Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

London - April, 1922

Shane wanted to throw his typewriter.

He always felt like the words in his head moved faster than he could get them out, like he was chasing his own ideas. Someone told him it was faster to type than write with a pen and paper, so he decided to give writing on a typewriter a try, buying one secondhand. He did type faster than when he wrote longhand, but hated his typewriter. He told himself the reason he hated it was because the M key stuck in a way that was so annoying that, if he ever had a character with an M in their name, Shane would type it with a different letter until working up the final copy.

If picking up his typewriter and throwing it across the room resulted in anything more than a loud thud that disturbed his neighbors, Shane could afford to buy a new one, one where the M key didn't stick. Maybe, with a new typewriter, not a secondhand one that was imbued with someone else's unfulfilled ideas, this was the real reason he hated the thing, he'd be able to tell a story he wouldn't abandon midway through out of sheer boredom. His only issue with tossing it, and why he hesitated doing so, was that it would ruin his plan for the evening to stay up writing until he was falling asleep at his desk, in the hopes that he would actually get a restful night of sleep.

Shane intended to spend the night in the lumpy bed in the boarding house that evening, even though he slept worse there than in his bed at home. He needed solitude. Dinner with his parents was one of the worst he could recall because his mother would not stop talking about how proud of him she was for having his first article published. It came out in the Monday morning paper, the day before, and his parents had dinner plans out of the house that evening, which Shane did not attend, allowing him to put off fielding her excitement for a day, but only one.

He hated that his mother felt the need to champion him so enthusiastically. Had anyone else dished out the heaps of praise she lavished upon him, Shane would've taken it as sarcasm, though knowing she was sincere wasn't any better.

Shane was not proud of his article.

It had been almost a year since he graduated from university, and he had no job title, other accomplishments, or publication credits to his name other than this one short article. Shane knew it had to be difficult for his mother to stomach the fact that he did not particularly aspire to success. If he did, he would work harder for it, he was certain, but Shane didn't aspire to be a successful writer, or journalist, or...

Or anything, really.

Shane did not have any aspirations, nor did he have any immediate goals, now that he did not have the article in question to motivate him any longer.

On top of that, despite having 'all the free time in the world,' as his mother put it, Shane never wanted to go out. His parents frequently garnered invitations for him to refuse, and his mother, in particular, did not understand why her son usually chose to stay home, or go to the boarding house to write, alone, when he wasn't very good at it, a claim she did not make, when he could've been going out to 'have fun.'

Shane did not have fun when he socialized. He had no desire to go out and meet people.

He couldn't remember the last time he had fun, or felt comfortable, with anyone outside of his immediate family, and even their company was growing tedious. He understood that, of course, his parents simply wanted 'the best' for their only child, but Shane didn't want it for himself. He didn't care if he was successful. He didn't care if he had friends or, even worse, attachments. Admittedly, they were quite young, but his parents were married by his age, his mother was raising a little boy in short pants, and his father was beginning a prominent career in His Majesty's Treasury.

Meanwhile, Shane, at almost twenty-two, split his time between his family's home in London and a mediocre boarding house, had no close friends, and no experience with romance. He was not formally employed, and spent tenfold what he was paid for his efforts researching the one newspaper article he had to his name.

Shane didn't mind living at home with his parents, in theory, and had been looking forward to it the previous spring, but quietly took up his room at the boarding house before summer's end. It was impossible to write at home. There were so many interruptions, and Shane knew his typing was quite annoying to everyone in the household, especially since he kept such odd hours. The perfect idea, with the perfect conclusion, this was the part Shane had trouble with, beginnings were easy for him, was not going to simply fall into his lap. He had to work to uncover the truth he wanted his work to impart, and the feelings he wanted it to inspire.

Shane was not a particularly emotional person himself, he found it much easier to cry over a book than his own life, but he didn't want to write trite nonsense simply to entertain an audience, even if it sold well. He wanted his stories, and his work as a whole, to have meaning. But Shane was bad at understanding what people meant in the real world, and apparently he was just as bad at it on the page too. His bookcase full of notebooks with blank pages at the back, or folders encasing stacks of typed pages that did not conclude with two words of centered type, spoke volumes as to his failing. Apparently, wanting to write a novel, which, if he was being honest, Shane desperately wanted to do, was not enough. If he was going to be a writer he had to write. Even if his work went largely unpublished, or the stories he completed were not as long as he wanted them to be, he had to write. Finishing a novel was not something that would happen overnight, which was ironic, since Shane did his best writing late in the evening, and clearly it was not going to come easily for him, even though he now had 'all the time in the world' to write. It seemed his studies were not what had kept him from accomplishing this task during the preceding years. But Shane was not about to let anything else get in the way of his work, even if it bored him, and he dozed off at his desk. Dozing off at his desk was preferable to lying in bed all night replaying scenes from his work, or his own life, ad infinitum, to try to uncover where things went wrong.

And, thankfully, his parents didn't give him much grief about being a writer in name only, and not a successful, or well published one. They left him time to write, and didn't pester him about it any more than Shane thought reasonable.

His mother was so proud of this one small accomplishment though. She made it seem as if it was such a wonderful thing that he'd gone to such lengths to write about the woman claiming to be Anastasia Romanov, a name which contained the offensive to Shane letter M, as if writing about this probable imposter of a dead Russian Grand Duchess was newsworthy.

It was not.

The woman, Anna Anderson, was clearly a fraud. Shane, nor anyone else, simply couldn't prove it. The fact that both of his parents read his article as being in support of the woman was even worse than knowing the piece would forever be the first credit to his name outside of the university, where he'd only been published half a dozen times, a very scant resumé for someone who called himself a writer. Shane didn't care that it was 'just' a newspaper article, or that he wasn't paid much for writing it, because he didn't care much at all.

