma his hand to help her climb atop the mattress, his eyes downcast like a schoolboy’s.
His solicitousness had worried Olga as she hugged her father goodbye—was it proof of a guilty conscience? But it seemed the Bolshevik had been true to his word. Several days later, Matveev summoned Olga to give her the news that Yakovlev had delivered Mamma, Papa and Maria safely to their destination.
Ekaterinburg, Olga thought, running her fingers along the hem to see if she could feel the jewels beneath the fur. Whatever was the point of taking them to Ekaterinburg? If her long-ago history lessons were to be believed, Ekaterinburg was an industrial backwater—a mining concern set deep within the Ural Mountains. As far as cities went, it offered nothing different from Tobolsk: it wasn’t even all that distant from Tobolsk, by Russian standards.
No, if Olga’s memory was correct, Ekaterinburg was a speck of nowhere—a city without distinction.
But then, perhaps that was its very appeal.
She finished her inspection of the hem and stood to ease her aching back: sitting, these days, felt quite as strenuous as standing, in its own peculiar way. She crossed to the double doors that opened onto the balcony. Matveev had forbidden them from stepping out at such a height, but there was nothing to stop her enjoying the view through the windows.
Across the street, the town gardens had bloomed once more, trees unfurling their broad leaves with the vibrant first green of spring. Near the cathedral, a couple on horseback moved sedately among the foliage. Olga watched them, admiring his upright bearing; her chestnut hair. His trimmed beard, so similar to Papa’s.
Don’t you dare judge me for keeping our family together.
She glanced at Alexei, sullen-faced as he wrestled with his needle; Anastasia, quietly sorting through Mamma’s jewels.
“The hats have changed.” Tatiana stepped closer to the window, and the sleeve of the blouse she was mending trailed on the floor. “Have you noticed?” She plunged the needle into the fabric, swift as a fish in water. “The brims aren’t quite as full.”
Olga turned away from the window. “Trust you to notice a detail like that,” she said. Without hesitating, she snatched the blouse: ignoring Tatiana’s protests, she threw it over her head like a scarf, raising her voice to a comical pitch. “The brims aren’t as full!” Anastasia and Alexei looked up, gleeful. Tatiana reached to grab the blouse back, but Olga set off across the room, allowing Anastasia and Alexei’s laughter to spur her on as she jumped atop the couch, twisting out of Tatiana’s grasp, the sleeve of the blouse trailing behind her. “The brims aren’t as full! It’s fashion, my dears, fashion is ever changing, always transforming to ever greater heights—”
“Excuse me!” Matveev stormed in, his rat face pinched. Olga halted, her giddiness swiftly turning to panic—had they left anything valuable in the open?—but Anastasia, it seemed, had enough presence of mind to cover their work with the bulk of her skirt.
Olga nodded as she caught her breath. “We’re sorry, Commander.” She thrust the blouse back at Tatiana in a ball, chastened.
Matveev cast a lingering gaze over the room. “I would have expected better from you, Grand Duchess,” he said. “Aren’t you a little old for playtime?”
Tatiana tugged on Olga’s arm; as one, they slumped back into their seats.
As Matveev left the room, Olga picked up her coat. Anastasia bowed back over her work; Alexei threaded another needle and Tatiana resumed her darning.
They were quiet over their work for a moment, then Tatiana broke the silence with a high-pitched whisper. “The brims simply aren’t de rigueur—” and set everyone to laughing once again.