with the squabbles of servants.”
“The guards are not our servants,” Maria muttered under her breath, undoubtedly too softly for her mother to hear. “They’re our jailers.”
“And our lives could depend on knowing what they’re saying,” Anastasia muttered, just as softly.
The tsar said nothing. He just sat there gazing sadly at his daughters. He had lit a cigarette since the last time Jonah had passed through this room, and the smoke wafted around him. It was like a screen between the two youngest Romanov girls and the older members of their family.
Jonah leaned forward and whispered in Anastasia/Daniella’s ear: “I’ll go see what the screaming is all about. Don’t get in trouble over this if Anastasia wouldn’t have done that originally.”
Daniella separated from the Anastasia tracer just enough to move her head up and down once, quickly.
“Yes, Mama,” Anastasia said, the picture of obedience. “I understand, Mama.”
Jonah brushed past her into the only section of the second floor he hadn’t seen before. It was like crossing a barrier from the family’s quarters to an area that belonged completely to the guards. Within five steps he was peering into a filthy office where half a dozen guards lounged about. For the first time Jonah noticed that some of the guards actually had grenades attached to their belts; an array of guns lay across the top of a piano.
What if I grabbed one of those guns? Jonah wondered. Could I do it without anyone noticing? Could I use it to protect the Romanovs?
Would he have any clue how to use a gun from 1918?
Jonah left the guns alone. He looked around for the source of the screaming he’d heard before. This didn’t take any great powers of deduction: Two guards had a third guard in a headlock, and the third guard was still sputtering, “I won’t! You can’t make me!”
“Igor, you’re drunk,” a man in a more impressive-looking uniform said disgustedly, as he stood regarding the guard. “What did you do, drink up all your wages this afternoon?”
“Not drunk!” Igor protested. “Didn’t drink up my pay! Just—not evil like the rest of you! I swear I could never—”
One of the men who had him in the headlock clapped his hand over Igor’s mouth. Now all Igor could do was squirm and moan.
“Get him out of here,” the official-looking man commanded. “Tell his friend Filipp he’s suspended from his evening shift too.”
Igor, Filipp—those are two of the guards Maria said the Romanovs could trust not to kill them, Jonah thought with a chill.
As the other guards dragged Igor toward the stairs, Jonah raced back into the living room. Now Anastasia and Maria were sitting with their sisters, hunched over sewing projects of their own.
“Igor and Filipp aren’t going to be working tonight,” Jonah whispered in Anastasia’s ear. He tried to make thisnews sound like it was no big deal, but Anastasia gasped out loud.
Everyone else in the room looked up at her, the movements creating a glow of tracer light around each person’s head. It was startling in the dim room, in the haze of smoke.
“Oops,” Anastasia said with a giggle, quickly covering her mistake. “Stabbed myself with the needle. Silly me.”
“Don’t get blood on that blouse,” her mother scolded.
“Oh, I’m not bleeding,” Anastasia said, holding up a clear, unpricked finger. “I promise.”
Jonah had to admire her skill at lying. But he saw that the sleeve of a dark blue sweatshirt—Daniella’s Michigan sweatshirt—appeared briefly around her wrist when she deviated from what Anastasia would have done in original time.
No one else seemed to notice, though, and the roomful of Romanovs settled back into their silent reading and sewing. All the tracer lights blinked out quickly, returning the room to its smoky gloom.
Jonah didn’t know how any of them could bear to just sit there.
“Chip, Katherine, and I are going to scout around, see what else is going on,”
“The guards are not our servants,” Maria muttered under her breath, undoubtedly too softly for her mother to hear. “They’re our jailers.”
“And our lives could depend on knowing what they’re saying,” Anastasia muttered, just as softly.
The tsar said nothing. He just sat there gazing sadly at his daughters. He had lit a cigarette since the last time Jonah had passed through this room, and the smoke wafted around him. It was like a screen between the two youngest Romanov girls and the older members of their family.
Jonah leaned forward and whispered in Anastasia/Daniella’s ear: “I’ll go see what the screaming is all about. Don’t get in trouble over this if Anastasia wouldn’t have done that originally.”
Daniella separated from the Anastasia tracer just enough to move her head up and down once, quickly.
“Yes, Mama,” Anastasia said, the picture of obedience. “I understand, Mama.”
Jonah brushed past her into the only section of the second floor he hadn’t seen before. It was like crossing a barrier from the family’s quarters to an area that belonged completely to the guards. Within five steps he was peering into a filthy office where half a dozen guards lounged about. For the first time Jonah noticed that some of the guards actually had grenades attached to their belts; an array of guns lay across the top of a piano.
What if I grabbed one of those guns? Jonah wondered. Could I do it without anyone noticing? Could I use it to protect the Romanovs?
Would he have any clue how to use a gun from 1918?
Jonah left the guns alone. He looked around for the source of the screaming he’d heard before. This didn’t take any great powers of deduction: Two guards had a third guard in a headlock, and the third guard was still sputtering, “I won’t! You can’t make me!”
“Igor, you’re drunk,” a man in a more impressive-looking uniform said disgustedly, as he stood regarding the guard. “What did you do, drink up all your wages this afternoon?”
“Not drunk!” Igor protested. “Didn’t drink up my pay! Just—not evil like the rest of you! I swear I could never—”
One of the men who had him in the headlock clapped his hand over Igor’s mouth. Now all Igor could do was squirm and moan.
“Get him out of here,” the official-looking man commanded. “Tell his friend Filipp he’s suspended from his evening shift too.”
Igor, Filipp—those are two of the guards Maria said the Romanovs could trust not to kill them, Jonah thought with a chill.
As the other guards dragged Igor toward the stairs, Jonah raced back into the living room. Now Anastasia and Maria were sitting with their sisters, hunched over sewing projects of their own.
“Igor and Filipp aren’t going to be working tonight,” Jonah whispered in Anastasia’s ear. He tried to make thisnews sound like it was no big deal, but Anastasia gasped out loud.
Everyone else in the room looked up at her, the movements creating a glow of tracer light around each person’s head. It was startling in the dim room, in the haze of smoke.
“Oops,” Anastasia said with a giggle, quickly covering her mistake. “Stabbed myself with the needle. Silly me.”
“Don’t get blood on that blouse,” her mother scolded.
“Oh, I’m not bleeding,” Anastasia said, holding up a clear, unpricked finger. “I promise.”
Jonah had to admire her skill at lying. But he saw that the sleeve of a dark blue sweatshirt—Daniella’s Michigan sweatshirt—appeared briefly around her wrist when she deviated from what Anastasia would have done in original time.
No one else seemed to notice, though, and the roomful of Romanovs settled back into their silent reading and sewing. All the tracer lights blinked out quickly, returning the room to its smoky gloom.
Jonah didn’t know how any of them could bear to just sit there.
“Chip, Katherine, and I are going to scout around, see what else is going on,”
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