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A week later, Inga wrestled a bucket full of boiling water down the palace corridor, doing her best not to slosh any onto the floor or the front of her smock. It became a juggling act between caution and speed, especially since her injured arm remained completely useless. The pain had mostly faded, unless she bumped it or tried to lift anything. She could work, but only on a limited number of tasks. This water run would normally have gone to another servant, but it was an emergency, and no one else could do it. She’d been told to get the water to the Tsarina’s rooms as swiftly as possible. Bogdan already heated another kettle over an open flame, in case more was needed.
Inga struggled past intricate tapestries showing Russian victories and ornate pottery from the Far East. To most, they would be treasures to be gawked at. Inga hardly noticed them. Her mind reeled with other things. Things too dark for her to notice the Kremlin’s treasures.
Taras said Anastasia would get better, but she’d worsened steadily over the past seven days. She’d already lived much longer than the doctors predicted, and that should be encouraging, but now she'd grown too weak to lift her head from her pillow. The doctors feared she would be dead before morning. First the Tsar deathly ill, now the Tsarina. Who would be next? The Metropolitan?
Inga finally made it to the Tsarina’s chambers. The anteroom thronged with people. The Chosen Council was present. Taras and Nikolai lounged against the wall on the far side of the room. Palace boyars, those who’d arrived from outlying estates, as well as visiting ambassadors milled about, waiting for news of the Tsarina’s health. They hovered outside the Tsarina’s chamber to show their support, pacing circles into the carpets. Their lips often moved in silent prayer, but they rarely conversed with each other. The unnatural silence made it feel like the Tsarina had already died.
Taras's eyes fell on Inga from the far corner when she threaded her way through the waiting boyars. She gave a miniscule shake of her head to show she had no new information before pushing her way in to the Tsarina’s rooms. Guards stood at the doors to make certain no one went in who wasn’t specifically allowed. They didn’t bother to open the door for a servant.
Stepping inside felt like stepping into a silent cemetery. Unbroken silence met her ears. The room was illuminated only by sallow glow of a few dim candles. Lethargic, carefully considered movements came from Ivan and the doctors, of course. Even those seemed on the verge of death.
The Tsarina looked pallid and sunken all over. She made no noise. Everyone in the room watched her chest intensely, sighing with relief each time it rose again after falling.
Her silence was a development of the past twenty-four hours. Two nights past, fire had broken out in one part of the Kremlin. The Tsarina had never truly been in any danger, but she'd seen the flames from her window and, in her delirium, imagined them closing in on her.
Ivan went to her room after directing his army in putting out the flames and found Anastasia shivering with fever. No words, no tonics the doctors mixed brought her comfort. She’d screamed and wailed about the flames coming for her; about her baby burning in the city. The tsarevich, Little Ivan, slept safely with his nurse. Even showing the baby to his mother didn’t calm her.
The Tsar took to the cathedral on his knees, swearing to God he would accept any sacrifice for Anastasia’s return to health. People whispered that he swore to relinquish Livonia. Inga didn’t know what the bit about Livonia meant. When she heard the gossip, she asked Taras. He’d told her Ivan’s eye had been on Livonia for some time. He wanted to declare war and take the spoils of the smaller country for himself. Every member of the chosen council spoke against it—the cost would be too high—but Ivan persisted. Now he promised to leave Livonia alone if God spared Anastasia. So far, his prayer had gone unanswered.
Ivan lay on the bed beside his wife, his arm curved around her head on the pillow. He fed her water from his hands, letting only a few drops at a time roll off his fingers and onto her lips. He wept unabashedly.
“My lord Tsar,” one of the doctors whispered. “You must prepare yourself.”
“No,” a violent tremble in Ivan’s voice belied its harshness. “God will not take our wife from us. She will not die.”
This exact exchange had taken place at least twice before in Inga's hearing. Perhaps more while she'd been fetching the water. Silently, she carried the bucket to the fireplace, where the doctors quickly made use of it, pouring it into pitchers and basins.