In the end, the solitude of the journey itself was more enjoyable than any other part of the process of trying to solve the mystery of who Anna Anderson might be. He did accomplish his one narrow goal, to research the woman and write an article about his findings, but Shane hadn't exactly found anything. No one could prove the woman was Anastasia, but no one could disprove her claim either, Shane included.

But, rather than be dejected that his time, money, and effort had amounted to nothing more than a brief article in the Monday paper, Shane was grateful to have had a purpose for a few weeks, something to focus his mind on, and very good excuses, work and travel, to ignore everything else. At this point, Anastasia Romanov was nothing more than a believable cover story, hiding the fact that Shane was so unhappy with every other aspect of his life he couldn't be bothered to care about anything at all.

Shane stood in front of his desk, clutching the bottom edges of his typewriter, lost in thought, when he heard two sharp thuds. At first, he thought the sound was his grip on his typewriter slipping as he paused, leaning over his desk, which was perhaps even more embarrassing than his failure to write anything of interest that evening. But, when Shane heard the sound again, as he prepared to throw the typewriter, and be done with the thing once and for all, he realized neither his knuckles nor the device were touching the desk.

The sound had to be something else.

Someone was knocking.

The second time, they did not do so as politely.

Instead of waiting to see how much louder or longer the person on the other side of it could knock, Shane decided to see who was at the door. It was worth his time to be rid of the well-wisher quickly, so he could get back to work.

"What?" He asked, gripping the door and its frame, without opening it more than halfway.

This was not a very polite way to greet the first guest Shane had ever opened his door too. He wasn't even sure if it counted as 'opening his door' to someone if he didn't open it all the way.

The man in the hallway was trying to light a match as he looked up at Shane. He shook it out quickly, tossing it to the floor and scooting it to the corner with the toe of his boot, without lighting the cigarette.

The man pulled the cigarette from his lips, pushed back one side of his navy blue cap, and tucked the thing behind his ear before extending his hand.

"You are Mr. S. Hollander? Of the Daily Express?" He asked in a heavy accent, probably Russian, looking down at his hand. No, he was nodding down at his hand; his chin moved. He expected Shane to shake hands with him.

Assuming doing so would be faster than arguing against it, Shane took the man's hand, noticing the large mole on the would be intruder's left cheek as he looked at him. It wasn't an unsightly mole, quite the contrary, but it was very distinct. A mole like that would be easy to remember, or spot in a sea of people.

Shane was certain he did not know the man at his door with the lovely, distinct mole. He was not someone he knew from school, or socially, or at all.

The man, who was soaked to the bone, it had been raining for two days straight, looked past Shane, over his shoulder, through the open door and into his room.

"Ilya Rozanov. You have a fireplace? I am wet. May I come in?"

"Ilya Rozanov? Shane Hollander, that's what the S stands for," he said, pulling back his hand after the man's very firm handshake.

Mr. Rozanov nodded, almost imperceptibly, if not for the mole moving, but did not say any more as to who he was, beyond giving a name.

"I wanted to introduce myself, since I don't think I know you. Have we met?" Shane asked, certain that, if they'd met before, they hadn't been introduced. Shane was good with names, and liked the sound of Rozanov, which he knew translated to 'son of the rose.'

Shane enjoyed ornamental horticulture, gardening was a hobby of his, and he was familiar with floriography, the way one could communicate subtle, personal, intimate messages through the symbolism of specific flowers.

Roses symbolized love, beauty, and, oddly enough, politics.

Mr. Rozanov was dressed in black. With regards to roses, black could symbolize something obvious like death, or parting, but it could also symbolize rebirth, strength, and unconventional love.

Every year, Shane's father bought his mother a bouquet of two dozen roses, half lavender, for love at first sight, and half black, for unconventional love. He thought it was strange when he was younger, especially since one usually gave their beloved red roses, like the ones currently sitting in a vase on the small table inside Shane's room, a necessary luxury to brighten up the windowless space.

He was probably around seven when his mother explained the symbolism of the annual gift, beginning with the reminder that one could get red roses anywhere, any time of year, but lavender roses didn't do as well in hothouses as their red counterparts, and black were the hardest to cultivate by far. The gesture meant more on this point alone because it required Shane's father to remember his wedding anniversary in advance, so he could order them. The man was bad with dates, and not very punctual, but he never forgot to order his wife's roses, and they said much more than a simple, 'I love you.'

'Once upon a time, a very dull, ordinary English boy fell instantly in love with a very charming, extraordinary Japanese girl. While it was expected that he might fall in love with an unsuitable woman at least once on his European tour, it was not expected that he would ever think of her again once they parted. But, every day since, your father has loved his unconventional bride, and has never been ashamed to say so, even if he does it the same way each year, with a bouquet of lavender and black roses.'

'And you lived happily ever after?' Little Shane asked on that particular day in June, to which his mother replied, 'Not until May tenth,' his birthday.

'The day you were born, the three of us became a family. I had to leave my family to come here. Once you joined us, I had a new family all my own to love, happily ever after.'

"I said no. Did you hear me? May I come in?" Mr. Rozanov asked. Shane remembered the question he'd asked of him, did they know one another, but forgot to speak after the man's prompt reply, lost in thought, thinking of roses, and love, and his family, even though he was currently quite frustrated with them, instead of focusing on the stranger in front of him.

"No," Shane finally answered, remembering that saying no to whoever was at his door was the purpose of his trip to answer it in the first place. He did not wish to invite anyone in, or ever think about his article in the Daily Express, which Mr. Rozanov mentioned, ever again.

Writing it had been nothing more than a fools errand.

"Yes," Mr. Rozanov said, shaking his head. The way he said the word, it was as though he was arguing with Shane.

