Dreaming Anastasia by Joy Preble Page B

has done what he set out to do. Ethan, they call him now. The one with the blue eyes. He has found the young woman who can take you back. Her name is Anne. Not that different from your own.
    â€œI have seen her. Spoken to her. Tried to bring her to us now. Save her as I’ve saved you. But they ran from me. They do not understand the truth of what is happening. They do not see the danger.”
    We stand in silence for a moment. In the hearth, the fire crackles. I wait for Auntie to reach into her pocket. To remove the skull and bring forth the visions. But she does not.
    â€œLook into my eyes, child,” Auntie tells me. I bristle at being called a child. But to Auntie, seventeen is just that: a handful of years, inconsequential as dust.
    I do as she tells me. Stare into those glowing black coals. In each pupil, a tiny skull appears. It is as though I am falling into her eyes, falling and falling until there is nothing but darkness. Her gaze consumes me.
    â€œWatch,” Baba Yaga tells me. “Learn.”
    In Auntie’s eyes, a man sits at a table in what must be a restaurant, for there are many tables, each with a snowy white table cloth. He reaches into his jacket and removes a small, black device. He opens it, jabs at it with his fingers, and waits, tapping his other hand against the table. An impatient sound—the sound of a man who is used to getting his way. Then he speaks.
    â€œYou will stop him,” he says. “Remember, he is holding something back. He has not told me everything. His betrayal is a surprise, Brother, but it is not something we—you—cannot handle. You are at an advantage. Ethan does not know I am here. He thinks I am still in St. Petersburg. Let us keep it that way.”
    He closes the device and slips it back in his jacket.
    A waiter approaches and sets a plate in front of him. On it rests a cut of meat so thick, so large, it fills half the plate. The waiter steps back. I have seen this behavior before—the deference of servants to my father. Waiting to see if his meal is well cooked, his wine of the correct vintage, his every need met. My father was like the man I am watching—a man who looks at the world as if it owes him its bidding; who likes his fine surroundings, his comforts.
    In that instant, I know what Auntie meant when she said they do not understand. For who could understand that this man—this man who I think is determined to stop the one Auntie says is now called Ethan—is not who he appears to be. That while he may enjoy the world of luxuries, they are not what he was born to. Not exactly. But they are what he has wanted for as long as I have known him.
    Another waiter appears with wine, pours a taste in a goblet. Viktor sniffs, approves, then drinks with pleasure.
    Viktor: the man I called my secret brother. The man who told me my family would be safe. The man I trusted.
    â€œEnough,” I say to Auntie. My voice breaks as I speak. It has been a very long time since I have cried.
    But now I weep.

Wednesday, 12:15 pm
    Anne
    Drink.” Ethan places the steaming mug of tea on the small wooden table in front of me. “It will help.”
    â€œI doubt it,” I say, but I pick up the mug anyway and sniff. It’s fragrant—like orange and some kind of spice—and when I take a sip, the tea is hot on my tongue.
    â€œI’ve got honey,” he says. “Maybe some sugar too. Let me look…”
    â€œIt’s fine,” I say. “It’s fine.”
    We’re in the kitchen of his loft in an older area on the far side of town. It’s one of those places that used to be all factories and warehouses and is now slowly turning residential, slowly being the operative word here. I’m very clear on the fact that I’m alone in a loft with him in a basically isolated area, and that the only reason I’ve let him bring me here is because we were chased by a giant pair of hands, after which