Inga padded to the shadowy corner where Yehvah loomed. Leaning her head over until her lips nearly brushed Inga’s ear, Yehvah dropped her voice so low, Inga barely deciphered the words. “You can sit down and rest, but I want you to stay in here tonight. I may need you.”
Inga nodded and sat at Yehvah’s feet, her back against the wall. It would be a long night.
She sat for hours, watching the mechanical movements of the people in the room, watching the Tsar cry, watching the Tsarina’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Inga prayed for morning. The doctors said if Anastasia could make it until the sun rose, things would get better.
At five o’clock in the morning, a scant hour from when the sun would peek over the horizon, Anastasia’s chest fell...and did not rise again.
The doctors leaned over her, shaking her shoulder and saying her name, but to no avail. The head physician drew a shuddering breath before locking gazes with Ivan. “I am so sorry, your grace. She is gone.”
Silence and shock permeated the room. Inga felt the pangs of them like a rock in her gut. She’s gone. Anastasia is truly gone.
Ivan got to his feet, his face contorting through emotions faster than Inga could identify them. His chest heaved violently and he paced aggressively up and down the length of Anastasia’s bed. The pacing path increased until he trudged the entire length of the room. He held his hands up near his head. In the dim light Inga could not tell why. He walked directly in front of where she sat and something fell to the floor in front of her. Inga waited until the Tsar’s back was to her before picking it up. A tuft of reddish hair. Ivan had yanked it out, without making a sound.
He paced to the window on the other side of the room and stopped. Every eye in the room gazed fearfully at the man who held Russia's fate in his tears.
Ivan paused. Picked up a delicate porcelain vase and slammed it into the wall. It shattered against his palm. Blood, colored black by the predawn darkness, ran down his arm and pooled on the carpet. The doctors lunged to his side with bandages and wet cloths.
He shoved them violently away. “No!”
Four doctors pounced, restraining him. “It is the madness of grief,” the head physician said. No one disagreed with him. Ivan fought like a caged animal.
Inga crawled out of the way to keep from being trampled. Yehvah grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the door as the physicians wrestled Ivan to the ground and wrapped his hand.
“Out, Inga.” Yehvah dropped her voice to a whisper. “The boyars in the anteroom need to be told she’s gone.”
“You want me to tell them?” Inga whispered back, barely holding back her tears.
“Get Taras and Nikolai’s attention. Tell them. Nikolai will announce it to the others. Go now, child. Quickly.”
As Yehvah opened the door and shoved Inga toward it, Ivan staggered back to the window and fell to his knees. The sky outside had begun to lighten. The dark blue of the sky silhouetted his slumped form perfectly, framed by the massive window.
Yehvah pushed her into the anteroom and the door clicked softly behind her. The boyars—looking exhausted from a night without sleep—huddled in circles or sat on the floor or lounged against the walls. When Inga emerged, all eyes snapped toward her, eyebrows arched expectantly. Movement brought her eyes to the left. Taras got to his feet from where he and Nikolai sat side by side and came toward her.
He needn’t have bothered. The cry that ripped through the walls from the Tsarina’s room was guttural; an injured animal screaming in abject pain. Inga jumped at its suddenness. The floodgate of her tears shattered. Taras froze, wide-eyed, looking at the door behind her, and the other boyars exchanged looks of alarm.
The cry came from Ivan. No question. A breath’s respite, then another bone chilling howl echoed through the walls. Again and again they came. Inga cringed with each one. Ivan’s bellows formed no words—just the agonizing, visceral cries of a man who’d lost everything he loved; the sound of ultimate tragedy and true despair.
Inga could stand it no longer. She clapped her palms over her ears, trying to drown out the horrible sound. Her arms trembled and she slid down the door until she sat on the ground, tears pouring down her cheeks.
The boyars in the anteroom no longer watched her. They gazed at one another with terrified comprehension.
The Tsarina Anastasia, the only humanizing influence Ivan ever accepted, was dead. Taras crossed to Inga, slid down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. She cried against his chest. Nikolai came to stand beside them, gazing at the door to the Tsarina’s room with haunted eyes.
One question burned through Inga’s mind over and over again: what would Russia do without Anastasia?
