Free Anastasia and Her Sisters by Carolyn Meyer Page B

personally and blames himself for the tsarevich’s injury. But the tsar, with his usual kindness, assured the admiral he was not at fault, and sent him home.”
    “Poor Admiral Chagin!” Marie sighed. “Such a good man.”
    “Yes,” Anya agreed, “a good man, but rather foolish at times.”
    We looked at her, waiting to hear more. “What do you mean, Anya?” Olga asked.
    “Oh, you know—that business with the girl at the tsaritsa’s bazaar in Livadia last year. He did make a fool of himself, flirting with her.”
    “You mean Kyra Belyaevna, with the lace-trimmed handkerchiefs?” Tatiana asked. “Half the men there were flirting with her, and all the women loathed her for it.”
    “Scandalous behavior,” Anya sniffed.
    •  •  •
    Normally in late autumn we would have been in Livadia, but because of Alexei’s condition, those plans were canceled. We would stay at Spala until the crisis was over, return home to Tsarskoe Selo for the winter, and then go to Livadia for Easter as usual.
    Olga had been looking forward to celebrating her seventeenth birthday at our palace by the sea—and with a certain lieutenant coming nearly every day for tennis and no doubt more stolen kisses. Instead, Mama decided, we would have a small dinner for her at Spala with the family and a few friends—Anya, Dr. Botkin, our tutors, and others who were close to us. Olga tried not to look disappointed. We all were, but no one protested. We would make the best of it.
    We had dressed and gone down to the small anteroom for zakuski when Marie paused, head cocked, and asked, “Nastya, do you hear music? Coming from somewhere outside?”
    We slipped away from the anteroom and went to peer out through the narrow windows in the entrance. It had been snowing off and on all day, wet, heavy flakes. A small crowd, some carrying torches, had gathered on the lawn, and, surrounded by our Cossack guards, they were singing. I stayed to listen while Marie went to find Papa.
    A footman had gotten to Papa first, and he and Marie came to peer out the window at the singers. “It seems that some of our neighbors have heard that it’s the birthday of the grand duchess, and they’ve come to offer greetings to Olya,” Papa said. “These are the same people who came here to pray for the tsarevich’s recovery. I’ve invited them to join us.”
    The front door opened, and the neighbors—peasantsfrom nearby farms and villages—crowded into the entrance hall, stomping the snow from their boots. Some were carrying balalaikas and other stringed instruments, and there was even an accordion.
    The entrance hall couldn’t hold them all, and Papa suggested that everyone move into the dining room, which was now set for dinner. A small raised platform at one end could be used as a stage, and after a hurried discussion among themselves, a dozen musicians climbed onto the platform and began to play. Several others performed a lively dance while the “audience” clapped in rhythm. The hearty singing resumed. Mama, who was frowning at first, actually seemed to be enjoying the unplanned entertainment.
    The sailor Derevenko stood nearby holding Alexei, pale and very thin and still not able to stand on his own. The musicians saluted him and presented him with a handsome balalaika they’d made especially for him. One of the singers, an elderly woman with a gap-toothed grin, stepped forward and gave Olga a white linen shawl embroidered all over with pale yellow flowers. One of their party who spoke Russian explained that it was to be worn at her wedding. That made her blush.
    Our Polish guests produced bottles of plum brandy, a gift for Papa, who proposed the first toast, “Na zdrowie!” (“To your health!” in Polish), and then everyone began drinking toasts, tossing back glasses of the strong spirits and shouting, “Na zdrowie!” Meanwhile, Mama had sent a message to the kitchen, and soon servants were passing platters of pierogi —little pastries filled