Wintermourne (4/6)
Birthright
Nadya and Mikhail remained guests at the Winter Palace, their presence a quiet gift from the Romanovs, who clung to Nadya’s miraculous thread as a sign of divine favor in a world fraying with war. Nadya spun flax into linen daily, using the palace’s original spinning wheel, its wood worn but steady. The magic that had once shimmered in her thread—born of Rasputin’s cursed wheel, now vanished—had faded, leaving only her skill, honed in her family’s attic long ago. Each turn of the wheel felt like defiance, a reclaiming of the years stolen from her.
In May 1915, Nadya’s body stirred with new life. But joy turned to dread when Rasputin requested a private audience, his shadow falling across her chamber like a storm cloud.
“You are with child,” he said, his voice flat, neither warm nor curious. “When the boy is born, you will tell Mikhail it was stillborn. He will live—with me.”
Nadya rose, hand pressed to her belly, her eyes fierce. “I will not surrender my child. You poisoned my soul, left me to sleep for four years. That was enough.”
“Your choice spun that fate,” Rasputin replied, unblinking. “No one forced your hand to the wheel.”
“I didn’t know it would steal my life,” she said, her voice trembling with fury.
“Nor did you ask.” He spread his hands, as if absolving himself. “Ancient magic demands a price.”
“I thought the price was my child,” she snapped, bitterness sharpening her words. “Not four years lost, not my breath trapped in shadows.”
“You misunderstand.” His voice curled like smoke, low and cold. “The wheel took your life force. I take the child.”
Nadya stepped back, her hand tightening over her womb. “Leave, Grigori. I’ll die before I let you touch him.”
Rasputin’s smile was thin, almost pitying. “Then you’ll have no need to lie, Nadya. The child will come cold and breathless, and your grief will be true.”
He turned to the door, then paused, his words a blade in the silence. “Only by giving him to me will he breathe. I have foreseen a son.”
The door closed softly behind him.
Nadya sank onto her bed, her morning’s joy shattered. She had planned to tell Mikhail, to share the news that would bind them as a family. Now, she wept, Rasputin’s threat coiling around her heart like the flax she spun.
“What’s wrong, my love?” Mikhail asked that evening, finding her curled in bed, her face buried in the pillow. He drew her close, his arms a steady warmth against her trembling.
“The years I lost,” she whispered, the lie bitter on her tongue. “They haunt me.”
“You’re safe now,” he said, kissing her hair, holding her as if his touch could banish the dark.
But she wasn’t safe. Rasputin’s words echoed, and the scroll’s riddle—tucked among her belongings in the patched linen bag—loomed in her mind, its blood-stained pact a chain she couldn’t break.
Nadya hid her pregnancy, her heart heavy with secrecy. She asked a seamstress to loosen her dresses, citing comfort, and wore shawls to soften the curve of her belly. She moved with care, avoided Mikhail’s embrace, and slept with her back to him, claiming the chill of the palace made her restless. Each lie cut deeper, but she couldn’t speak—not when Rasputin’s threat hung over her son.
Mikhail sensed her distance, her sorrow, but attributed it to the trauma of her four-year sleep. He read to her still, his voice a tether, but her silences grew heavier, her eyes avoiding his.
One night in December, as winter tightened its grip on St. Petersburg, the truth broke through. Mikhail woke to a rhythmic thump against his back—the baby’s kick, pulsing through the linen where Nadya pressed against him in sleep. His breath caught, and he reached gently for her belly, feeling the unmistakable curve, the quiet life within.
“My God,” he whispered, his heart racing.
The scroll’s words flooded back, found months ago in her linen bag among her spindle, a prayer book, and a faded ribbon. He’d read the riddle by firelight, its verses etched in his mind:
By spindle’s prick and sleeping breath,
You trade your child to forest death.
He’d thought it a relic of Rasputin’s manipulation, a cruel verse to bind Nadya’s soul. Now, its meaning was clear: Rasputin wanted their child. And Nadya had hidden it from him.
Anger surged, hot and sharp. He slipped from the bed, pacing the cold floor, his mind a storm. He imagined confronting her, demanding why she’d lied, why she’d carried this alone. But as he rehearsed the words, his heart split. Anger softened to sorrow, then to love. They were to be parents—a family, despite the shadow of Rasputin’s curse. He couldn’t lose her to his own rage.
But the other half of his heart burned, hatred for Rasputin blazing white-hot. At three in the morning, while the palace slept, Mikhail crept to Rasputin’s chamber in the north wing, a dagger in his hand—plain steel, borrowed from a guard loyal to the Volkov name.
Rasputin lay snoring, his beard rising and falling, one hand slack at his side. A single candle flickered, casting shadows that seemed to writhe. Mikhail stood over him, the dagger trembling. No words, no ritual—just a choice.
He struck, the blade sinking deep into Rasputin’s chest, finding the heart.
