They needed something to believe in, whether it was that the Tsar had been bewitched or that it was finally time to overthrow the empire. Mikhail had to admit that he was partial to the latter.
“I’m not that man,” he said again. “There are dark things in the palace. Of this, I will not lie to you. You must believe me. I am not this Rasputin that they say I am.”
“Well, then, who is?” Another voice in the crowd jeered, tossing a handful of rocks in the circle.
“There is no Rasputin,” Mikhail let out a heavy sigh, feeling his body grow tired. His hands sagged down by his sides, “My name is Mikhail. Mikhail Ivanov.”
“How are we supposed to believe that?” Another voice. Mikhail was growing frustrated. He didn’t know how to explain this to an angry mob. He was lucky enough that they hadn’t killed him yet.
He didn’t know what they were talking about when they mentioned what had happened to the Winter Palace, his view blocked from the ground by the crowds.
“I don’t know what to tell you, other than you have been lied to…”
“You are the one lying to us!”
“My name is Mikhail —“ He was cut off as another round of disparaging cries came up from the crowd.
His mind began to turn, his body exhausted. He was almost put back in that place, that monastery; the struggle to maintain the one part of his identity that had always been his, the rejection of this moniker.
He thought back to the one time that Anastasia had ever called him by that name, how it had broken him. He heard the cocking of a rifle and sighed. He had made it this far only to die now.
The crowd jostled around him, guns shooting into the air once more and another rock flying at Mikhail. The crowd was ready now. They were bloodthirsty. They were hungry foratonement.It didn’t matter who was doing it or what it was for.
“My name…”
“Stop!” A man’s voice broke through the chaos of the revolutionaries. His command carried enough intensity to make them all quiet down.
Mikhail looked up, blinking once more through blurred vision. The speaker broke through the barrier, walking over to stand in the center of the circle near Mikhail. Mikhail didn’t recognize him.
“I know this man.” The man’s voice was clear, calm. He had a presence that was able to settle the people around him, “He is not this Rasputin that the Tsar would have you believe.”
“Who is he?”
“Yeah, why was he at the palace?”
“He must know something!”
The jeering from the crowd resumed almost immediately, their skeptical minds and hungry stomachs driving their need for any semblance of justice.
The man seemed unbothered as he looked around at his countrymen. He looked each one of them in the eye, almost as though he was disappointed. They slowly calmed some of their ire.
“I know this man,” he repeated, “He speaks the truth. His name is Mikhail.”
“Well, then, why —“ Someone interrupted him only for the man to hold up his hand.
“I will finish if you would let me.” Silence fell over the crowd. “His name is Mikhail. He is a companion of the Grand Duchess Anastasia. I have seen them together. Surely, some of you have heard of or know someone whom she has helped.”
There were murmurs of assent. While they had not been able to accomplish much, Anastasia had spent years sneaking into the city and helping wherever she had been able. If they were in another city, at the Summer Palace…
Mikhail cringed to think of how this scene could have gone differently. This was St. Petersburg. Her home.Theirhome. They knew these people. Surely, someone was now going to be able to speak for him — and someone was.
“She was just trifling with us,” one voice dissented, his tone angry. “So one of the daughters of the Tsar performs parlor tricks in the city. That doesn’t mean anything!”
“Do not call them parlor tricks,” the man’s voice was edging towards anger for the first time. “Anastasia saved my son’s life. She pulled a bullet from his leg after fighting her own father’s soldiers in the streets. Whatever you heard to the contrary was contempt strewn by the Tsar. He grows afraid of his own house.”
“Who is Rasputin?” Someone cried. “We all saw the letters!” Mikhail couldn’t help but cringe at the reminder of those damn letters. The thought of Anastasia’s pain made him snap to attention.
“Those were alie,”his voice was deadly. “The Tsar fabricated them. They were written by the Tsar himself.”
