Chapter Text
There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle, or the mirror that reflects it. -Edith Wharton
“I am not my father’s son.”
The white and black marble tiles swam in front of Gleb’s face. It was… over. Months on end, autumn turning to winter turning to spring, a train across Europe; all for this moment.
This was it, and Anya was gone.
“Gleb…”
A hand found its way into his hair. Gleb fought the urge to lean into it. It became significantly easier to resist when Anya—Anastasia's red skirts drifted across the tiles into his line of vision.
“You’re shaking,” she said, her voice quiet and gentle. The reminder of their meetings back in Leningrad drew a hoarse laugh from his throat. He could almost feel the coarse fibers of her coat and smell the lemon tea.
“The Grand Duchesses had straight backs when the gates closed,” Gleb muttered, more to himself than to Anya, “I can only hope to meet my fate with half as much dignity.”
He could tell that Anya was gathering her words. He remembered the look on her pretty face as she sat in front of his desk, preparing a defense. The route home to Leningrad stretched out across the marble tiles; bleak and grey in his mind’s eye.
“They’ll shoot me,” he said, breaking the silence. The general had three pistols within reach at all times—in his desk, in his overcoat, and in his waistcoat. He’d most likely be shot by the one within the general’s waistcoat, unless he was shot upon crossing the border again. Only killing the Grand Duchess Anastasia would allow him to return home, and there was no way to do that now.
“Because you failed,” Anya said, her voice still damnably soft and gentle. Gleb couldn’t look at her, instead focusing on the rubies sewn into her skirts. Silk smoothed over his hair, and he swallowed hard.
“I should have known I couldn’t do it,” he said to Anya’s red shoes, “I’m sure they knew.”
Russia was home. The Revolution was home. He was born in October, for Heaven’s sake! But when Russia and the Revolution were betrayed, Gleb knew better than most what followed. He sat up, taking a breath before meeting the bright blue eyes of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolayevna Romanova.
“Well,” Gleb began, “It was an honor. Anastasia Nikolayevna. Long life, comrade.”
He stood, brushing imaginary dust off the knees of his trousers. Of course the Dowager Empress would have spotless floors. He offered Anya his hand. Anya stared, her large blue eyes as stunned as the day he first met her.
“You’re going back?” She breathed, taking his hand and shaking it once before stilling.
“Where else can I go?” Gleb replied, offering a small shrug, “I… What if I don’t? I don’t know what I will do. I could fake your death, but I would need convincing proof. Bloodstains, preferably. Maybe wait here until they come to Paris and kill me. They haven’t gotten to Trotsky yet. Admittedly, Mexico City is farther away than Paris, but I might still have time.”
“Must you be morbid, Gleb?” Anya huffed, before her gaze dropped down to where Gleb’s own pistol was tucked away in his suit pocket. She was silent for a beat before she laughed, appearing to see the dark humor in the situation. She was still holding his hand.
“You should be very careful, Anya,” Gleb said after a long moment, “You… I don’t know how safe you will be, now that I’ve failed to…”
“To finish the job,” Anya finished his sentence for him, somehow knowing he would not be able to. She smiled, clearly trying to tease.
“Don’t think of it as a failure. Think of it as… succeeding in disobeying orders for once, Deputy Commissioner Vaganov!”
Gleb forced a smile in return. Only an Imperial Princess would have the strength to tease her would-be assassin mere minutes after trying to taunt him into killing her.
“Yes,” he said after a pause, “But there will be men like me, ready to shoot into a crowd. Men who have stronger morals than I do.”
“Weaker morals, I should think,” Anya corrected, a thoughtful look crossing her face, “Then I guess it’s a good thing I won’t be the Grand Duchess for much longer, isn’t it?”
Gleb forced himself to let go of her hand, feeling the silk of her gloves slip through his rough fingers.
“What do you mean?”
