Chapter Text
Like all good Soviets were supposed to be, Anya was an atheist, but she imagined Purgatory was rather similar to her current routine.
Dmitry said he could get the paperwork done quickly now that he had the funds, but "quickly" still meant days upon days of waiting, all while going about as if nothing has changed.
And to think Anya believed memorizing the Romanov family tree would be the hard part.
That evening she returned to her assigned apartment later than usual, mentally exhausted and unable to take solace in the fact that it was the last workday of the week. Kicking her shoes off by the door and changing into her home footwear, Anya crossed the room in quick strides and flopped onto the sofa. She was ready to turn her entire body off for the weekend, but her mind, with its last drop of energy, once again played the tune from the music box.
Anya might have dismissed the following images as a dream, had they not been so similar to the ones she saw when she first opened the box with Dmitry. Some of the details became clearer: she wore a silver gown, her hair styled in a way that felt too uncomfortably fancy even for a fantasy, and as she walked between two rows of bejeweled women and medal-adorned men, they all bowed to her.
The rows of nobility, Anya soon realized, were but a corridor leading her towards the most important person in the room - it was clear, from the way he stood, that the man believed himself to be truly deserving of that title. He stood up straight, dressed in white, and held a gloved hand out to her. "I, of course, reserve the honor of the first dance," he declared, to the claps and amusement of the noble assembly. Anya's hand reached for his, and he swept her to the rhythm of the music.
What did any of this mean? In all her years of memory, she never wished to be a princess, nor had any interest in royalty prior to Anastasia Romanova becoming her ticket to safety. But this vision... it felt so real, almost solid enough to touch.
"Ridiculous," she muttered.
Suppose it was true, a part of her argued. What then?
Then why did her parents welcome her with open arms? She could believe they'd spared a blood-covered young noblewoman fleeing through the woods, even pitying her enough to take her to a hospital, but not visit, and certainly not adopt her.
Then perhaps it was her memory, but she wasn't seeing it through her own eyes? Had she been a servant, she'd have attended many dances, just never as a dancer, never as nicely dressed as the nobles she'd serve drinks to. Maybe she stole her masters' jewels and ran, suffering injuries along the way - and her parents might have been able to tell by her choice of words that she wasn't highborn.
But truthfully, it all seemed like pointless speculation - this whole ordeal could simply stem from how much time she was spending getting into the head of a dead royal teenage girl. Of course Anastasia would have attended many dances, and of course the crowd of nobles would have parted in such a way for the young Czarevna. Then the man in white would be the Czar...
That gave Anya pause. While the real Anastasia would, obviously, be elated to dance with her father, Anya had no warm feelings towards the man, the last in a line of butchers of the people, the one who drove her parents to desperation, the one who took Dmitry's childhood from him.
Then how could she, Anya, the real person behind the mask of Anastasia, be so excited, in that vision, to take the Czar's hand?
*
It was nearly time.
She was staring at an empty sheet of paper, pencil in hand, fighting the urge to chew on its end. She had awoken in the middle of the night to another scene playing in her mind's eye, a childish voice she intrinsically knew to be hers begging for a bedtime story, the Czar chuckling in his deep yet kindly voice before asking, "have you recited your nightly prayers?"
"No fair!" the young voice protested, and Anya had echoed her words out loud, more weakly, "you never ask Tanya about that..."
But that was in the past, whether that past was truly hers or merely imagined, immersed as she was in a dead stranger's life. What was happening now, that's what mattered, and nothing would be happening if she couldn't finish this letter. Couldn't get everyone in place for the escape.
Dearest Mom and Dad,
I have fully assimilated into life in Leningrad. It is a beautiful city, words cannot describe how it's been transformed thanks to the People - in fact, I would be happy to show you around! Won't you come? I miss you terribly, and I think you'll enjoy staying in a proper big city for a while, you've earned it more than anyone.
Was it good enough? Would it get them to come quickly? She couldn't think of a better way to convince them without resorting to code-like phrasing, which would draw suspicion from the OGPU. And would not even work, because they didn't have an established code-
Right, stop panicking. Dmitry told her the papers will be ready soon. Her parents know she'd go to Sverdlovsk herself if longing was the only matter. Vlad was secretive about his actions, but he assured her and Dmitry that he had a way to know when the right train would be leaving. The plan was working.
A fresh start was waiting just around the corner.