Free The Lost Crown by Sarah Miller

of the bed. I squeeze my eyes shut, press my folded hands to my chin, and pray harder.
    A clatter of metal instruments and a sound like a kitten’s mewling interrupts our prayers, and we all look again, even Tatiana. There’s a quick whiff in the air of something singed, then it’s gone. Dr. Derevenko backs away toward the window, mopping his face. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears sinking into his beard. Mama leans over the cot. She holds Aleksei’s limp hand against her lips, stroking the inside of his arm. Papa stands beside her, slowly stroking his beard in the same rhythm as he stares down at our brother. The smell of hot blood fills my nose, suddenly stronger than the rose oil in the icon lamps. Joy barks once, like a sob, before Nagorny can hush him.
    “Get Father Grigori,” Mama whispers.
    “Alix,” Papa begins, “the wound has only just been cauterized—”
    “Get him, now, before it’s too late.” The panic rising up in her voice stings my ears. “The doctor has done all he can, Nicky.”
    Papa closes his eyes and nods at Mama’s maid. “Quickly.” Nyuta grabs her skirt in two big handfuls and runs off to summon Otets Grigori.
    When he arrives, Otets Grigori staggers across the room like a new fawn, even though it’s the middle of the day. Olga lets go of a tiny gasp, then covers her mouth as if nothing’s wrong. She shakes her head before I can ask. The air sours sharply as Otets Grigori passes. In the corner, Joy seems to calm as he nears.
    “Father Grigori,” Mama begins, but he doesn’t say a word. He holds up a hand and eases himself to his knees beside the narrow cot. Aleksei lies under his blankets and bandages like a small mummy. Points of sweat stand out around his eyes.
    Otets Grigori makes the sign of the cross over Aleksei, then bends his head and shuts his eyes. We all do the same. Behind my closed eyes I listen so hard, and hear nothing. None of Otets Grigori’s sweet pet names for our brother, no soothing talk of finding God in the sea and the sunshine, not even a whisper of scripture or prayer.
    I bite my lip and pray with all my heart. But it’s as if my words are gone too. All I can do is feel. Everything tumbles inside me, and I think I’ll break down and cry. Trying to fight off the terror in my throat, I grope for my sisters’ hands. I can’t even remember which of my sisters is beside me, but two hands squeeze back, and right then my hopes begin to burn like the flames in the icon lamps. Something clear and bright rises up in my chest, and the lump in my throat breaks apart. I open my mouth and swallow a great breath of air. Tears run down my cheeks, but I don’t care. My lips want to smile even as I taste the salt.
    “Don’t be alarmed,” Otets Grigori’s voice says. “Nothing will happen.”
    My eyes flutter open. Otets Grigori is already walking out of the room. I look at Mama, Papa, and my sisters. I know from their quiet that they’ve all felt what I did. But where did it come from?
    We creep closer to Aleksei’s bed and peek down at him. His eyes are closed, the bandages gone. Only a faint crust of blood rims his nostrils.
    Mama puts a finger to her lips. Her eyes are bright with tears, and her face glows. “He’s asleep.” The wonder and tenderness in her voice squeezes my heart and stops my breath once more. It’s as if the horrors have melted away, and she’s given birth to him all over again.
    Oh please Lord, I pray, someday let me feel the way Mama looks right now.

12.
    ANASTASIA NIKOLAEVNA
    Autumn 1915–Autumn 1916
Stavka
    P acking ourselves into our dark blue train and getting away from horrid Petrograd is more fun than ever, now that the war’s on. There’s nothing better than going to see Papa, but I wish we could all have a real holiday instead of just visiting Stavka for a few days at a time. It’s gotten so Olga looks like she should be a patient at the lazaret instead of a nurse, and even if Tatiana won’t ever admit it,