"You are a difficult man to track down, Mr. Hollander. I wish it was not so late, and finding you did not take all day. But, you are awake, and dressed, so here we are."

Yes, there Mr. Rozanov was, on Shane's doorstep, and there Shane was, in his room in the boarding house, which no one was supposed to know about. Shane didn't want to think about how ridiculous it looked that, while he lived in a very fine home, with very fine people, he also rented a room in a boarding house. How would he ever explain it? Not even the household staff knew. There was even a rumor in the kitchen that Shane had a secret lover. How they jumped to that ridiculous conclusion was beyond his comprehension, but if it meant less pestering about where he was going, or why, Shane didn't care to contradict it.

"I have information about this woman who is pretending to be Grand Duchess Anastasia. You wrote a very good article about her. I read it last night," Mr. Rozanov said.

He took a deep breath. "I am sorry for coming so late, but it was today or never, and I have information for your article."

"My article has, obviously, already been published, and I am confident in the facts of the case as I have presented them. Since this was not an editorial, and I did not offer my own opinion, if or when she is disproven, there will be no need to offer a retraction or dispute-"

"Information for your follow-up piece. Other papers will pick up this story now, during the week. You are not planning longer piece for the Sunday edition?" Mr. Rozanov lobbed his head to the side. "This is a good Sunday edition story."

As unimpressed as he was with his own work, Shane was hoping to publish a follow-up piece. There were a few things he wanted to expound upon, things that were less empirical than the points that made it into his article, but things which he thought were far more interesting and relevant than the letters with the proper postmarks he'd cited. He'd waited for a telephone call all day Monday and Tuesday, since his editor said he would let him know whether or not he could write a longer piece after the first one went to print. Shane had it ready to go. He'd even called home from the boarding house, on the telephone downstairs, at eight o'clock, hoping positive news might have come as soon as he gave up waiting for it.

"Yes," Shane answered, Mr. Rozanov had a point there, "but I'm rather tired," this was a lie, "and in a bad mood," this was not, "and I don't think I'm really in the right frame of mind to take a statement right now. So-"

"I will make it worth your while."

Shane held his tongue. He wanted to ask how.

"I think it's a good story anyways... maybe it will entertain you? Help with this bad mood?" The man said, swirling his hand in the air. "And... it will look very bad for you if I take my information elsewhere... to your competitors, yes?" Mr. Rozanov asked. "I would rather give you the inside scoop, as they say."

It was cold in the hall, Mr. Rozanov looked like he was shivering, and Shane didn't want to continue having a conversation in the doorway, so he stepped back, allowing the stranger into his room.

The man dropped his sack by the door and pulled off his cap, nodding at Shane's desk.

"You work here? Writing?"

"That's my desk, yes." That was obvious.

Mr. Rozanov hummed as Shane pushed the vase in the center of his small dining table to one end, motioning for the man to take a seat on the side closer to the stove, where he never sat.

Shane was relieved to discover that Mr. Rozanov didn't smell like a wet dog. He did smell a bit like wet wool, which was entirely understandable, but he also smelled like cigarettes, spice, no, ginger, and something else, something earthy, warm, and not at all what he was expecting from someone who looked so cold and wet.

He was not dirty, but his clothes were worn, and very simple. Shane deduced Mr. Rozanov was a working man and not very well off, though he could see a book peeking out the top of his sack, he couldn't even consider it a satchel, which was promising. Mr. Rozanov could read, he'd said that too, but it was promising to see he did not simply read the paper.

Shane wanted to bend over and pull the book out a little further, and smiled when, as if on cue, the man's bag shifted against the wall, just a little, but enough that Shane could see he was reading Frankenstein.

Shane loved Frankenstein. He read the book when he was away at school and could recall finishing the last page early in the morning, he'd read it in one sitting overnight, and going to the mirror to regard himself. What was he if not a man, or a boy then, stitched together out of various pieces that didn't belong together? His mother's eyes, his father's thin lips, a third person's large, straight nose, his father's color, his mother's hair, and a brain that did not belong anywhere at all. Shane could recall wishing he was stupid that morning, wishing he didn't feel a sort of kinship to Frankenstein's unholy creation. If he was too stupid to see the parallel, maybe it wouldn't haunt him for the rest of his life, as it was now doing.

Because Mr. Rozanov was very handsome. Calling the mark on his cheek a mole was imprecise. It was a beauty mark.

"You're reading Frankenstein?" Shane asked, watching the man take off his coat and set it over the back of his chair.

"No."

Pity, Shane thought.

"I am finished with it... but maybe you are right. I do want to read it again... before I put it back." He chuckled. "This is a bad first impression to make, but I stole it."

"You stole Frankenstein? From whom?"

"I don't know... the bookshop man who is always very annoying. He thinks he is watching me so careful, yes? Every time I go to his shop, he watches me the whole time, like he thinks I am going to take something.

"And I have never taken something from him before, and I will put it back."

It did not look like a new book. "A used bookstore?"

"Yes. Someone read it before me, and when someone else buys it, it will not matter that an extra person read it before they did. It's a stupid thing to care about at a shop like this, yes? Whether someone else read it for free before a customer paid money for it? I don't know. I have money to buy it, I was just mad this day, and took it instead. He does not like me. I can tell, he does not like me, and he is always asking about the last book I bought. Not asking if I liked it, asking questions to see if I read the thing, like it is so strange... someone like me in his old bookstore, buying old books. What else do you think I am going to do with a fucking book, asshole? And he thinks I am stealing? Okay, maybe he is right now, I don't care. But he thought I was doing this before I did it, so it doesn't matter.

"I might take it back, and pretend it is the first time I am seeing it, and buy it. I don't know. He wants too much, and he will never lower the price, like he does with other customers. But it's a good story, yes? You've read this book?"

