The Romanov Bride by Robert Alexander

to nod. She then turned and hurriedly stumbled along through the snow, desperate to reach the Nikolaevski Palace before this parade of horror passed on its way to the Chudov Monastery.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure rush toward me. I turned, saw an old man with a big tangled beard, a long dirty coat of uncured skin, and tall felt boots. He doffed his rough fur hat, tucked it under his arm, and then started bowing to me quickly and repeatedly, one deep bow after the other, the way the old peasants-particularly the ones who’d been serfs-did at our country estate.
    “Forgive me, forgive me,” he muttered through broken teeth as he held something in his outstretched hands.
    I looked at his gnarled, worn hands and in them saw something wrapped in a white handkerchief that was blooming a brighter and brighter red right before my eyes. I immediately understood that he had found something I had missed, a part of my husband, a piece none too large for it was a small package, hastily wrapped as well. A finger, perhaps.
    “Spacibo.” Thank you, I said, motioning toward the stretcher with a sweep of my hand.
    The peasant man hurried forward and carefully tucked the royal remains under the greatcoat. He then backed away, crossing himself-three fingers to the forehead, stomach, right shoulder, left-and bowed once deeply at the waist and froze thus, bent over in humble respect.
    “Oi, gospodi!” Oh, for the sake of God, sobbed a woman, a kerchief tied around her apple-fat, tear-streaked face, as she likewise rushed forward, a torn piece of material clutched in her hands.
    I silently watched as this woman, without seeking permission, tenderly reached for the greatcoat, lifted it, and laid the torn material there among the ghoulish remains. It was then that I recognized the brass buttons, for it was a singed part of Sergei’s own coat, part of the collar from the very uniform he’d been wearing.
    “Spacibo,” I repeated.
    The woman, with tears enough to fill a dry salty marsh, scurried toward me, fell to her knees, and grabbed the hem of my coat, which she clutched and kissed. Soon she was bowing all the way down, pressing her forehead firmly against the frigid cobbles.
    I moved on, uttering not a sob, dispersing not a tear. Overcome with shock, my breathing was quick but shallow, my thoughts intent but scattered. I could not faint, I would not allow it, but where was I? What must I do? Oh, yes, the stretcher. I must follow the stretcher and that, those drops, the trail of blood. And this I did, one foot after the other, unaware of the wailing crowd following behind, or for that matter the multitude of wet eyes focused upon me. As if in a trance, I trailed the soldiers step by step, traipsing along as they made their way to the Chudov Monastery and into the main chapel, which was attached by covered walkway to our own Nikolaevski Palace.
    Entering the chapel, I was embraced by something, a soothing darkness that felt like the warm hands of the Lord upon my aching soul. Breathing in, I inhaled the sweet perfume of incense and familiar mustiness of centuries past and, too, I felt lifted upward as if into a cloud. In the flickering candlelight I watched as the soldiers gently, carefully placed the remains of my husband upon the ambo, that raised area directly before the iconostasis. I dropped to my knees and fell into prayer, unaware of the low murmurs and shuffling feet of the panicked priests circling about. Hearing the steady drip of something, I opened my eyes and glanced at the stretcher. That single boot with the foot was poking out, cockeyed, from beneath the greatcoat, and from it fell one drop of blood after another, splattering with strange regularity upon the stone floor. My eyes traveled farther down the stretcher and caught a glimpse of that scrap of uniform, the very one the merchant woman had tucked into the litter.
    Dear Lord, I realized with a violent start when I recognized it! Sergei had been