Dreaming Anastasia (12 page)

Wednesday, 4:48 pm

Anne

I'm fine,” I say into Ethan's cell phone. “Tess, you've just got to chill. There's some real weird stuff going on, but I'm—we're okay.”

“
We're okay?
” She bellows so loudly that I actually move the phone away from my ear. “Did you actually say
we're?
Do you think for one second that I give a rat's ass about that guy? He's dragged you into some kind of freakish, soap-opera plot, and you're worried about his health? Give me a break, Michaelson.”

I can see her point. In her shoes, I'd be shouting the same thing. The truth is, I still don't know if I can really trust Ethan, but at the moment, I think I can, and that's all I have to go on.

“I just need you to cover for me,” I say when I can get a word in. “I left a message on the house phone saying that I'm eating dinner at your house, and that we're going to study together. That way, they won't expect me until at least nine thirty or so. Maybe even ten. They probably won't call, but they might, so you need to know the deal.”

Even as I'm telling this to Tess, the dutiful-daughter portion of my brain is warning me that my mother is going to be majorly pissed that I didn't leave the message on her cell. And I don't even want to think about how she'll react if she calls
my
cell and it keeps flipping over to voice mail, since it's still trapped in my backpack in Ethan's loft. That is, of course, unless it's been commandeered by Viktor and all his evil pals, who are even at this very moment racking up enough extra minutes to get me grounded until I'm thirty.

Not a pretty picture.

“I'll cover for you,” Tess is saying now. “But I'm not happy about it.”

“You're the best.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs. “Where did you say you were again?”

“We're at Northwestern. We're out by the lake right now. But when this Professor Olensky that Ethan knows is done with class in a few minutes, we're going to see him. Ethan thinks he can help us sort this whole thing out, figure out what's going on.”

I hear Tess sigh again noisily. “What's going on with witches and giant hands and people shooting at you and whirlwinds trying to suck you away and a guy who may have been around during the Russian Revolution?” she says. “Is that what he's going to figure out?”

Clearly my decision to give her the CliffsNotes
version of my little adventure has not eased her mind about anything—including my mental status.

“I'll talk to you later, Tess,” I say. “Seriously, I owe you. Big time.” I can see Ethan heading back to where I'm sitting on one of the huge rocks that flank Lake Michigan near the NU campus. Since we arrived, he's been sort of anxiously stalking around like the tigers at Lincoln Park Zoo right before feeding time. That is, if tigers chain-smoked Marlboros, which is something else he's been doing. But it's given me some privacy to make my phone calls—or as much privacy as I can get, since it seems clear he has no intention of letting me out of his line of vision anytime soon.

“Love you, Annie,” Tess says. “Be careful.”

“I will,” I tell her, and then I flip the phone closed before she can say anything else.

Ethan stubs out his cigarette, then picks his way across the uneven rocks and sits down next to me. I hand his phone back to him, and he tucks it into his jeans pocket.

“You want any more of these?” I ask him, holding up the remains of the sandwiches we'd purchased at the student union. I'd eaten most of one because Ethan insisted, but right now, I can't even remember what was in it.

He shakes his head, then glances—for what I think is the nine-thousandth time—at his watch.

We both just sit there for a bit, staring out at the lake. Lake Michigan is so huge that it's always seemed more like an ocean to me, and today is no exception. Even though it's still early in October, the water's already turned that wintry, blue-gray color, and the waves spit out a rough froth each time they rush against the beach.

We'd come out here, my mom and I, one freezing afternoon in February, just a couple weeks after David died. It was cold—that frigid, breath-stopping, Chicago winter cold—and I remember watching the little foggy huffs of our breath as we walked. It was so cold that some of the waves had actually frozen solid in mid-roll toward the shore. I had walked next to my mother, my mittened hand holding hers, thinking that those waves were just how I felt: frozen and trapped and waiting for something to thaw me out, make me move and feel again.

Like Ethan, I realize with a jolt that has me looking over at him, studying that face with its strong jaw and sharp cheekbones—the face that should look old but can't, that is stopped and unable to go on until some force he can't really control allows him to.

“We should head over there now,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “His afternoon class is set to let out at five thirty.” He crumples the remains of our sandwich wrappers in one hand along with the now empty Marlboro pack, unfolds his long legs, and stands up.

