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The strange thing about memory is that it's unreliable. It changes, grows distant, blurs around the edges; sometimes it becomes another matter entirely, made false with time. Some things, though, stay carved in stone. For Gleb, the night the Romanov family was killed has always been one of the latter. He's tried, when he can, to hold it all at arm's length, to reason away some of the horror of it, reminding himself as he was told so many times that it was a necessity, something done for the good of the country. Children died — three just barely older than him, one his own age, give or take a matter of months, one younger — but the reign of the Romanovs was ended, and though it took a long, bloody war, Russia finally began to move towards a better, brighter, fairer future.
He tells himself that, at least, when he wakes up — or comes to, really, seems more accurate, as if he's blinked and found himself somewhere else — at home for the first time in so many years, his parents both alive and well, even the very air familiar. It's been such a long time since he was back in Yekaterinburg, and Gleb can't understand how it's possible now. Living in Darrow has taught him that just about anything should be, but there's arriving in a place like that at all, there's strange occurrences like people turning into animals or a beach warm in the middle of winter, but then there's suddenly being a child again. And he is — he knows it somehow in his bones, knows it just to catch a glimpse of himself. He remembers the next decade or so of his life, but it obviously hasn't happened, and how could it have? He's in the presence of two people long dead, speaking to him as if no time has passed at all. Only instinct keeps him from sounding downright insane, trying to follow along, to pick up where he left off. If this is a dream, then it's a strange one, the sort of thing a person usually wouldn't have so much control over, but he can't read it as anything else.
It's barely moments, though, before his father makes to leave, his pistol with him, and at once, Gleb knows exactly what night this is and what's about to happen. That house across the way will be filled with screams and gunshots that seem unending, his father will return home looking pale and grim and not wanting to speak, and a family of seven and who knows how many others will be dead.
Six, he instinctively corrects himself. Anastasia lived; he saw it in Paris, believed it, that the frightened little street sweeper he'd once seen in the Nevsky Prospekt was the presumed dead Grand Duchess after all. She'll survive tonight, even if she won't remember it. She'll become Anya, the woman he fell in love with.
Just a week ago, she told him, so much more certain than she had any right to be, that he would never let them hurt her. She was right. He won't.
He waits just long enough that it won't seem too strange, then tells his mother that he's going for a walk. She glances up and tells him to be careful — something in his chest twists; it's been so many years since he's spoken to her — but doesn't seem too concerned. Though he has no plan, no clue how he'll manage to get into Ipatiev House unseen and leave with one of the Romanov daughters, whether she knows him now or not, it doesn't matter. He has to try.
He tells himself that, at least, when he wakes up — or comes to, really, seems more accurate, as if he's blinked and found himself somewhere else — at home for the first time in so many years, his parents both alive and well, even the very air familiar. It's been such a long time since he was back in Yekaterinburg, and Gleb can't understand how it's possible now. Living in Darrow has taught him that just about anything should be, but there's arriving in a place like that at all, there's strange occurrences like people turning into animals or a beach warm in the middle of winter, but then there's suddenly being a child again. And he is — he knows it somehow in his bones, knows it just to catch a glimpse of himself. He remembers the next decade or so of his life, but it obviously hasn't happened, and how could it have? He's in the presence of two people long dead, speaking to him as if no time has passed at all. Only instinct keeps him from sounding downright insane, trying to follow along, to pick up where he left off. If this is a dream, then it's a strange one, the sort of thing a person usually wouldn't have so much control over, but he can't read it as anything else.
It's barely moments, though, before his father makes to leave, his pistol with him, and at once, Gleb knows exactly what night this is and what's about to happen. That house across the way will be filled with screams and gunshots that seem unending, his father will return home looking pale and grim and not wanting to speak, and a family of seven and who knows how many others will be dead.
Six, he instinctively corrects himself. Anastasia lived; he saw it in Paris, believed it, that the frightened little street sweeper he'd once seen in the Nevsky Prospekt was the presumed dead Grand Duchess after all. She'll survive tonight, even if she won't remember it. She'll become Anya, the woman he fell in love with.
Just a week ago, she told him, so much more certain than she had any right to be, that he would never let them hurt her. She was right. He won't.
He waits just long enough that it won't seem too strange, then tells his mother that he's going for a walk. She glances up and tells him to be careful — something in his chest twists; it's been so many years since he's spoken to her — but doesn't seem too concerned. Though he has no plan, no clue how he'll manage to get into Ipatiev House unseen and leave with one of the Romanov daughters, whether she knows him now or not, it doesn't matter. He has to try.