“Anastasia Nikolayevna can’t marry a commoner. Anya can,” she explained, her mouth blooming into a smile. Gleb felt his heart sink. A small, vocal part of his brain immediately quipped, Oh, she’ll be getting married. May as well take your chance on the Seine instead of waiting for the Neva.
“…Congratulations,” Gleb replied, hoping he didn’t sound as strangled as he felt.
“Dmitry doesn’t know yet,” Anya confessed as though imparting a vital state secret. Her smile was no parts Grand Duchess and all parts giddy schoolgirl.
“Dmitry. The con man? Who worked with Popov?” Gleb asked, dread soaking in with the realization that there was a very real chance that he had deluded himself into thinking he had a chance with Anya to begin with.
“Yes. I… I have to tell him, before he leaves, I—“ She suddenly looked frantic, and Gleb took a step back.
“Then this is goodbye, Anya,” he said gently, “I’ll… allow me.”
He moved to the center set of doors, hand steady, and unlocked them.
“Long life, comrade,” he repeated, taking her in. If he was going to die back in Leningrad or here in Paris, this would serve as a last sight—Anastasia Romanova, beautiful and eternal and…
And taking three long steps forward to grab Gleb’s arm.
“Come with me,” Anya breathed, her blue eyes gleaming as brightly as the jewels in her dress, “Gleb. Come with both of us. We’re leaving Paris, or at least we will if I can convince Dima.”
“You… He won’t want me there; I’m sure he won’t,” Gleb stammered, “He knows who I am and what I’ve done.”
“You said it yourself,” Anya argued, “There will be people searching for me, no matter what Nana says. Cheka officers, like you. Who better to keep us safe?”
“Who better to plant a target on your back?” Gleb retorted, feeling her grip on his arm tighten. The silk gloves that felt so slippery in his hair barely budged on the fabric of his suit.
“You wouldn't have let me go, Gleb Vaganov,” Anya said sternly, “Now hurry up. Turnabout is fair play."
“I can’t just—“ Gleb began, just barely catching himself before he stumbled. For a woman who was at most five-foot-four, Anya’s pace was brutal.
“Do you have any money? Any kind of a plan?” He tried.
“You certainly don’t,” Anya replied, shooting him a piercing look.
She was right. The future, terrifying and open as it was, could at least wait a few hours.
It was not difficult for Anya to convince Dmitry to go with her. Gleb watched them meet from further down the Alexander Bridge as they argued, Anya wearing his suit jacket in a paltry attempt to disguise the fantastical red dress. Her tiara was held in his lap as he attempted to look like he was reading a French newspaper with one hand.
“If you ever see me from a carriage again, don’t wave, don’t smile. I don’t want to be in love with someone I can’t have for the rest of my life,” Dmitry had said, and Gleb, peering out from behind his newspaper, could empathize.
Until she kissed him.
“I always imagined my first kiss would be in Paris with a handsome prince.”
“I’m not your prince, Anya,” Dmitry scoffed, and Gleb thought briefly, well, in this, at least, he and I are equal.
“The Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov would disagree, Dima,” Anya retorted with a bright grin, and in a heartbeat she was stepping on his suitcase to kiss him.
Her first kiss.
Forget the Seine. At this rate, Gleb Vaganov was going to die after being eaten alive by his own jealousy. It took him a long moment to tune back into Anya and Dmitry’s conversation as he tried to calm the blood rushing in his ears.
“Nana told me you gave up the reward money. That you and Vlad—“
“Vlad is content with being Lilli’s second husband. Or fake husband,” Dmitry interrupted with a laugh, “He doesn’t need the money.”
“And you?” Anya interrupted with a happy, teasing note in her voice, “Couldn’t you use it?”
She brushed her hand over his threadbare vest, positively beaming at Dmitry.
“It felt dishonest,” he confessed, “I mean, it’s rich for me to say that when this whole thing started out as an extremely dishonest way to make money, but… I couldn’t take money for making the woman I loved happy. For giving you back your family. I couldn’t be paid for that.”
