He was behind her suddenly, the presence of his massive frame apparent as he moved closer to her.
This man doesn’t even need to touch you, does he? And you lose your mind.
She sucked in a deep breath when Mikhail put his hand on her back, so large that it nearly covered her corset.
“Come with me,” he said quietly, electing to diffuse the situation. “I think we should try something new.”
Anastasia quietly looked up and over her shoulder at him, turning ever so slightly to face Mikhail. His face was impassable as he raged internally over their constant game of quick-draw.
It exhausted them; revealing their scars would have been so much simpler. The impenetrable wall they had both built around their hearts felt impossible to dismantle. It drove them both in constant predatory circles around each other. Both looked for weaknesses in the other’s defenses when they simply could’ve handed over a key.
Mikhail knew that it was best to try and find another avenue to get Anastasia to tap into her power, to find some confidence and purpose.
What she needed was to brush aside the idea that her magic was cursed and worthless. He just didn’t know if this game between them would kill them both as they hunted for the intimacy they craved but refused to ask for.
“What do you have in mind?” Anastasia asked.
“It is Sunday, isn’t it?” Mikhail watched as Anastasia’s grin spread over her face, genuine and as bright as the dawn.
???
This time, Anastasia followed Mikhail as they moved through the streets. They hadn’t come back to visit since their first trip together, and she was surprised to see several faces that seemed to recognize her.
People glanced at her as she walked by with cautious smiles on their faces. She was shocked when she noticed that they were receptive to her — that they had missed her, even.
“Do you see?” Mikhail turned around to look at her. “They aren’t afraid of your gift.”
“They don’t know what I’ve done.”
Mikhail opened his mouth to say something and stopped. It’s true. They didn’t know. He still didn’t know how he felt about it. Their delicate truce depended entirely on no one bringing up the past, an impossible feat when both of them were determined to be defined by it.
The pair walked in silence until they approached a front door that Anastasia recognized. She had stopped by this house a few times when she used to sneak out. The family had three daughters and one son; their son worked as a farmhand, which was brutal work.
On Sundays, he was allowed to return home to attend church with his family; the iron collar was always thick around his neck. On the boyar’s land, he was forced to sleep in irons next to a dozen others. They were always locked up at night like cattle, ensuring that they couldn’t get away.
Anastasia knew their family struggled — like every serf family did these days — with daughters who couldn’t make as much money as their son.
She had several conversations with their mother, who seemed to struggle with an intense self-loathing that stemmed from her inability to keep her son from his forced, laborious servitude.
The door opened just a crack, one of the daughters poking her head out. She looked skeptical, evaluating Anastasia and Mikhail’s attire. Even when they came in the simplest clothes that they had, they still stuck out sorely.
“Mama!” The girl disappeared, slamming the door. A moment later, the kind face of the matriarch appeared.
“Darling, Anastasia,” she grinned, throwing the door open and wrapping Anastasia in a hug.
“Shecalls me the right name,” Anastasia grinned, tossing a glare at Mikhail over her shoulder.
“Come in, come in,” the woman smiled, ushering both of them into the small home. It almost felt colder inside than it did outside. There was a broken furnace, a small kitchen, and several sleeping mats pushed off to the side.
Anastasia figured that all five family members lived in the small space, six when their son was home.
“Anastasia is here to help,” Mikhail grinned, gently pushing Anastasia forward.
“Yes, yes, we know,” the woman ushered them even further into the room. “Whatever you can do.” She had seen Anastasia’s small efforts before and knew that amplifying magic could do anything from multiplying bread loaves to filling their oil lamps.
Anastasia smiled — a genuine one that wasn’t just covering up fear — and the sight made Mikhail realize this was the right way to get her out of her head. She knew what to do here.
Outside of the Winter Palace walls, without the dead eyes of oil paintings staring at her, choked by everything the Romanov Empire had come to represent, she was more at peace with herself.
