The Lost Crown
“MARIA NIKOLAEVNA May 1918 Ekaterinburg Papa shuffles the bezique deck loudly as machine-gun fire. “This prison regime!” he complains. “It’s unbearable, being penned up on a fine evening.”
Out of nowhere, there’s a sound like an ax biting into wood—thock!—and before Mama can finish saying “Nicky?” Tatiana comes running from the bedrooms.
“Did you hear that? Our bedroom floor jolted under my feet. It must have been a shot from the cellar.”
A bullet! Without even thinking about it, my feet snap up from the floor and bury themselves between the sofa and my backside. Anastasia smirks at me, but I don’t care. Both of us know perfectly well I’m not as brave as she is. Olga’s already crying.
“Christ have mercy,” Mama gasps. “Is Baby all right?”
“He did not even wake up, slava Bogu,” Tatiana says. “Dushka,” she tells Olga, “no one is hurt.”
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