“And what were you going to do?” Anya asked softly, “With the money, I mean?”
“I hadn’t gotten that far, aside from maybe setting myself up with an apartment in Paris,” Dmitry replied. “Without that… In all honesty, Anya, I was going to go to the train station and buy the first ticket out of Paris. Not much of a plan.”
Gleb peered around the newspaper. Dmitry had a soft smile on his face, and held Anya’s hand in one of his own. Chagrined, Gleb ducked back behind the newspaper.
“Were you going to stay in France?” Anya asked. There was a soft, hollow noise as she stepped down from the suitcase to the cobblestones.
“Well, at least for a little while,” Dmitry mused, “Maybe a suburb of Paris, even. I speak French, after all. I wasn’t planning on going back to Petersburg, and I didn’t have a plan.”
That makes three of us, Gleb thought.
“That makes three of us,” Anya said, echoing his thoughts so precisely that he crinkled the newspaper by accident. Anya’s crown nearly slipped from his lap, and Gleb grimaced, rustling the newspaper even more as he tried to keep the jewel-encrusted piece from falling onto the street.
“Gleb!” Anya called, and Gleb took a deep breath.
“Gleb?” Dmitry echoed, confused, before Gleb folded down his newspaper and revealed his face.
“Gleb!” Dmitry yelped, “Whoa, okay, I was not expecting—Anya, that’s Gleb Vaganov! He’s a Chekist; rumor has it that his father—“
“Killed my family. Yes, I know he did; that’s one rumor in St. Petersburg that was true,” Anya said calmly, before Dmitry pushed her behind him. “Hey!”
“I don’t know what you’re here for, Vaganov, but if you want to hurt Anya you’ll—“
“I don’t.”
“—have to go through me… what?” Dmitri gaped. Anya took the opportunity to duck under his arm, and Gleb took a moment to gather his thoughts. He showed off Anya’s glittering crown before carefully beginning to wrap it up in his newspaper.
“They sent me here to kill her,” Gleb said, looking up from his wrapping to meet Dmitry’s dark eyes, “And when I found my opportunity, I couldn’t do it. I don’t want to hurt Anya.”
Dmitry stared. Gleb couldn’t blame him. Put that way, it seemed pretty unbelievable.
“So… you’re…”
“Hopefully staying on with you two as a security detail, as I’m sure I’ll be shot on sight, or worse, should I return to Leningrad,” Gleb said in a carefully measured tone.
“Anya, do you believe this?” Dmitry asked, sounding slightly faint. Anya opened Gleb’s suit jacket that she still wore, gesturing to the bulky pocket.
“Yes, of course,” she said mildly, “Because now his pistol is in my pocket.”
Dmitry had the look of a man who had recently been told that a vital constant, like gravity, was actually completely made up and he was, in fact, the last to find out about such a thing. In a sense, Gleb considered, he had: Anya was Anastasia was Anya and he, Gleb Vaganov, was attempting to tag along on their new lives.
“Well, it’s true,” he finally said, wondering if there was a medal the USSR could award him for keeping his cool throughout this entire situation, “Anya needed some insurance that I wouldn’t steal her crown.”
“Unbelievable,” Dmitry muttered, “Absolutely unbelievable.” He took a deep breath, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear.
“Okay, so,” Dmitry continued, “We’ve established that Vaganov is probably not going to kill us both—“
Gleb felt mildly insulted by this, and judging by Anya’s muffled snort, his look of affront was not well-concealed.
“—And none of us, not even Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov, has a plan.”
“I just wanted to find you, Dima,” Anya said sweetly, though not without some measure of embarrassment at her own eagerness. Dmitry softened, taking her hand with a small smile. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment.
“I was just following Anya,” Gleb added before either could lapse into any more romantic behavior right in front of him. Dmitry looked rather irked at being drawn away from Anya’s smile.
“Well, first order of business is for you to get changed,” Dmitry grumbled, “So I suppose it’s back to the hotel with you, Anya.”
