Mikhail knew of his mother’s abilities and thought her all the more remarkable for them. She imagined he would treat anyone with the same respect, no matter if magic was involved. Still, she had decided not to tell him about Anastasia, and considering he had never even met the Grand Duchess; she’d kept the secret to herself.
After all, Anastasia was in enough danger without a growing crowd of people learning about the magic that slept within her.
Mikhail turned to leave the kitchens and stopped, looking his mother deep in the eyes.
“One day, Mama, I will make sure that they all pay. These priests, those occultists, the pigs. Those who have condemned you for how youhelppeople,” he scoffed, “I will make them pay. Each and every one of them who sought to cripple you of your magic and starve our people. They will pay with their blood.”
Asya sighed deeply and shook her head, “The destruction of this house will happen by its own mortar, Mikhail,” she looked him in the eye, “and I have seen it.”
Mikhail’s eyes grew wide as he looked over his shoulder and then nodded in the direction of the pantry doors, waiting for Asya to join him behind a row of salted herring in the stores.
“You’ve seen what?” Mikhail never doubted his mother’s magic, as much as she tried to tell him that she was rather pedestrian in her craft. It didn’t matter to Mikhail, as much as it didn’t matter to those who wished to condemn and ostracize their family for her gifts. Any magic was a threat as the Orthodox Church continued to rise to power.
The Tsarina collected people with gifts like tchotchkes, which was likely the only reason Asya was allowed in the palace. Even though Asya kept her magic benign and under wraps, she wouldn’t give it up. It didn’t stop anyone from coming and seeking out Asya’s help when doctors couldn’t be found — or more often when they were too expensive.
However, to keep from becoming outcasts, too, most people avoided them. It was one of the reasons that Mikhail deeply despised the church and vowed retribution on them, as much as the Romanovs.
“I’ve seen it,” Asya said again, shaking her head and holding up her hand to cut off her son from interrupting. “I cannot explain it to you, and now is not the time nor the place for you to know. Beware this, my son… the Romanov magic is sleeping. It is not dead and buried as much as they would like you to believe. When it wakes, youmustbe there to encourage it.”
“Encourage it?!” Mikhail was barely able to keep his voice down. Asya had wanted to avoid this conversation at all costs, but it was proving unavoidable. He ran his hand through his dark hair, threatening to pull it out at the end. He dropped his voice to avoid detection, and it came out a rough hiss, “You wantmetoencouragethe Romanov magic? The very thing that could keep them in power forever?”
Asya cut him off with a quick shake of her head, “It won’t. It will ruin them.”
“How so?”
“I promise you, son,” she looked up at him, “When the Romanov magic returns, it will bring them all to their knees.”
???
Mikhail wasunable to focus on anything for the rest of the day. He wandered the halls of the palace, doing what he did best — making himself look busy while never doing a thing. His mother would chide him endlessly for it if she knew that he managed it, but he didn’t care. Their principles were different.
He knew that she came from a different time where it was better to wait and be respectful. Where his mother was checks and balances, he was fire and brimstone.
Every time his feet sunk into the deep carpets that lined the floors or he saw his face scowling back at him in polished silver, the overwhelming need to bury the Romanov dynasty made his blood run hot. Mikhail had lost both of his boyhood best friends by the time they were fourteen.
By sixteen, he had been beaten by more than one Orthodox priest before they were kicked out of the church entirely. He waited and watched as the Romanov royalty and the clergy got in and out of bed together, dancing around one another like ballroom partners that couldn’t agree on whom to lead.
“Boy,” a sharp voice cut through his thoughts and rapidly brought him back to the present.
A priest was standing at the end of the hall, his long robes trailing after him, hiskamilavkacrooked. Mikhail nodded in greeting, having learned long ago never to speak back when addressed.
“Follow me,” the man’s voice was high-pitched and sounded slurred with liquor. He waved two fingers in a beckoning motion before retreating down the hall.
Mikhail felt heat gathering in his hands as he wished for the opportunity to punch the drunken man in the mouth. Often, the only thing that stopped him was the premise that his mother would likely get fired, too, and he hanged.
Mikhail picked up his steps and followed the man down the hall before the intoxicated steward pushed a tapestry back from a wall and revealed a hidden door.
There were innumerable hidden passageways, doors, and chambers in the Winter Palace. Nearly everyone at court was staging a coup or a religious uprising of some sort, and they needed the space to do it in. Mikhail had never been privy to any of these meetings.
His anger turned to apprehension as the man ducked inside without a second thought and disappeared down a winding set of stairs. There were candelabras on the walls, but only a few of the candles were lit, leaving Mikhail to make his way after the priest in relative darkness.
Soon, he could hear the raucous sounds of others, the last thing that he expected to hear in this nearly inhospitable passage.
A sudden bright light nearly blinded him as the priest opened a door in front of them, revealing a rather unholy tableau.
If the scene in front of Mikhail were found in the Bible, it would be a depiction of Sodom. Five other men were in the room, cramped around a small table where they seemed to be playing baccarat, even though it had been outlawed.
Three of the men were dressed in various orders of religious dress, and two were wearing the trappings ofdvoryansvo.