Shane nodded. "It was one of my favorites, when I was a boy."

"I wish I had this book when I was a boy. I would've read it to my sisters. I think it would be too much for them to read on their own. Maybe I am not giving them enough credit, but I think most of them would not have made it to the end. But, if I was telling the story? Then they would listen. It's a good story. You can tell a woman wrote this."

"You can?" Shane liked to think he could see that in Shelly's writing too, but he wanted to hear why Mr. Rozanov agreed.

"Yes. Or a homosexual. The way she writes about the creature's body, and how it looks, how looking at him makes people feel, she does this in a way that..." He paused, pointing at Shane as he said, "you can tell she has looked at a man before... and liked it."

That wasn't the reason Shane would've given, but he liked the man's reasoning.

"And you are not the kind of man I was expecting," Mr. Rozanov continued, pointing at Shane again.

Shane turned, rolling his eyes, thinking the same, though he hadn't been expecting anyone at all. He was sorry that he wasn't wearing his glasses, not because he couldn't see the man well without them, they were reading glasses, but because he looked less Asian wearing his glasses. He'd taken them off before attempting to throw his typewriter, so they didn't fall off his face and shatter in the process.

"Pretty... and young, like me," the man continued. "But this is good. We will help each other, me and you. We will get you a proper desk at your newspaper. I know you are not on payroll yet. You are freelance, yes?"

Shane supposed this was true. He'd written his article on Anastasia Romanov on spec.

"So, I will help you with your next article, so they will put you on payroll, and give you a desk, so you do not need to work at home."

"Oh. I don't really write newspaper articles.

"I mean I wrote one," Shane continued, in response to Mr. Rozanov's cocked brows. "But I prefer fiction. I don't know why I even wrote this one. I'm not very interested in journalism. I just had a bee in my bonnet about her... Anna Anderson. That's not her real name either, by the way, but it's what people are calling her."

"Explain this."

"When she-"

"No," Mr. Rozanov interrupted. "This is a saying, yes? Bee in your bonnet? For idea... buzzing in your head?"

Shane smiled, nodding. "I don't need to explain it. That's exactly what it means, a very loud idea buzzing in your head... one you can't swat away. Or, maybe you do swat it away, but it keeps coming back to annoy you, to where you can't concentrate on anything else."

Mr. Rozanov put the cigarette back in his mouth, resting it on his lower lip as he spoke. It bobbed up and down as he began to say, "well, this is a good start, yes?"

Actually, yes, Shane agreed with that statement.

This was a good start. Despite his assertion to the contrary, Mr. Rozanov was making a very good impression on Shane.

"You will get a job at your newspaper, with a regular paycheck, so you can afford to tend to your bees," which made Shane smile, "and, in return, you will-"

The man pulled out the chair with his foot, causing it to scrape loudly against the floor. Shane's room in the boarding house was quite small. There was a stove, not a proper kitchen, and it was only just the one room, the shared bathrooms were directly across the hall, but it was clean, and well furnished, and tidy, and-

"I'm not sure you're supposed to smoke here," Shane interrupted, pantomiming smoking quickly as Mr. Rozanov took his seat and opened his matchbook again. "There's signs."

"Where?" He asked, looking around the room.

"Downstairs? And in the hall?" Shane said, sounding unsure, though he was very sure no one was allowed to smoke in any of the rooms of the boarding house. It was why there were two places available when Shane took his up. It was a newer rule then, made by the new owner, and two people left because of it.

"Okay," Mr. Rozanov said, holding up his lit match. Shane watched the flame creeping closer to his fingertips. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth with his other hand and pursed his lips, puffing out the match at the last possible second.

He tucked his cigarette back behind his ear before asking, "did you meet with her? This woman? Anastasia's doppelgänger? In Germany? You described her as though you saw her," Mr. Rozanov continued, nodding at the chair across from the one he occupied.

"I saw her, yes, a little over a week ago, in Germany. I speak German," Shane added. "But I was unable to interview her directly."

Shane shook his head. Why was he the one answering questions?

He inhaled slowly, Shane did not sigh, grabbing a pad and pen from off his desk before he pulled out the other chair across from Mr. Rozanov. He had to walk around the head of the table to do so, and looked at the man again as he did. Even seated he looked quite large but he was not quite so imposing now that he was seated.

Shane had to give Mr. Rozanov credit for being polite, his late night intrusion notwithstanding, since he did ask if he could toss his coat on the ground, in front of the stove, something he did quite literally, when Shane agreed. The navy jumper underneath it, with a high folded collar, was tight against his skin, simply because he was so large.

Mr. Rozanov ruffled his hair, light, with a curl to it, before he ran one finger under the collar of his sweater, pulling it away from his very thick neck.

Even when Shane could only see his face in the hall, while the man was bundled in layers of wet wool, he looked handsome, no, beautiful. His face was severe, with light eyes, sharply angled brows, and a slight bump in his nose that was much more interesting than an even slope. But, even if Shane had only seen his lips, he would've known the man was beautiful.

He wanted to poke the mole on his cheek with his pen, for some reason.

"You heard her speak?" He asked, causing the mole to become a moving target. "And she does not even speak Russian?"

"I didn't speak to her directly, but I did get the chance to listen to her conversing with others... in German. I don't know whether she can speak Russian, I can only say that she didn't. But we were in Germany, and that's a rather common language to know. I mean, I would assume any member of the Russian nobility would be able to speak multiple languages, and-"

"Ah. You were eavesdropping. Do you speak Russian?" Mr. Rozanov asked.

"No. But, like I said, she was speaking German, and I do speak that."

"That is not why I asked. My English is not the best. It would be easier for me to speak Russian."

"Oh." Shane now felt sorry for himself because he'd never learned the language.

