Free Anastasia and Her Sisters by Carolyn Meyer

sorry for the stags, and I didn’t understand what pleasure the men got from killing them.
    “It’s an old custom,” Olga said. “And you know how Papa loves old customs.”
    At Spala, Alexei seemed to be getting better—so much better that Mama, thinking he needed to get out of the dismal lodge and into the fresh air, took him for a carriage ride with Anya. The bumping of the carriage over the rutted roads made the bleeding begin again, and Alexei had to be put back to bed. Dr. Botkin did what he could, but nothing eased the pain. Papasent to St. Petersburg for another doctor who might be able to help—Dr. Vladimir Derevenko. While we waited for him to come, Papa reminded us, “We must continue to act as normally as possible. There is nothing we can do until the doctors arrive, and Alexei’s condition must not become public.”
    To distract our parents and entertain their friends, Marie and I decided to put on a play. With Monsieur Gilliard’s coaching, we rehearsed two scenes from Le bourgeois gentilhomme, “The Middle-Class Gentleman,” by the French playwright Molière. In one scene, Marie played the part of the daughter of the man who wants to be recognized as a gentleman, and I took the role of Cléonte, the man she loves. Her father refuses to let her marry him because he’s only a commoner. In the other scene, Marie played the father. When Cléonte appears in disguise, passing himself off as the son of the sultan of Turkey, the father approves the marriage. I loved being the Turkish prince in a turban, and I enjoyed seeing Olga’s face turn pink at the idea of a girl in love with a man beneath her station.
    We had a lively audience that evening for our little theatrics, and no one would have guessed from looking at Mama as she chatted with her guests that she was worried sick about Alexei. His pain was terrible, his fever soared, and he was delirious. You could hear his pitiful cries and heartrending moans even through closed doors. For days Mama never left Alexei’s side, sometimes sleeping a little on the sofa next to his bed. Papa stayed with him, too, but once I saw him rush out of Alexei’s room, weeping. It was hard for all of us to bear.
    My sisters and I had no idea what to do. It seemed so odd—Mama and Papa were afraid Alexei might die, they werenearly mad with worry and grief, and yet the hunting lodge bustled with guests who laughed and talked and helped themselves to caviar while liveried servants kept their champagne glasses filled.
    Finally, the new doctor, along with Dr. Botkin, convinced Papa and Mama to inform the Russian people that their beloved tsarevich was gravely ill. My parents reluctantly accepted this advice and sent out a notice to the newspapers. Papa ordered a large tent to be set up in the garden at Spala to serve as a chapel. Polish peasants from nearby villages as well as Cossacks and soldiers and our household servants crowded the tent night and day, all praying for Alexei’s recovery. Soon all of Russia was praying for the tsarevich. OTMA, too, cried and prayed and cried some more. The priest gave Alexei the last sacrament.
    I was sure my brother would not survive. Alexei was going to die.
    But I was wrong. Mama had sent a telegram to Father Grigory, who was at his home in Siberia, and begged him to pray for Alexei. Then came a reply.
    We were with Mama when she received Father Grigory’s telegram, and I saw a change come over her as she read it. She no longer looked stricken. She was calm now, and she sounded hopeful when she read his message aloud to us: “ ‘God has seen your tears and heard your prayers. The illness is not dangerous. The Little One will not die. Do not let the doctors bother him too much.’ ”
    “You see?” she said. “Baby will not die! Father Grigory says so. We must have faith!”
    The next morning she was smiling as she told us, “Thedoctors don’t see that Baby is better, but they’re wrong. He is certainly no worse, and I