Anya stared down at her dress ruefully. “What, Gleb’s jacket doesn’t distract from the rubies and gold thread?”
“I imagine it merely confuses the passerby,” Gleb quipped, tucking the matching crown under his arm, “And if those are real rubies, we had better get you back before someone recognizes you and tries to steal you away, dress and all.”
“Don’t joke,” Anya huffed.
“Don’t flirt,” Dmitry warned, offering Anya his arm. She blushed and took it.
Gleb grimaced.
“We’ll reconvene at the brasserie across from the hotel in two hours,” he directed, not wanting to think too much about the blossoming romance across from him, “Anya, you can return my jacket and the contents of its pockets then. I’m sure you two have much to discuss. Dmitry…”
The simple name felt awkward in his mouth. There were very few people back in Russia that Gleb did not address with comrade, their rank, or their name and patronymic.
“I’m not giving you my father’s name to use,” Dmitry said coolly, “We’re in France now.”
“Take this back to Anya, then,” Gleb replied, trying not to show how off-balance this development had him, and thrust the paper-wrapped tiara at Dmitry before setting off down the street.
“You can’t just order us around like we’re your underlings, Vaganov!” Dmitry yelled after him.
Gleb kept walking. I’m not fleeing, he thought, this is a tactical retreat.
The best thing about Paris, Gleb thought, was the waitstaff. Unflinching and unquestioning, the tall, dark-skinned server at the brasserie did not even ask when Gleb changed his order of a cappuccino to a cappuccino with brandy and then finally, to a bottle of wine. He didn’t comment each time Gleb flinched when he saw a blond girl on the arm of a dark-haired man and trailed off.
“Would Monsieur like to see our wine list?” The man asked, a small, leather-backed card tucked under his arm.
“No, thank you,” Gleb replied, trying to place the other man’s accent. He shook off the absent thought, turning his attention back to him. “Please just get me a glass of whatever will suit a day like this.”
There. An answer that very politely said that Gleb Vaganov knew little about wine, but acknowledging that when in France, one did as the French did; and besides, two o’clock was a bit too early to publicly indulge in a shot or five of vodka.
“Of course,” replied the server, looking amused, “May I ask if this is your first time in Paris?”
“Is it that obvious, comrade?” Gleb asked ruefully.
“I felt the same when I arrived from Algiers,” the young man answered with a smile, “In any case, you’ll be wanting a dry, crisp white. I’ll have it for you in a moment.”
“Merci,” Gleb replied, amused in spite of himself. At least there were as many Russians in Paris as there were French Algerians. One chance meeting wouldn’t give him away. When the waiter arrived with the glass of wine a few minutes later, he paused.
“Do you think you will be staying long in Paris, monsieur?” He asked delicately. Gleb stared at his wine glass pensively.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted.
“This is a Chablis from Burgundy,” the waiter explained immediately, “If you’ll be staying long in France, you’ll be learning a great deal about wines.”
Gleb thought of vodka longingly but nodded, taking a sip of the Chablis. His eyes widened, the taste far better than he expected.
“I would appreciate if you put a bottle of this on to chill,” he admitted, “I’ll be meeting some friends here in a couple hours.”
The waiter smiled.
“Ask for Pierre,” he offered, “They will find me. When do you suppose your friends will arrive?”
Gleb grimaced, immediately thought of his mother warning him that if he frowned far too much his face would stay that way, and smoothed his expression out into blankness.
“Possibly in two hours,” he offered, “But one never knows. They could leave Paris without me and then I’ll be out of luck.”
Anya still had his pistol. He might have to drown himself after all.
“Not very good friends,” Pierre observed.
“When you’re Russian, you take what you can get,” Gleb sighed, taking another sip of his wine. “This—I don’t know much about wine, but this, what, Chablis? Sha-blee? It’s excellent.”