"And you believe her? What you overheard was convincing? The people she was speaking with... they believe her too?" Mr. Rozanov inquired, asking yet another set of questions when, typically, it was the writer asking questions of his subject, not the other way around.

Shane was never anyone's subject.

"With no proof, you believe her story?" Mr. Rozanov asked again.

"Well, if you'd read the whole article-"

"I did fucking do this," the man interjected. "You said she had letters, which you have seen, and you seemed to think this was good proof. Anyone can write a letter and say it is from anyone else. This is not proof of anything other than the existence of a person, who is maybe not even her, who can read and write letters."

"They were postmarked," Shane added quickly. "Every letter was postmarked from exactly the right place, from exactly where they were meant to have been sent, and at exactly the time she is said to have received them."

"You know how they do this? Make postmarks? It's like printing press blocks where they change the date. I do not know the word for this in English, but you ink-"

"A stamp."

"Ah. Yes. Okay. Stamp. But this is very easy to fake. You do not even need to have this stamp yourself. You find a man who can make stamps. If you have a printing from the real thing, then he can copy the stamp. And, if you find a man who can write the letters for you, on the right kind of paper, then the thing is done. Convincing facsimile, yes? It's easy to do."

"Did you help her with this, Mr. Rozanov?"

"No," the man said, pulling his chin back, making a face. "I do not know this fucking woman. That is how I know she is a fake... because I do not know this fucking woman. Also, Anastasia is dead. Alexi and one of the girls, maybe her, were taken somewhere else after they died... but they are dead. They died all at the same time, the girls, the boy, and their parents."

"Taken somewhere else? When?" Shane asked. "The family, the whole Romanov family, was murdered in-"

"In one room, yes, at the same time... the whole Romanov line snuffed out. Not quickly though," like Mr. Rozanov's match. "They did not hire good men for this, men who could do the job quickly and well, men who's job it is to kill people for crimes. They used normal soldiers, men who were hoping they would be the rare exception of a man in this position, who never needed to kill another."

"Executioners?" Shane suggested.

"Yes. The men who did this? They were normal soldiers... not even normal soldiers. They replaced most of the men there, after the family arrived, with foreigners. Mercenaries are less sympathetic," he added.

Shane knew that.

He didn't think most people knew that.

"People like saying Anastasia escaped. I have heard stories like this before. I don't know why they think this sister is the one who deserved life the most, it is Maria, but it's a good story to tell, that the youngest girl, maybe the most innocent, was spared. Still wrong though. Most innocent was Maria. She was entirely pure, not Anastasia. Anastasia was the most spoiled. They even let her bring her little dog with her to Ekaterinburg. She even brought Jimmy with her, to the basement. I believe this. She never went anywhere without that fucking dog.

"No," Mr. Rozanov said, smiling. "Sorry. Jimmy was a good dog. I like dogs, but he was a good dog. She had a different dog when she was little, but he died. Jimmy was a better dog than Shvybzik. Someone gave Jimmy to her sister, a man, but she did not really want him. She liked that this man gave her a gift, but she did not really want a pet. Jimmy liked Anastasia better, so she gave him to her.

"I like this... secondhand dog. Dogs are good like this. They know where they are wanted.

"Do you like dogs, Mr. Hollander? Or, am I going on about dogs, and you are bored, and hearing this poor little dog died with his mistress is not..." Mr. Rozanov twirled his hand in the air. "Not moving?"

"I like dogs. I don't have a dog, but I like dogs. I'm more of a cat person. But, that is moving... that her little dog died with her. What kind of dog was Jimmy? Do you know?"

Shane knew, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.

"No. Small dog, big floppy ears, black and tan, and also white," which was true. Shane had seen a photograph of Anastasia and her little dog.

If he'd seen it though, anyone could've.

"Her old dog was only white and black. Jimmy had tan also. He was cute, very good dog, not lazy. You could play with him. He was not a lazy dog, who did nothing but sleep and whine for food. I should've taken him with me, given him to some child, maybe Alexi's playmate. He would've been a good thirdhand dog too. Maybe sad for a little bit, but he was smart. He would've figured things out after a while.

"I also like cats," Mr. Rozanov added. "There were no cats in the palace, not upstairs with the family, but I like cats. Cats are a good sign. You see a cat, even upstairs, in nice rooms? Then you know there are no mice. I don't like mice."

Shane didn't like mice either, and, for a moment, he thought this was a nice sign, that his guest took the time to mention he liked cats, and that neither of them liked mice, until he remembered no one liked mice. Maybe some people did, people did keep them as pets, but only strange people, people who didn't have the patience to train a dog or cat, and liked having a pet they could set aside somewhere, when they didn't want to bother with them anymore.

"And these two bodies, Alexi and whoever? They were taken elsewhere after, on a separate cart, after it was done. The thinking was...

"I have this on good account, Mr. Hollander, from one of the soldiers who was there," Mr. Rozanov continued. "The thinking was, if one cart of bodies was intercepted, maybe the other could still get away. Maybe, if the bodies of their parents and the big girls were found, someone could say the little ones were rescued... or moved. If they found the little ones, they could say they died of some sickness, believable, while the others were spared."

That made sense. Shane hadn't heard that before, but that made sense.

"It was a stupid plan. The whole thing was a stupid plan... murdering a whole family like this. It was not even a plan. No one was thinking. No one knew what was happening. It was... uh... a rash decision, yes? The man in charge in Ekaterinburg's rash decision maybe? I don't know. The whole thing was chaos."

Mr. Rozanov flicked his chin up.

"It's how I got away. Little Ilya was forgotten in the chaos."

"You're a deserter?" Shane asked.

Ilya Rozanov, who was in no way little, and could not have been much smaller four years prior smiled, shaking his head.

