The staff was weeping when we arrived. Their composure was gone. I wasn't one to care. We will all be mourning, and our servants are humans, too. The chauffeur, who has worked for us since I was a child, had tears in his eyes as he helped me out of the motorcar and took it to the garage.

I darted to the bedroom, but the door was locked. I heard prayers and sobs inside. Mama was begging the Lord to bring Papa back through her tears.

"She hasn't let anyone in." Dr. Botkin said mournfully. He has been growing thinner every time I see him, and more pale. He needs to retire, to relax after years of serving the Tsar and his family.

"Not even me? There must be a spare key to the door." I asked, horrified.

He shook his head. "There is, but we are not allowed to use it without either of their Majesties' consent. The Tsar could order a door the Tsarina locked open, if he wanted, and vice versa. But-" he looked down. The Tsar isn't here to give orders. My head snapped up. "What about-"

"Me?" Tatiana's voice cut through the grim quiet and Mama's sobs. I whirled around to face the new Tsarina, my sister. Her face was pale and her cheeks hollow, her blue eyes clouded. Dmytri stood behind her, bags heavy under his eyes, almost looking as though he would burst into tears. He was close to Papa.

Dr. Botkin looked dumbfounded. "Well, technically, you could." he said quietly, then bent his back to lean into a bow. This was our new sovereign's first appearance. Immediately, orders were sent to the head of the household and a key to the bedroom was brought. Tatiana paced outside the door as we waited. Don't say anything, Nastya, I thought to myself. It would make it worse.

Once the key was retrieved, we crept into the room.

The stomping of Sergei's feet snapped me from my thoughts. I had been doing it again, replaying the death of my father in my head. "Don't stomp, Sergei." I glanced at him.

"Don't daydream, Auntie." he replied, a challenging aura in his impish smile. Like me, he knew what people were thinking, and how to torment them. I was the same as a child, although I didn't expect him to pick the tactic up so quickly and use it so sharply.

"It's time for bed." I picked him up and he curled up in my arms. "How about I read to you so you sleep?" my voice softened as his guard fell victim to his sleepiness. "Okay, Auntie." he murmured, his small head on my shoulder as we processed to his bedroom.

I thought he was asleep by the time we got there, but his eyes flashed open when we sat on the rocking chair and I read him a short story. By the time I said, "The end," he was snoozing on my lap. I held him tightly, rocking back and forth as the clock ticked. He comforted me with his sass and his desire to spend time with me, helping me through the pain of the years.

How will I be able to let go of him when he officially becomes Tsarevich?