Rasputin’s eyes snapped open, a wet gasp escaping his lips. His body convulsed, limbs flailing, fingers clawing at the air. His gaze locked with Mikhail’s, and for a moment, something passed between them—not pain, but a knowing, ancient and cold.
Then his eyes closed, his body stilled, a final rattle escaping his throat.
Mikhail stepped back, chest heaving. It was done.
Morning came, pale and cold, the Winter Palace hushed under a fresh fall of snow. Nadya woke to the baby’s kick, a quiet reminder of the life she fought for. She turned to find Mikhail awake, his eyes fixed on her, steady but searching.
“Good morning,” she whispered, tugging the blanket higher to hide her belly.
“Good morning, my love,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Today’s a good day to tell me.”
Her breath caught. “Tell you what?”
“Whatever you’re hiding,” he said, his voice soft but firm, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Nadya’s eyes filled with tears. She turned away, weeping silently, shame and fear choking her words.
Mikhail slid behind her, spooning her gently, refusing to let her retreat. He kissed her cheek, his hand moving toward her belly, slow and warm.
She caught it, her fingers practiced, as if she’d guarded this secret for months.
“I know,” he said, his voice steady. “I felt him last night. Our child.”
Her sobs deepened, relief and terror mingling. “You don’t understand—”
“I do,” he said, his tone resolute. “I found the scroll in your bag. I read the riddle. I know what Rasputin wants.”
She turned to face him, eyes wide. “And you’re still here?”
“I took care of it,” he said, his voice low, a shadow crossing his face. “When you hear the news today, act surprised.”
“What news?” she asked, her heart pounding.
“You’ll know,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Come, let’s eat.”
They dressed and joined the Romanovs’ small breakfast circle in a modest dining room, the war’s shadow dimming the palace’s grandeur. Blini with blackberry preserves sat on the table, a rare treat amid rationed supplies. Alexandra presided, her face drawn but kind, as a handful of courtiers murmured about the front.
Rasputin entered, alive and unharmed, his cassock pristine, his smile crooked.
Mikhail froze, his cup trembling, apple juice nearly spilling.
“Good morning,” Rasputin said, seating himself without ceremony. He piled blini onto his plate, berries staining his fingers. “I’m famished today.”
“You’re in fine spirits,” Alexandra remarked, her tone light but curious.
“I feel… renewed,” Rasputin said, his eyes flicking to Mikhail. “As if I’ve dodged a shadow.”
Mikhail’s throat tightened, his pulse hammering. Nadya’s hand found his under the table, her grip tight.
Rasputin turned to Nadya, his gaze lingering on her shawl-draped form. “You’re blooming, Nadya. Quite far along, aren’t you?”
Alexandra set down her fork, surprised. “You’re with child?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Nadya said, her voice steady despite her fear. “Thirty-four weeks.”
“Thirty-four weeks!” Alexandra exclaimed, her face softening. “You’ve kept it quiet. A blessing in these dark days.”
“Joy should be shared,” Rasputin said, cracking a hard-boiled egg with his spoon. “But children sense their mother’s heart—her fear, her secrets.” His eyes met Nadya’s. “Or betrayal.”
Mikhail’s grip tightened on his cup. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing,” Rasputin said, his smile sharp. “Only that babes know truths their parents hide. Like how the last strike matters more than the first.”
Alexandra’s brow furrowed, sensing the undercurrent. “If there’s discord, settle it. We cannot afford division now, with the war at our gates.”
“No discord, Majesty,” Rasputin said smoothly. “Merely an understanding. A contract, you might say.”
Mikhail’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. “As you say, Majesty.”
Orlov, the doorman, approached Alexandra, whispering. Her face brightened. “We have a guest—Prince Felix Yusupov.”
She turned to Nadya. “His wife, Irina, is charming. You’ll like her, I think.”
Nadya managed a smile. “Thank you, Majesty.”
Felix entered, slender and elegant, his furs draped over a tailored silk suit. At thirty, his sharp features carried a restless energy. He bowed to Alexandra, kissing her hand. “Your Majesty.”
“Felix, a delight,” she said, embracing him. “Where’s Irina?”
“Indisposed, I’m afraid,” he said, his smile tight. “I come with an invitation.” He turned to Rasputin. “My wife wishes to hear you speak on matters of the soul—health, wellness. Will you join us for an evening drink at the Moika Palace, say, seven o’clock?”
Rasputin’s eyes gleamed. “Eleven hours to prepare? I accept. I’ve long wished to meet Irina Yusupov.”
“You’re welcome too, Majesty,” Felix added, “though I know your children keep you tonight.”
“Indeed,” Alexandra said, smiling. “My five treasures await their bedtime stories.”
Felix bowed again and departed, his furs trailing like a whisper of snow.
The table fell silent, Rasputin’s presence a weight no one could ignore. Nadya’s hand trembled in Mikhail’s, her belly tight with the child who kicked, as if sensing the danger still to come.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.