"No. I am a Romanov. A bastard one, different mother, but a Romanov, not a soldier. I gave you a fake name just now. I cannot use Romanov anymore."

One letter different? Not much of an alias, Shane thought.

The man smirked. "They forgot about little me for a little bit. My friend helped me escape, one of the soldiers who was not foreign, a man who had been there the whole time we were in Ekaterinburg."

Shane shook his head. "Why would a soldier help you escape if you're supposedly-"

"We were lovers."

Shane squeezed both of his knees under the table.

"Why would you say that?" He asked.

Mr. Rozanov shrugged. "Because you asked me a question, why would anyone help me? I answered. The man who helped me was my lover, a soldier. He was on his way out anyways... maybe this is why he did it, I don't know. His father was an important man, and his son wrote to him, and said he could not stay any longer.

"Because of me, I think, because we were lovers. Maybe he didn't know what was going to happen, I don't think he did, but he knew it was nothing good."

The man sighed, closing his eyes as he shook his head.

"He should have already left. It was decided I could leave too because his father was a famous general, and he asked for this. Maybe the Bolsheviks did not want to upset this man... his father, an admiral. Maybe they simply did not care about me? I don't know. He should've already been gone, the man who helped me, Sasha, but I was worried about leaving. The girls knew he was leaving soon, and asked if I was going with him. Instead of saying yes, I said no, so Sasha didn't go either. Maybe I should've... I don't know. I was not there in the end anyways, so what difference would it make if I left a few days earlier?

"I should've never been there in the first place. It would've been better if I was never there, for me, I think, but my sister asked, she was so scared, so I-"

"Anastasia?" Shane asked.

"No. We were not that close, me and her. Maria asked me. We were the closest two. I would not have come for anyone else, especially not Poppa."

"Tsar Nicholas?" Shane asked, wondering how Mr. Rozanov expected him to believe he was the man's bastard son. Shane had never heard anything about a bastard son, older than the man's youngest, final, male child.

Making that claim took guts, though Shane had to ask himself why the man would say he was spared because he was the lover of one of the soldiers keeping the family imprisoned, if he was making his story up.

That was not something people usually admitted to, and certainly not so easily. Mr. Rozanov said he was spared by a lover, a male lover, just as casually as he said he was the bastard son of the Tsar.

"Yes. I am not related to that woman, thank God. It is wrong to speak ill of the dead, but it is wrong to hate a fucking child, so I think this cancels out, yes?"

Mr. Rozanov hummed. "Can I take off my shoes? They are soaked. I will leave my socks on. They will dry if I turn my chair a little bit... towards the fire."

Lovely! Shane was hoping the man would shift in his seat, so he could stare at the mole on his cheek.

Shane told himself this was sarcasm.

"You want to hear this story, yes?" Mr. Rozanov asked. "We will be here a little while, I think."

"Well, I know the ending now, so I don't see how I have much choice," Shane began, knowing he would always wonder what else the man had to say if he stopped him. "The bastard son of Tsar Nicholas, coming forward to discredit-"

"No," Mr. Rozanov interrupted. "I am not doing that... coming forward. I don't want anyone to know who I am. I am not looking for fame."

"What are you looking for then?" Shane asked, quickly followed by, "I can't pay you."

"Okay. Did I ask for money?"

Fuck, no, he hadn't.

And he was waiting, brows up, staring at Shane, fingers drumming on the table.

"No, you didn't, sorry. But, if you don't want money, then-"

"Look at me," Mr. Rozanov instructed. "Of course I want money, but I do not want you to pay me for this, no. Obviously, I want money. I will take money, if offered... which I am not expecting. But coming forward? No. There is a saying, off the record, yes? This story is off the record.

"I can't say I am only telling it to you so you believe me when I say I do not know that fucking woman, but I think you will believe me after, and understand why I am so fucking furious about this."

"About... what, exactly?" Shane asked.

"This fucking Anna woman, who is not even fucking Russian!" His guest shouted. "Look-"

Shane was still looking at him.

"I could do this, yes? I could say, 'I am Ilya Romanov, bastard son of the Tsar, and I do not know this fucking woman.' I could say this, someone would probably back me up, but then I would be the same as her, yes? Not exactly the same, I am telling the truth, but I would be doing it for the same reason, fucking money. I don't want this. Money, yes, I want that, but this is a terrible idea. You see young men claiming to be Alexi? This would be easier thing to do, yes? Because he was still a boy when he died, so it would not be so weird he looks different now?"

That was a good point.

"No. No one ever claims to be Alexi. You know why?"

Shane did not know why. Now that Mr. Rozanov mentioned it, that seemed like a better con.

"Because it's dangerous! Even here, in London? Dangerous! There are many Russians in London, many, many Russians in London, and not all of them are from the right side of things. It would be dangerous for a man to do this. A man would want more than money, yes? A man would want... maybe not to go back to Russia, but he would be looking for more than money. A wife, obviously, a good wife, a good marriage, as they say, and... I don't know... respect.

"Power," Mr. Rozanov corrected, raising his brows again. "Men always want this... power. Power to do what they want, go where they want, say what they want, and not be questioned."

He shook his head. "I do not want this. I have never had it, not really, and I do not want it now. I am lucky to be alive, yes? I would not trade my freedom for something so small as power, no. My sisters are all dead? This is what I would trade my freedom for, having them back, and this is why I am saying 'that fucking woman,' because doing this? Pretending to be my little sister? She is taking what little I have left of her and turning it into something ugly. She was a brat, Grand Duchess Anastasia was a brat, but she was a good girl. She would hate this! I do not need to wonder what she would say, she was never shy about telling me to do things. She would say, 'Ilyushka! Do something!'

"So, that is what I am doing... something. I don't know what else to do other than tell someone else who people might listen to. They will not listen to Ilya Rozanov, and Ilya Romanov no longer exists."