“Well, this is France,” Pierre demurred, but folded his tray under his arm, his dark eyes alight with curiosity. “May I ask—you have only just gotten here, Monsieur. Are you and your friends going back to Russia?”
“I doubt it,” Gleb sighed, his tone as tired and bored as though he was speaking about the weather. “All of us speak decent French, and as long as we leave Paris, my comrades in the Cheka—in the secret police won’t be able to track us down and shoot us.”
Pierre flinched. Gleb was suddenly reminded that Gallic humor was not nearly as grim as Eastern European humor tended to run. Hopefully Pierre thought he was just joking about the Cheka.
“That’s a good enough reason as any,” Pierre managed after a pause.
Probably doesn't think I'm joking, Gleb thought, Alright, mark that down, the French don't think execution by firing squad is funny. Maybe a guillotine joke would go over better.
“Any recommendations?” Gleb asked sardonically, “Not about the wine, about other parts of France.”
He opened his notebook and reached for the pen in the pocket of his waistcoat. The ink he had purchased for the fountain pen in Paris was delightfully black and barely bled through the pages of his notebook. Before he had decided against shooting Anya, he had considered bringing it back to Leningrad as a secret stash for himself and Polya, his secretary.
“Well, Jean-Paul is from Lyon, Marcel is from Orléans, and Sophie is from Reims,” Pierre began, “I lived in Nice before I came here to Paris. You know… give me one moment, Monsieur, and I will see if they can come here and talk to you.”
Gleb took a sip of wine and smiled.
“That would be wonderful,” he stressed, and sat back to relax and watch the Seine.
Two hours later, Gleb had polished off the majority of a bottle of wine as well as two freshly made if slightly burnt croissants, free of charge, and had forgotten entirely about keeping on the look out for blonde girls with dark haired men. So what if Anya and Dmitry didn’t show? Jean-Paul’s brother was a Communist in the assembly in Lyon, and Marcel's cousin needed a roommate in Orléans, and Sophie's aunt in Reims ran a flower shop and even rented out the tiny apartment over the shop when she could. Apparently, staff were allowed just as much downtime in a French cafe as a Russian one, because Sophie, Jean-Paul, Pierre, and Marcel were all lounging and drinking their own cups of café au lait when a petite blonde woman nearly walked right by them on the arm of a dark-haired man.
“…Gleb?” Anya asked, and the man in question lifted his head along with the rest of the Parisians clustered around him.
“Oh! Your friends!” Pierre beamed, “They didn't leave Paris without you!”
“It was a near thing,” Dmitry muttered, before peering at Gleb more closely, “Is he… drunk?”
Gleb’s expression froze into a polite smile. Anya took an automatic step back on the sidewalk, letting go of Dmitry. Pierre, Sophie, Jean-Paul and Marcel leaned away, all picking up their coffee cups; seemingly one breath from springing up and away like rabbits.
“I’m not drunk,” Gleb snapped in Russian, “And just for that, Anya is the only one who gets to share the wine with me.”
“Doesn’t a good and loyal Russian prefer vodka?” Dmitry taunted.
She told him. Gleb’s eyes snapped to Anya, who went even more pale and barely seemed to breathe. She held his jacket tucked under her other arm, pistol most likely there, and yet the look on her face suggested Gleb did not need it to be dangerous.
For the first time in his life, Gleb regretted the careful crafting of that particular reputation.
“…A good and loyal Russian does not get drunk during the day,” Gleb grit out. The silence stretched between them, and Gleb stood, forcing himself to plaster on a faint smile.
“Thank you for the advice, comrades,” he addressed the staff in French, “Your suggestions were quite good. I will be discussing them with my friends, and if I need to call anyone, I will inform you all first.”
“I’ll get you some macarons,” Sophie offered immediately as Jean-Paul and Marcel scattered, “On the house. Please, sit down. Pierre will pour the wine.”
Anya sat, looking much like she had hours earlier after quite literally dodging Gleb’s bullets. Dmitry sat next to her, immediately covering one hand with his own.
