And Trotsky’s fucking his wife

And so I stood at Alexei’s bedside, he has much of his father in him, and oh so much of his mother. Fair and fragile as she is, but with a frame that I can already see will grow to be that of a strong man. Botkin was railing away about my presence, and muttering something about leeches, but thankfully the lovely tzarina hushed him and sent him from the room. His voice was ever so annoying.

I knew instinctively or perhaps by way of my Gift that the injury was in the boy’s head. I also knew that the treatments that Ygevny had been using had probably exacerbated the child’s condition (aspirin of all things... he might as well have been feeding him vodka... any blood thinner is a hazard to a hemophiliac). I laid my hand on his head and called upon the belief that was present in Sanct Peterburg and began to take the child’s injuries from him. It was a struggle, the most difficult healing I had done up until that point. It was as if I were fighting **** herself, and was brought to mind of the tale of The Soldier and ****. Oh, to have that soldier’s nosebag at this moment.

I sat down exhausted, and nodded to the tzarina, “The boy will live. Just make sure that fat doctor leave him in peace.”

The change in the boy was visible, color in his cheeks, easier breathing. Alexandra began to cry, thanking my and God over and over. I just smiled. All I wanted now was sleep.

I was given a room in the palace. My new post, spiritual advisor to the tzarina carried that as well as other benefits. After much pomp and circumstance, I was finally given leave to rest my now exceedingly weary bones.

Just as I drifted off to sleep I was roused by a knock at the door. Answering I looked out and saw nothing; I was about to turn and reclaim my spot on the bed when I heard a small cough from level with my waist. A glance down showed the pretty little brunette child from earlier, Ana.

“Thank you, _Starets.” _Her words were a barely audible whisper, this 12 year old girl, holding in her hand a small blue flower. She held it up to me, a gift.

“It is I who should thank you, Grand Duchess Anastasia,” I said, dropping to a knee and accepting the flower “It was you and your dog that gave me the courage to heal your brother.”

She dimpled prettily and curtsied, then turned and hurried off down the corridor, her petticoats flying with the speed of her escape. I just smiled and shook my head before closing the door and returning to the bed.

I was again about to find my way to sleep when again a knock came at the door.