Shane loved this answer. He loved that it seemed as though Mr. Rozanov had thought this through, and he loved that this was the conclusion he came to. Shane didn't know if he could actually help, it wasn't as if he had any power, and as far as he knew there was no follow-up piece about to go to print in the Sunday paper, but he could certainly try.

He smiled, thinking the real Anastasia Romanov would probably shout at him to do something too, especially knowing his article, which he thought was neutral, and certainly not positive, was being viewed as such by careful readers. His mother was a very careful reader, though she was not an unbiased one. She listened to her son far more than most people, but not even she saw the meaning Shane wished his article had conveyed.

"Okay then? You like this answer?" The other man tapped his boot on the floor. "This is part of the story too... I think. I can take my shoes off then? Settle in... if you want to hear it?"

"Sure," Shane said, watching the man bend over in his chair to unlace his boots. He barely stood up after taking them off, squatting as he set them in front of the stove.

"I like your house shoes. Do you have second pair, old pair maybe, that you do not mind me wearing? I will just stick my toes in, not stretch them out."

"Sorry, I don't. You can have mine, if you'd like."

"No. It's difficult to listen when you are cold. It's why everyone in Russia is so hard headed," Mr. Rozanov said, laughing. "I am fine. Do not worry about me. Thank you for your hospitality."

Shane told himself, when he next got up, to add fuel to the fire. His room was not cold, but his guest was.

"It's hard being warm when your feet are cold, yes?" Mr. Rozanov asked, with his back turned, as he crouched by the stove for a moment, holding out his hands in front of himself, fingers splayed.

When he took his seat again, he asked, "do you have anything to eat?"

"No. Just tea and coffee. I don't really keep food in my room."

"Nothing?"

"Biscuits?" Shane didn't know why he phrased this as a question, other than the looming feeling that he should question everything Mr. Rozanov said.

He did have biscuits.

"Kekse?" The man asked, in German. "I will take this. Something warm to drink would be nice too, thank you. Coffee or tea... it's not important," he said, waving a hand between the two of them. "I will take whatever I am offered. Make some for me? And you, if you have two cups."

Shane had two cups, but only two.

"I can offer you vodka in return. I have some in my bag. Good vodka, not the swill Englishmen drink."

Shane got up, shaking his head. "No, thank you. I'm not much of a drinker."

"Ah, good. All for me then. It's okay? Me having some? I don't have much... just my flask. I will not get drunk from this amount, but it will warm me... from the inside."

"Go right ahead. I'm used to it, though we're not supposed to drink in our rooms either. So, please, if you would be so kind, only in moderation," Shane said, though he was not at all used to sitting down for a drink with a homosexual. "I mean, I'm not against alcohol, or anything like that."

"Not a teetotaler?" Mr. Rozanov asked, giggling as he rose from the table, footsteps still heavy without his boots, and dug through his wet sack, by the door. "I love this word, teetotaler. It sounds like something a little boy would say."

"No. I mean it's a fun word, sure," Shane was almost laughing himself because he'd always thought it was a very adorable word for a very boring concept. "I don't like alcohol, but just because I don't like it, doesn't mean no one else should."

"Ah. Okay. I do not think this way. I don't like tinned fish. I don't want anyone eating tinned fish around me. It fucking smells so bad! Old fish that is spoiled smells better than that shit. I don't know how people put something that smells like that in their mouths."

Shane was happy the man's back was turned, thinking about the other things Mr. Rozanov, presumably, did put in his very pretty mouth.

Did that smell bad to him?

Did Mr. Rozanov not want people consuming that around him?

Shane didn't think his own body smelled bad. Sometimes, he would bring his hand to his face, covering his nose and mouth, after, or during the time when he was-

"Vodka doesn't smell though, so I don't mind," he said, shaking the question of whether, were he to ever touch another man that way, if he would enjoy the scent of-

"Why do English people always say this... vodka doesn't smell? Maybe crap water spirit English bartenders pass off as vodka, okay, I see this. And not in a cup, fine, I will agree to this too. But, if a man has been drinking vodka, and you are close enough to their mouth to know this, you can smell it on their breath. Taste it too."

"Think the same goes for a woman," Shane said, filling his kettle at the sink. He did not have a private bath, but he did have a little sink in his room.

"I mean, if a woman has been drinking vodka, and you are close enough to-"

"You know this?" Mr. Rozanov asked. "You have been close enough to a woman drinking vodka to know this? Or you are just taking my word for it, as they say?"

"Coffee or tea?" Shane asked, instead of answering yet another question. "I don't have a preference myself."

Mr. Rozanov shook his head, waving one hand at Shane. "Whichever is better... better quality. Good coffee is always better than bad tea, and good tea is always better than bad coffee."

Shane was certain his tea was much better than his coffee.

"Green or black? Tea, I mean."

"Oh. There is a choice? Green. Always green. Even bad green tea is good. I have had many bad cups of black tea, and never a bad green one."

"I should warn you, my green tea has ginger in it. It's not that strong but-"

"I love ginger. Thank you," Mr. Rozanov said as Shane set the sleeve of biscuits in front of him. "How many can I have?"

"As many as you'd like."

"Thank you. These will be fun to munch. They are crunchy? Chocolate?" He asked.

Shane hummed, nodding as he measured out the tea for his pot while his guest examined the unopened sleeve of biscuits he kept in his room for emergencies.

"Yum. I have a sweet tooth. Thank you, Hollander. This is fine too... calling you this? Hollander? Or, do I need to say mister every time, so you know I see you as a man?"

"Hollander is fine, Rozanov."

"Ah, yes, good job. You said the A. Englishmen have trouble with Russian names. They make all the A's into E's or I's. Rozanov," he said deliberately. "Nikolayev. Romanov. There is an A in these names. Maybe Englishmen are all terrible at spelling? I don't know."

