“My tutor, of course,” her voice was shaky as she picked up a fan her lady-in-waiting offered to her.
“The tutor.Right,”Mikhail rolled his eyes. “Really? That’s how you want to play this?”
“Yes,” Anastasia’s voice was sharp, “What would you go as? Mylover?”
“It would be more accurate.”
“Technically, we never got to that part.”
“You got to your part.”
“You left.”
“You didn’t want me to stay.” Mikhail’s tone of voice was final, and Anastasia swallowed thickly, adjusting one of the pins in her hair.
“I never said that.” Anastasia raised a brow before blushing and turning towards the door, refusing to look him in the eye. “We should go; we’re late.”
“Anastasia,” he stopped her, grabbing hold of her elbow gently, “Is that…?” He looked down at the dress that she was wearing in more detail. “Is that the Tsarina’s coronation dress?”
Anastasia chuckled, before looking up at Mikhail and giving him a wink, “I had the train shortened, so it didn’t need eight damn attendants to carry, but yes,” she grinned, “It sends a message.”
Mikhail couldn’t help the smirk that slid over his face. Some moments they could barely stand one another, but he loved how her mind worked. “That message is?”
“Move aside.”
???
The masquerade was almost in full swing by the time that Anastasia and Mikhail arrived. As they approached the steward, Mikhail had to fight against his natural appalled reaction to the ostentatious surroundings.
There were almost four hundred people in attendance. An equal number of servants whipped around the ballroom, chasing party-goers with trays of caviar, sturgeon, and ice cream.
Vodka and champagne were flowing like water. Guests were dressed in clothes that, if sold, would feed families for months.
The grand ballroom was a sight to be seen with gilded filigree, marble pillars, and elaborate oil paintings of Tsars — present and past — looming larger than life over the party.
The entire scene was so out of touch with what was happening right outside the palace doors; it felt as though they had walled themselves in a gold coffin.
He could sense the turmoil amongst them, the angst, the fear, the fervor. The energy in the room felt like gasoline, ready to explode with the smallest of sparks.
Mikhail spotted priests and clerics intermingling with the guests draped in jewel-encrusted crucifixes and gold-threaded robes.
Mikhail could sense Anastasia’s anxiety as the steward beckoned them forward. He felt a sharp urge to slide his arm around her waist for support but fought against it.
She didn’t want him in that way. He wasn’t sure she wanted him at all.
Tonight, he was the tutor, another religious cleric selected by the Tsarina, eager to meet the other lords and seek an advisor role.
The steward didn’t recognize Anastasia and his face balked when she gave him their names to pronounce. He stuttered for a moment as if he was afraid to do it.
Somewhat wisely, he was afraid the Tsar had not sanctioned this, but Anastasia leveled him with one look, and he turned around.
“Presenting… The Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, and her royal tutor, Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin…”
The hush that fell over the entire ballroom was immediate and heart-stopping as nearly eight hundred combined guests and servants stopped where they stood.
Even the band faltered. Masks flew off, and people jostled closer to the grand staircase to get their first look at the long-missing Grand Duchess.
Through the stillness, Anastasia and Mikhail were able to find the Tsar and Tsarina. Nicholas looked as though he was ready to put a bullet through them both.
