St. Petersburg, Russia, October, 1933

"It is past your bedtime, Sergei." my voice was stern as I looked down at the small figure in front of me. His pale skin coating his small frame blushed deeply, a small impish smile that dared across his face, reminding me of his father, my brother. His twig- like wrists twisted around each other before his fingers pushed to crack his knuckles, a habit he picked up from me. Mama rather detestes the sound, as does Mashka, but I never mind and continue on with the habit. If Mama and Papa had their smoking habits, I suppose I can have one of my own.

"But Auntie Nastasia, sleeping is so boring. I want to play!" He giggled. Just like Alexei, who also would try and escape the nursery for his toys. I refuse to allow it.

"Sergei, you must rest. You are a growing young man, the future tsar. You don't want your future subjects to see their tsarevich with purple bags under his eyes, like Grandpere Nicky, now do you?" I replied, with a small but sad smile. Mentioning my father so casually was not something I am ready to do just yet. After all, it's only been five months.

Since what? Oh, my, you haven't been here in five years, no? Well that's a shame. You've certainly missed a lot.

Five years ago, Alexei died. We had a long and tedious grieving period for our tsarevich. It was heart- wrenching, the process. But, we pulled through like the strong Romanovs we are, and always will be. Good things did come from it, nonetheless. I adopted Sergei, the late Alexei and Ileana's only son. Tatiana became tsarevna, with Sergei right behind her in line for the throne.

Olga, back in Romania, took Igor with her. He found refuge in a fine home in the city of Bucharest, the capital of Romania, not far from Olga's grand palace. Carol became King of Romania in 1930, making Olga his queen. He continued his affairs and parties, nonetheless. It meant nothing to Olga, who was with Igor anyway. She still cares tirelessly for their children, who viewed Igor as "Mama's friend." Carol doesn't care enough to know what the children are told. He does worse things.

The public is well aware of Olga's affair. They also have a good idea of Carol's affairs, and so they sympathize with Olga more than Carol. Carol refuses to acknowledge the affair in any way, and so Igor, who rose through the Romanian ranks fast, partially by the help of Olga, is not allowed to attend official events, like balls or galas hosted by the King and Queen.

But, in private does Carol spite Olga for the affair? Certainly. Whenever they are alone in private, he berates her mercilessly. It is rare that he cares to be alone with Olga, but when he is, he scolds her for being a "whore." Olga has informed us of such arguments. Mama always purses her lips when the topic comes up. She is appalled by the affair, but Olga doesn't mind, who is just trying to be happy. As much as they love each other, the tension between Mama and her eldest is strong. Olga doesn't mind either Carol or Mama. She is finally happy, and she has the public on her side. I, however, would rather enjoy smacking Carol hard enough he would never have the strength nor courage to open his mouth to call my Olya a whore again. I cannot slap my brother in law, as much as I'd like to, unfortunately. If that happened, then tension would grow between Mama and I as well.

Before I discuss the remainder of my sisters, I must inform you of current deaths. Two years after Alexei died, the time came for Grandmere as well. She was growing weak and exhausted in her late seventies. She was eighty when she died, after a long and successful life. Papa was devastated by the loss of his mother, with whom he was very close. He clung to her in his youth more than Grandpere Alexander, who found Papa "girly." We had yet another grieving period, almost as devastating as the last. The Russian people truly loved Grandmere, who embraced her new home of Russia with open arms when she married Grandpere. She never liked that Mama did not do the same, but instead secluded herself in Tsarskoe Selo, where I was raised.

Mama appeared to grieve, but something felt different. What was this? Grandmere was indeed right about Rasputin being a fraud, who Mama had arrested. Maybe she was grieving for the years she wasted in quarrels with Grandmere over a peasant?