Shane was not a particularly good speller.

He sat back down, waiting for their water to boil. He was tempted to ask for a sip of the vodka after all. He had no desire to have a drink with the man, getting intoxicated would be a very bad idea, but the thought of putting his mouth on his flask was not unappealing, and he didn't want to seem inhospitable after his guest complimented his hospitality.

"So, where should I begin?" Rozanov asked.

"Well," Shane had to phrase this carefully. "I did research my article, and-"

"Can you explain this word to me... research?" There was a bite of biscuit in Rozanov's mouth as he interrupted to ask Shane another question.

"Sure. It's like what you described earlier... about me. You looked into me," and Shane did have several questions about how Rozanov was able to locate him, but they weren't very important. His guest tracked him down, and now he was in his room. How he'd done so didn't change what he'd done.

"So, I looked into this Anastasia story." It was harder to explain this word than Shane imagined without using the word research again. "I investigated. I looked at all the evidence I could find, and talked to people who are closer to the situation than I am, and tried to uncover any factual information that exists."

"Okay. Thank you," Rozanov replied, without saying more.

It took Shane a moment for him to realize the man was waiting for him to go on, instead of launching into his own narrative.

"So, I researched my article as much as I could, from here and in Germany, and conversed with the people available for me to speak to. And I went to an event where the supposed Miss Romanov was in attendance, and listened to her, but nowhere did I come across any information about a half brother to the Romanov children."

"Ah. Well, it's difficult for me to begin this story there because it starts before I was born. My mother-"

Apparently, he was going to try anyways.

"My mother was a lover of Tsar Nicholas, and fell pregnant by him during a time when the Tsarina was not with child. She went away to have a baby, in secret. It died before it was time, but it would not have come much sooner than me. So, the possibility existed, in my father's mind, of passing me off as their son, once I was born, if I was a boy. Passing me off as the child she was known to have been carrying, yes? They did not say she was pregnant... but enough people knew. He had no sons then, and we do not have woman rulers in Russia... like in England. Not anymore at least. Maybe people are too nervous after Catherine. She was close enough, maybe? I don't know. My father needed a son, and I was the son of the Tsar, which is how things with inheritance are always decided, yes? Through sons?

"But they did not follow through with this plan after all, even though I came out looking like I could be his, since I was. It was too late though... too late to take back the choice to keep me. My mother left a few days after I was born... gave me to the royal nurses to suckle. She left with a large sum of money, and assurances her family, she had a husband and a step-son... her husband's son only. He is not another half sibling to me, not hers, but maybe she missed him anyways? I don't know. My father promised her they would all be better off if she left me with him.

"My father said they would raise me anyways, even after they decided not to pass me off as the child who died before he was born. His wife," Rozanov didn't call her by name, "refused. She said she would keep trying to have a son, which was a promise she did keep. Anastasia is one year younger than me, and even after that she kept trying, so finally Alexi was born. Maybe my mother thought he could raise me better than she could though, even with a little money, like he always gave to his bastards' mothers? I don't know why she agreed... it's not important. She left me there anyways, and never came back for me, not even after they changed their minds about who I would be. She went back to her husband and his son. They were pig farmers in Sochi.

"I may have seen her once or twice in my life, from afar," Rozanov continued, taking out another biscuit from the sleeve. "I don't know, but, if I did, I did not know who she was. Her cousin, distant cousin, worked in the kitchen of one of the palaces where we would go, when I was a very little boy. Sometimes, if no one was there to care, she would tell me stories about the two of them as girls, or about my other family, and how they were doing.

"I don't know. I don't think this is important to my story."

Shane got up to get the kettle as it began to whistle, setting it aside as he leaned against the wall by the stove.

"So, you were raised alongside your Romanov siblings?"

"Yes. Always. I did not go to public events, or if I did, I did not go as Ilya Romanov." He chuckled. "A few times, I dressed up like a serving boy to go to their parties. This is not such a hard job to fake. My friends in the kitchen were happy to help me do it. But, I was raised with my siblings, yes. I was very close to my sisters. They were the only children I knew. When cousins came to visit, I was always kept away, and I did not go to school, or with the others on outings. I did not leave the grounds often... for any reason. Maybe a country outing, sometimes, just to help keep the girls entertained, but that's all.

"When we were taken away," Rozanov continued, "it was very hard on my sisters, being locked away inside a house, even a nice house, with nice grounds. Smaller than what we were all used to, but still nice. They were... restless... I think is the word. And they looked to me for assurance everything would be alright because I was used to such confinement. I was freer there than ever before though, since no one cared then if people knew who I was, and the people holding us were not very bothered by the family bastard. I was helpful to them... calming the girls, and keeping the other men in line."

Rozanov sighed. "I could not give my sisters my assurance though, even if I tried, and I would've been wrong to do so, if I had.

"Aren't you going to brew the tea, Hollander? Or are we to have hot water only?" The man asked.

"Oh. I need to let it cool a little. If you pour water fresh off the boil on green tea it wilts the leaves too much, or something like that. It makes it bitter. You have to wait a few minutes for the best cup. I should've taken the kettle off before it started to whistle. Sorry for the delay. I was distracted."

"Why are you apologizing for such small thing as a tiny delay? Delay because of me? What? You have better things to do than listen to me tonight? Not me," Rozanov answered, before Shane could reply. "I think this is the most interesting thing I have done in months, Hollander, knocking on a strange man's door to tell him my story. I have only done this once before, and I don't think I will ever do it again. Maybe, if I was in love, I would want my person to know me..."

Rozanov ticked his head to the side, almost sighing.

"But maybe it' s a good idea... telling someone now. I hope so, since I am already doing it."