Free Anastasia Romanov: The Last Grand Duchess #10 by Ann Hood Page A

near future, they were all doomed to be murdered in the most horrible way.
    She thought of the message inside the egg, held out by this very girl in front of her: Anastasia. She had said: HELP ME .

    â€œI do have some good news,” Anastasia said, bursting into Maisie’s room.
    Maisie lay propped up in bed, many pillows behind her head, and her arm resting on even more. After poking it and turning it and moving it every which way, the doctor had declared her arm sprained, not broken. He’d washed the blood from her cheeks and hands where the thorns had pierced her, and then several footmen had lifted her out of the rosebush and up the stairs into bed.
    â€œYour brother has arrived,” Anastasia said, flopping onto the bed beside Maisie.
    â€œDon’t bounce,” Maisie moaned as sharp pains shot through her arm.
    â€œHe’s very handsome,” Anastasia said.
    â€œWhere is he?” Maisie asked, eager to see Felix at last.
    â€œThe Big Pair has swept him away,” Anastasia said unhappily.
    â€œWhat’s the Big Pair?”
    Anastasia laughed. “Olga and Tatiana, of course! Mashka and I are the Little Pair because we’re the youngest. Except Alexei, of course. But he’s a boy.”
    â€œDo you think you could bring Felix here?” Maisie asked.
    â€œI suppose,” Anastasia said.
    She cleared her throat.
    â€œHe arrived on horseback with three Tartars. It was so exciting!”
    Maisie frowned. Tartars?
    â€œThe local people,” Anastasia explained when she saw the confusion on Maisie’s face. “They invaded Russia hundreds of years ago, but of course we conquered them under Catherine the Great, and now their allegiance is to Papa instead of their khans.”
    Before Maisie could answer, Anastasia smiled. “I love them,” she said. “The women are beautiful. They cover their faces with veils and look so mysterious. And the men are so dashing!”
    Unsure of how to respond, Maisie smiled back.
    â€œSo? You’ll get Felix?” she reminded Anastasia.
    â€œHappily!” Anastasia said, and bounced off the bed, sending new sharp pains through Maisie’s arm.
    Before Maisie could reprimand her, Anastasia was out the door, running down the hallway and shouting, “Olga! Tatiana!”
    â€œDarling,” a man said gently, “Mama is resting. And so is Alexei.”
    A knock sounded at the bedroom door, and when Maisie called, “Come in,” the man who had escorted her downstairs earlier entered.
    He had a tray with a bowl of steaming soup on it and a glass of tea. Maisie remembered that Alex Andropov’s grandmother had served tea that way too, in a glass instead of a cup.
    â€œA little soup always nourishes the sick,” the man said.
    When he placed the tray on the table beside the bed, a sour smell floated toward Maisie.
    â€œWhat kind of soup is this?” she asked, trying to sound polite.
    â€œCabbage,” the man said, smiling, as if that were the best soup in the world.
    Maisie nodded, but didn’t pick up the silver spoon that rested beside the bowl.
    â€œWe haven’t met properly,” the man was saying. “What with the blessing and then your accident . . . well, it’s been a little busy around here.”
    â€œMaisie Robbins,” she said. “Phinneas Pickworth is my—”
    â€œYes,” he said, “Sunny told me. We adore Phinneas. Such a character! Such . . . such an American!”
    What an odd thing to say
, Maisie thought.
    â€œWell, Maisie, eat your soup and rest up. And please forgive Anastasia. She’s a bit rambunctious, that’s all.”
    He turned to leave, but Maisie said, “But you haven’t told me who you are.”
    The man laughed.
    â€œWhy, I’m the Tsar. Tsar Nicholas,” he said shyly.
    â€œYou’re the Tsar?” Maisie said, shocked.
    He stood no more than five feet eight, and had