“You know those are going to kill you, right?” I point at the crushed Marlboro pack.

There's a silence until he realizes that I'm joking. I can see him working over in his head whether or not he needs to lecture me about how this is all not really funny—which, obviously, it's not. I mean, we're both aware that we'd probably love to be somewhere else right now—and probably not together.

But what he chooses to do is smile and hold out his other hand.

I clasp it. His palm feels warm against mine, and this time, we don't send any punch of aftershocks through each other. We're just two people holding hands, which is definitely a lot easier on both of us than when I was flinging him across the basement.

I look at his face again. Whatever he's thinking, he's keeping it to himself, but I know something else happened with him and the other guy in the basement after I bolted and almost got captured by Dimitri.

“He won't be coming after us,” is all he's told me once I caught my breath and even thought to ask.

What I haven't asked about is why he has what clearly seem to be bullet holes in his blue cotton shirt—at least two blood-stained ragged holes with no visible wounds underneath. That's the one part of this whole story that I didn't—couldn't—share with Tess. But now, as we walk together up the path that leads to the building called Harris Hall where the professor is conducting class, I think I know.

“You had to kill him, didn't you?” I ask him, but it's really more a statement than a question. I'm shocked I can say it so calmly.

Ethan stays silent. We keep walking together under the trees that line the path. When we pass a trash can, he dumps in the sandwich wrappers. He's still holding my hand, and his palm is still warm against mine. A few students pass us, laughing and chatting. A man rides by on an old bicycle, his briefcase tucked into a metal basket behind him. On the tower of a nearby building, a clock begins to strike the half hour.

We stop in front of a large, stone-façade building. “Yes,” Ethan says. He lets go of my hand and turns his head to look at me. His gaze gives away nothing. “Yes, I did.”

The starkness of his confession settles silently between us.

Students begin to trickle out of the various buildings. I'm suddenly overcome by feelings it will take a while to sort out. But one of them seems to be gratitude.

“You saved my life,” I tell Ethan softly. “If you killed him,” I touch one of my hands to the ragged hole in the middle of his shirt near his heart, “it's because you had no other choice.”

Ethan searches my face for a second with those blue eyes, places his hand over mine. “There's always a choice,” he says. “You need to remember that, Anne. There's always—”

He doesn't finish his sentence but instead lets go and walks behind me. “Alex!” he calls out.

I turn to see him waving at a stout, older man with wildly wavy gray hair who is just emerging from Harris Hall.

“Ah, Ethan,” he says. He walks over to us, a smile spreading across his lined face. “I—” And then he stops. I can feel my face flush as the professor stares openly at me.

“So this is really…” He reaches over and actually places his hands on my face, gazing at me like a kid who thinks he's met the real Santa Claus or something. Then, just as I'm about to shove him out of my personal space bubble, he steps back and rakes one hand through that wild hair.

Ethan, thankfully, intervenes. “Professor Aleksander Olensky,” he says, “I would like you to meet Anne Michaelson.”

Olensky pumps my hand for a bit until I finally yank it away. Not that I want to ruin his good time rejoicing over my presence or anything, but enough is enough.

“Come,” he says then. “I understand we've got some research to do.” He points to our right. “My office is just over there.” He sets off at a brisk pace in the direction he's pointed.

“So,” I ask Ethan as we hustle to follow the professor, “you're sure this guy can really help us?”

“Positive.” Ethan grins more broadly than I've seen him do. “Trust me. You'll see.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Trust you. 'Cause that's going so well.”

Ethan narrows his blue eyes. “You'll see,” he says again. “Really.”

Budapest, Hungary,
Three Months Ago

Ethan

Trust me,” Katya says. “You're going to think he's fantastic.” A smile lights up her pale face. She pushes a tumble of blond curls, a bit damp from the summer's heat, off her forehead.

Katya, who's a student here at the local university, grabs my hand, and we cross the street to a small café. Katya, according to my sources, was most definitely the girl I had been looking for all these decades.

Sadly, she wasn't really the right one. The information I had received had proved to be false.

But it's a beautiful summer afternoon, and I'm not leaving until tomorrow. So Katya and I will eat, drink some coffee, and listen to this professor she admires so much. At least she'll have a good memory of the afternoon when she tries to find me a few days from now and realizes that I have disappeared without a word.