I was devastated by the loss of Grandmere. Of course, she loved Alexei especially, as his godmother and his being heir to the throne Grandmere was once on, but she did love us, her granddaughters, very much. In the winter we would have luncheons at her palace. I seldom liked the food she served, food that Mama didn't enjoy and never served, except for formal events. However, we would play piano for her and in the summer we would visit her on her Polar Star, her yacht, and visit her in the Crimea. For my thirteenth birthday, she gave me a silver music box, crafted by Faberge. It had a ballerina and played Waltz of the Flowers by Tchaikovsky. It is on my bedside table to this day, and I refuse to ever part with it. I consider it my favorite gift I've ever received. So, yes, parting with my Grandmere was painful, like losing my brother. Grief will never be rid of, like the scent of oil in a car garage. It's choking whenever you reenter, no matter how many times.

Five months ago brought more tears. It brought pain in a form no one was expecting.

Lung cancer.

German scientists recently discovered smoking causes lung cancer. But, these were Germans. How could my father trust them?

He was warned to quit his smoking when the doctors found a blockage in his lung. They worked with the German scientists and insisted he quit. Yet he did not. He was too stubborn.

The end came quickly. Each visit was gut- wrenching. I couldn't bear it. His once vibrant laugh was now poisoned with hacking coughs, suppressed by a handkerchief and Tatiana's fusses. She too wanted him to quit smoking. She had been working to give it up as well, understanding the German's discoveries, since she was a nurse in the Great War. Olga agreed when she came to visit and spoke with the doctors. She gave up her cigarettes and stole them out of Igor's mouth, extinguishing them immediately. She adored Papa, and was not about to see herself or Igor go down the same path. She was afraid of her children picking up the habit, as she did. She informed Carol, only to be ignored. "Fine," she said, when giving us an overview of their discussion. "If he doesn't want to listen, then he is at fault. Papa did the same damn thing and look where we are now." It was seldom she'd bring up Papa's smoking faults in such a manner, but it was appropriate, if not uncalled for.

Mashka was never a smoker. She detested the scent despite growing up around it. Louis smoked, of course, and even when their children asked for a cigarette, he gave them. It was a perfect way to spite his wife, which he did often. Even once at a family gathering, when Mashka murmured "no" to her children's request, he, in front of the whole family, passed a pack to his children. Mashka would never lash out at him, so she remained silent. Later that evening, in my bedroom, she attempted to kick down her demons of fury.

"I cannot believe he would do such a thing, in front of our family. He even knows what's become of Papa from those damn things. Now he has the nerve to give our children the very things that widowed Mama, right in front of her." She paced quickly.

"Let me go talk to him." I stood, going to the door.

"Nastya- no. That will be worse. Please just stay with me tonight." she pleaded.

"Alright," I said reluctantly. I would later go. But now, back to Papa.

He didn't go like we would have wanted. His children weren't with him. It was around two in the morning, in his sleep, next to the asleep Mama. Mama woke instantly, hearing his breathing even more strained than usual, but she was too late. By the time she was cradling his head, the breathing stopped.

The night was a blur. I woke at 2:30 to a ghostly gasp and a stifled sob. Shura burst into my room and entombed me in a shawl, dragging me out of bed. A call came to my palace, and the phone was practically ringing off the hook by the time Shura, the head of my household and my childhood governess, got to it.

"No, no!" I shrieked as I was pulled from my sheets. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I crumpled like paper in sobs. "He's not gone," I wheezed, about to hyperventilate. "He's not gone." I grasped the hem of Shura's night robe. I heard the shake in her inhale as she fell to her knees, crossing herself. "Lord, let him be at peace. Let him be at peace, let him be at peace..." she prayed over and over. After a moment of my weeping and her prayers, I didn't hear her prayers. I thought she fell asleep on her knees. I peered up from my mess of my composure on the floor, to look at her face. The only light in the room was from the moon, haunting the room with it's glow.

Her eyes flashed open sharply after a moment. "We need to get you to the palace." She said shortly. She brought me to my feet, although my legs felt like pudding. She grabbed my suitcase and stuffed shawls and skirts and blouses and next thing I knew I was in my motorcar to endure the journey to my father's deathbed.

"What about Sergei?" I asked as Shura climbed into the car.

"Would you like him to come now? He could come with his governess tomorrow." she replied, dark circles under her grey eyes.

"He'll stay with his governess tonight." I replied and we raced to Tsarskoe Selo.