“Would Madame like me to take her jacket?” Pierre asked, gesturing to the bundle of grey fabric in her lap.
“Oh,” Anya breathed, “Gleb, this is yours. Careful, the pistol—“
Pierre's eyes went wide as Gleb steadied the gun from falling out of the interior pocket and onto the table.
“Merci,” he said to both Pierre and Anya, hanging the jacket over the back of his own chair and sliding the new glass of wine to Anya.
“They weren’t afraid of you,” she said softly as Pierre beat a hasty retreat, “I mean, when he saw your gun, he was, but… were you talking the whole time?”
“Members of the Proletariat share a bond across the borders of nations,” Gleb chuckled softly.
“Members of the Proletariat always like Marx better when they don’t have to live under his rules,” Dmitry cut in, glaring at Gleb.
“We were working to make Russia better,” Gleb growled, “Change doesn’t happen overnight, and there were ways to—“
“Boys!" Anya hissed. The wine glasses trembled. Anya looked at the glassware before finally sighing and taking the glass Pierre had poured before his retreat. She took a long sip, regal as ever, before staring at her glass in amazement.
“Gleb, I didn’t know you knew wine,” she muttered.
“Thank you, Anya, you’re kind to say so,” Gleb demurred, thanking any and every deity present that she’d said it in Russian. Pierre’s laugh from inside the café seemed to say he understood anyways and at least would graciously allow Gleb to take credit for this one.
“Well, we were cornered by the Dowager and the Countess,” Dmitry admitted, his tone more of a grumble than anything as Anya took another sip of wine, “And consequently didn’t get to do any work of our own. Do you have any ideas, or were you here just gossiping with the French?”
Gleb took a deep breath and opened his notebook.
“So far, I have the most information on Reims,” he began, “Three and a half to four hours by train, and they’re still doing a great deal of rebuilding as much of the city was damaged during the Great War. It’s a good place to disappear. Sophie mentioned her aunt owns a flower shop, and is always looking for good, reliable staff. I don’t know if you plan on working, Anya, but it’s a step up from a street-sweeper. Apartments are difficult to get into, as many are still being constructed, but there are some houses on the edge of the city that aren’t a terrible commute and they were not as damaged.”
Sophie swept by as Gleb turned the page of his notebook and deposited a plate of colorful macarons on the table. Gleb, heartened by the gift of macarons and still warm from the wine, reached out and tucked his fingers under her chin, a move familiar from his days as the Deputy Commissioner.
“Spasibo.”
Sophie giggled and hurried off, and Gleb grabbed a pale green macaron he suspected was pistachio, taking a bite. Dmitry was frozen, gaping at Gleb. Anya’s glass was frozen halfway to her mouth.
“I can see at least two lemon macarons,” he said mildly, “Those are yours, Anya.”
“Oh, lovely,” Anya managed, and took another less refined sip of wine.
“I, of course, need to make a few calls,” Gleb continued, “I can transfer the rest of my savings to a bank outside of Russia, but that means I’m officially defecting unless Polina can throw them off, but that also means I need to convince Polina to help me. I can also fake my own death, but that means giving up my savings, and God knows how much of it would go to Polya rather than the State.”
“Nana said she would help Dima and I with whatever we needed,” Anya offered, “But I didn’t tell her about you.”
“Probably should have,” Dmitry muttered, but leaned in towards Gleb, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s Polya?”
“None of your business,” Gleb said, taking what might be a raspberry macaron before pushing the plate charitably to Dmitry.
“He’ll tell us eventually, Dima,” Anya said, confident and self-assured, tossing a shy smile at Gleb before grabbing a lemon macaron, “How far is Reims from Paris? I promised Nana I’d visit as often as I can.”
“Just one hundred fifty kilometers,” Gleb replied proudly.
Dmitry took a sip of his own wine, looking just as pleased by the taste.
“Then I guess our plan is Reims,” he declared, “And we’ll go from there.”