rid her complexion of its pasty pallor and had even splashed freckles across her cheeks. She did not miss the smoke-filled nights or the greasy food of The Happy Comrades Tavern. This hard but free life of honest labor was much better than the life of wasting away above the tavern, the life of scrambling hand-to-mouth on the street, or the life of squalid horrors she'd seen at the mental asylum. These were the happiest days she could recall.
"From now on, one of us will find work and get food while the other stays at the campsite and trains her," Sergei proposed.
"But I want to work," Nadya objected.
"You're right, that's what we will have to do," Ivan said to Sergei, ignoring Nadya's protest. "You train her in aristocratic manners and I will teach her how to be like Anastasia. We'll alternate days." He studied her once more. "No more haircuts," he declared.
"I like my hair short like this," she insisted.
"No. It's served its purpose. Now you've got to grow it long enough so you can style it."
"Since when did you become an authority on style?" she taunted. "Who do you think you are? Monsieur Ivan of Paris?"
She placed her hand on her hip and threw back her head in a mock imitation of Ivan as a stylist. "I will make you look divine. The time I have spent in the Russian Army has made me an expert on style. I will give you a Russian military cut--so chic! I call it the Red Army Bob."
"Very funny," Ivan replied dryly. "But listen to me. It's important. The Romanov sisters cared about fashion. The czar kept them in traditional, proper Russian attire, but Empress Marie sent the girls the latest style magazines from Europe. I found them all over the place at The House of Special Purpose."
"The House of Special Purpose": as Ivan spoke the words something went cold within Nadya. How ominous it sounded. When they named the place, they must have already known what its "special purpose" would be. Why else would they have called it that?
In the tavern, she'd heard men speak of the Romanovs with hatred, spitting out their names contemptuously, saying that they'd gotten no less than what they deserved for living so lavishly while the common people starved. Nadya also knew how it felt to have hunger gnaw at her insides like a raging animal. Hunger like that could turn a person savage with desperation. It was why she'd endured Mrs. Zolokov's abuse--because anything was better than starvation.
And yet...
When she saw photos of the Romanov family, she could not find it within herself to hate them. The little boy, Alexei, the czarevitch, was the youngest. He was rumored to have a sickness that would cause him to bleed to death if he were to get cut; he looked so sweet and fragile. The three oldest sisters were so elegantly beautiful in lacy white gowns with their blond hair swept up onto their regal heads, and the youngest one, Anastasia, was so playful and bright-eyed. All they'd ever known was privilege. How could they know their lives of luxury were an insult to those suffering in poverty?
"I don't want to be Anastasia Romanov!" Nadya blurted.
"What?" Ivan cried.
Unexpectedly, tears sprang to her eyes. "I don't want the life of a girl who could be extinguished at the whim of angry people, men and women she'd never even met, who don't know or love her."
Nadya sobbed and began to tremble. A warning sounded in the back of her mind--was this the madness, this passionate flame of wild emotion that had compelled her parents to dispose of her in the mental asylum? Watch it, the small voice of rationality warned inside her head. Don't let it burn out of control or you'll scare off the only friends you have.
It was no use! Nadya was being swept up by a wave of feeling that she felt helpless to harness. "What kind of people kill a girl who has done nothing but make up entertainments with funny characters or play harmless pranks on the servants? A girl who wanted nothing but to play catch with her little dog in the sunshine, but wound
"From now on, one of us will find work and get food while the other stays at the campsite and trains her," Sergei proposed.
"But I want to work," Nadya objected.
"You're right, that's what we will have to do," Ivan said to Sergei, ignoring Nadya's protest. "You train her in aristocratic manners and I will teach her how to be like Anastasia. We'll alternate days." He studied her once more. "No more haircuts," he declared.
"I like my hair short like this," she insisted.
"No. It's served its purpose. Now you've got to grow it long enough so you can style it."
"Since when did you become an authority on style?" she taunted. "Who do you think you are? Monsieur Ivan of Paris?"
She placed her hand on her hip and threw back her head in a mock imitation of Ivan as a stylist. "I will make you look divine. The time I have spent in the Russian Army has made me an expert on style. I will give you a Russian military cut--so chic! I call it the Red Army Bob."
"Very funny," Ivan replied dryly. "But listen to me. It's important. The Romanov sisters cared about fashion. The czar kept them in traditional, proper Russian attire, but Empress Marie sent the girls the latest style magazines from Europe. I found them all over the place at The House of Special Purpose."
"The House of Special Purpose": as Ivan spoke the words something went cold within Nadya. How ominous it sounded. When they named the place, they must have already known what its "special purpose" would be. Why else would they have called it that?
In the tavern, she'd heard men speak of the Romanovs with hatred, spitting out their names contemptuously, saying that they'd gotten no less than what they deserved for living so lavishly while the common people starved. Nadya also knew how it felt to have hunger gnaw at her insides like a raging animal. Hunger like that could turn a person savage with desperation. It was why she'd endured Mrs. Zolokov's abuse--because anything was better than starvation.
And yet...
When she saw photos of the Romanov family, she could not find it within herself to hate them. The little boy, Alexei, the czarevitch, was the youngest. He was rumored to have a sickness that would cause him to bleed to death if he were to get cut; he looked so sweet and fragile. The three oldest sisters were so elegantly beautiful in lacy white gowns with their blond hair swept up onto their regal heads, and the youngest one, Anastasia, was so playful and bright-eyed. All they'd ever known was privilege. How could they know their lives of luxury were an insult to those suffering in poverty?
"I don't want to be Anastasia Romanov!" Nadya blurted.
"What?" Ivan cried.
Unexpectedly, tears sprang to her eyes. "I don't want the life of a girl who could be extinguished at the whim of angry people, men and women she'd never even met, who don't know or love her."
Nadya sobbed and began to tremble. A warning sounded in the back of her mind--was this the madness, this passionate flame of wild emotion that had compelled her parents to dispose of her in the mental asylum? Watch it, the small voice of rationality warned inside her head. Don't let it burn out of control or you'll scare off the only friends you have.
It was no use! Nadya was being swept up by a wave of feeling that she felt helpless to harness. "What kind of people kill a girl who has done nothing but make up entertainments with funny characters or play harmless pranks on the servants? A girl who wanted nothing but to play catch with her little dog in the sunshine, but wound
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