We pay for our coffee and cake at the counter, weave our way through the packed café, and settle into two empty seats at a small, round table.

“There he is,” Katya says after she swallows a bite of the rich chocolate torte in front of her. She points across the room to an elderly man with a wild shock of gray hair who's sitting not too far from us.

“Aleksander Olensky. Everyone loves him so much that he's started conducting these informal little talks here about once a week. You can sit and have something to eat and just get to know him. So much better than sitting in that stuffy lecture hall.” She forks up another mouthful of torte and sighs happily.

I nod my head and take a sip of my coffee. The crowd is mostly university students, with a few older faces and a handful of international backpacker types scattered among them. As if by some invisible signal, they grow quiet and turn themselves in Professor Olensky's direction. He smiles and clears his throat.

A few minutes later, I'm sorry that I've let Katya convince me to join her, because the last thing I really want to do is sit here and listen to Olensky discuss the Romanovs and their downfall, which, it turns out, is the subject he's chosen for today's talk. But clearly, everyone else in the room is hanging on his every word, listening with rapt attention to his current story about young Alexei and his spaniel, Joy.

I'm certain that I am the only one sitting here wondering if he knows how annoying that ridiculous little dog really was.

“Those were magnificent days,” Olensky says, taking a sip of whatever he's drinking. “Magnificent. And then came the Revolution. Of course, Lenin and Marx are fascinating subjects too. Did you know that Karl Marx was a student of—?”

He stops and turns to look at me—most likely, I realize, because I have sworn under my breath at the mention of Marx's name. Next to me, Katya wears an expression that seems to be part amusement and part embarrassment.

“Did you have a comment, friend?” Olensky stares at me quizzically.

What the hell?
I think.
I'll be gone tomorrow.

“Marx?” I say. “That charlatan?” And unexpectedly, I find myself sparring history with Olensky, rambling on far longer than I should, until many, many minutes later, I finally sputter to a stop—much to Katya's relief, I'm sure.

“So,” Olensky says to me, looking at me far more closely than he had at first. “How is it that a gentleman of your youth is so knowledgeable about people who lived so long ago? You must be an avid student of history, my friend.”

“Something like that,” I tell him. I am very much aware at this moment of how young I look and how incongruous this is with the level of knowledge I have displayed.
Perhaps,
I think dismally,
he'll just think I'm a prodigy.

But later, as I part ways with Katya—more easily now that she's mostly furious at my behavior—and head out into the gathering dusk, Olensky catches up with me. Our subsequent conversation lasts many hours and includes many drinks of a decidedly stronger nature than coffee.

Hours later, I sit staring at him in amazement. My brain is on fire, and not just from the one too many shots of vodka.

“You are one of them,” Olensky says. He has had a few too many vodkas of his own. His face is glowing red with alcohol and excitement. “I can feel it. I know it.”

I sit there for a moment, then down another vodka and run my hand unsteadily through my hair. Trusting someone not of the Brotherhood does not come easily. In fact, it is unthinkable. Yet this man, this excited old man, seems to hold the key that can free me from the mission that has held me for too long.

Aleksander Olensky, it turns out, is a man with a quest of his own—a man who believes in the tales his grandfather told him of a Russian Brotherhood, and of a royal Romanov daughter who never really died. He had become a scholar with access to the archives of the world's greatest universities and libraries, and even as he believed, he had thought it all could be a lie. Until today.

He reaches into his battered leather briefcase and pulls out a sheaf of papers. “I found them in a library in the former East Berlin,” he tells me. “The librarian simply allowed me to copy the entire file. You see, no one places much significance on matters of the Revolution anymore—not since the fall of the Berlin Wall in the eighties.”

He swallows some more vodka. “I could hardly believe my good fortune. They had no idea…” He pauses and looks me in the eyes. “Papers can say anything, I suppose. That doesn't make it the truth. So tell me, Mr. Kozninsky, what is the truth? Am I just a silly, superstitious old man in love with tales from his youth?”

I cannot tell whether what I say next comes from my need to tell it or from the shocking number of vodkas I have consumed.

Probably, it is a bit of both.

“Believe,” I tell Alex Olensky. “Believe. I am the truth.”

And with that, he gathers the papers—the culmination of his life's work—and hands them across the table to me.