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your mama is worrier;
your papa is warrior;
and you are the girl
with big eyes and small hands
who never stops asking for more.
Marseille, 1946
Tobacco stained fingers hand her the cigarette with a murmured apology for its clumsy roll. She waves it off, rummaging her pockets for the matchbox she’d stolen from her father.
He’d kill her if he knew she was smoking, but he hardly had a leg to stand on - cigar smoke has clung to his work jackets for as long as she can remember.
“You’re not usually out this late,” the boy believing himself to be a man beside her comments, bumps their shoulders together. An empty beer bottle lies at their feet, a common token of their time together.
She arches an eyebrow at him, feeling much older than her seventeen years. “Keeping tabs on me, are you?” She teases, relishing watching him roll his eyes.
“What can I say, you’re the only interesting thing for miles.” He pauses. “Luka or Mona?”
She clenches her jaw, refuses to look at him. “Both.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” She doesn’t know why she’s suddenly angry - it’s gotten worse in the last year. As if all she had locked away during the war is only choosing to lash out now. At her parents, her siblings, at him.
He says her name gently, head tilted against the wall. She bites back an apology; she didn’t want to talk about this anyway, regrets ever telling him about Luka and Monique’s nightmares in the first place.
Before she can respond haughtily, a loud bang echoes down the road - she barely holds back a shriek, instinct to run seizing her body. The cigarette slips from her fingers, ash burning her ankle.
Over the blood pounding in her ears and her heart trying to beat out of her chest, she registers his fingers circling her wrist, voice urgent.
“It’s alright!” He’s telling her, half panicked himself. “A car backfired, that’s all. No bombs or bullets.”
It would be more of a comfort if she could not feel his hands shaking, too.
War may have ended in Europe over a year ago; it did not end in their heads.
She shakes herself, smooths her coat down with unsteady hands. “I should be going.” He calls to her, worried, and she cuts him off. “It’s - I’m fine. It’s fine. I’ll see you soon.”
He grabs her hand before she can turn the corner and he loses her to the dark, thumb running over her knuckles. “It’ll get better, you know,” he tries in what she assumes is meant to be a reassuring tone, not condescending as she hears. “We must have faith, ma belle.”
The last part is said half teasingly, a play on her name. She chuckles bitterly, taking her hand back. “Goodnight, Peter.”
It is not faith Belle Sudayev wants; it is peace.
Belle is no stranger to guns and bombs over their heads, not since the war. Not since soldiers had raided their home in the dead of night and pushed her against a wall with the barrel inches from her face.
She was twelve years old. Papa threw a punch and got a bloody nose for his trouble. Mama shoved Luka behind her and gathered Monique, sobbing, to her chest. Belle was too far away for her parents to reach, but as he was hastily gathering the papers the men were demanding to see, Papa murmured as gently as he could, “It’s alright, Belle, they’re not going to hurt us.” Blood stained the collar of his nightshirt, his breathing hard and angry. “Be brave for me.”
Be brave. Mama was not even crying - her face was hard, venomous glare pinned on the man before her. Belle had bit her lip, shaking hands balled up in her nightdress. Be brave, like Mama. She would not cry in front of these strangers in their house.
“Is this what you want?” Papa snarled, shoving papers into the chest of the soldier watching him. “Take them, and get out.”
“Schweigen!” The soldier snapped, and for half a second Belle thought she was about to watch her father be gunned down.
Papa didn’t give an inch, coiled like an animal ready to strike. His eyes flickered to Mama’s; she minutely shook her head. Monique was still crying, Luka trembling beneath Mama’s skirt.
“You are Russian?” Suspicious eyes looked him up and down, almost in disgust.
Papa’s jaw clenched, and he spat something in a language Belle had only ever heard her parents speak in hushed tones.
The reaction is immediate - an angered shout, a gun raised, her mother’s cry “Dmitry!"
An older man, the younger ones superior perhaps, said something in clipped German. The gun was lowered, reluctantly so.
The superior had scanned the papers, made a motion to the others. There were no apologies, no explanation - soldiers and policemen trudged out of their house without even looking back.
Belle launched herself forward, sob caught in her throat. Papa stumbled to catch her, colour drained from his face, hands frantic over her face and shoulders. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” His voice broke, hugging her hard. “Anya."
Mama was slumped down the wall, face white. Papa caught her before she fell, quickly took Monique from her arms. “It’s alright, hey - Natsya, we’re fine, everything is fine.” His hands cupped his wife’s face, trying to bring her back to wherever in her mind she’d gone.
Belle had never seen her mother like that, never would again - distraught, her breathing shallow, eyes so far away it’s like she couldn’t see Papa or her children at all.
“Papa?” Luka whimpered, face streaked with tears. Monique had burrowed herself into Papa’s arms, state much the same.
“What is wrong with her?” Belle squeaked, terrified. Had the soldiers done something to Mama she hadn’t seen?
“Anya, please,” Papa begged. “There are no soldiers, no guns, you’re safe.”
It took a stream of the language Belle doesn’t know to pull her mother out of wherever her mind had trapped her. Gasping shakily, she grasped Papa’s fingers. “Dima -“
“I’m here.” He kissed her hands, blood dried on his face. “I’m right here, you’re alright.”
Mama’s head snapped up, finding Belle and Luka staring wide-eyed. “Oh, my darlings -“ she pulled them to her, murmuring reassurances. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Belle ends up squashed in her mother’s arms, Monique and Luka pressed into her sides and Papa covering her back, all tangled haphazardly together.
Papa kissed the back of Luka’s head, pulled him onto his lap and tightened his hold on Monique, tried to calm her down. Belle crawled beside Mama, still shaking.
“What did they want?” She whispered.
Mama curled an arm around her, face ashen. “I don’t know, mon amour. Nothing good.”
Belle pressed her face into her mother’s shoulder, tears pricking her eyes. “You were brave.”
“Oh, Belle. So were you.” A kiss pressed into her hair. Quiter, in an exhausted tone. “It is not the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me.”
Belle was twelve. A lot of the war is trauma she’s blocked out, locked away in a lead box in the back of her mind she refuses to open ever again.
That night, the gun in her face, her mother’s words. The one thing that haunts her.
“Oh, no, no, stop that.” Julianna fusses, snatching the shirt Belle is trying to repair from her hands. “Really, is your mother not a seamstress?”
“Jules!” Genevieve hisses, while Flora fixes her eldest daughter with a warning look over her spectacles.
“No, she’s right, I’m horrible, I’ve already stitched your father's trouser legs together,” Belle sighs, defeated. Elodie snickers beside her.
Letting Julianna fix the mess she’s made, Belle turns to watch Claude tutoring the younger children. Luka’s eyes look like they’re about to glaze over, Celeste and Leopold doodling boredly beside him. Monique and Odette, on the other hand, seem to be hanging onto Claude’s every word and action, pouring over the exact same book Claude had tutored Belle with when she was her sisters age.
“Where is Adele?” Belle asks, suddenly realising Flora and Claude’s second eldest daughter has vanished from the house.
Genevieve snorts, not even bothering to look up. “Out courting, probably.”
That surprises her, so much so her elbow slips off the table edge. “Courting who?”
“One of the Lettiere boys,” Flora says with an air of pride, and Belle’s stomach plummets.
Not Peter, her mind supplies unhelpfully, and she’s instantly irritated with herself for even thinking of him. He has two older brothers, be reasonable. “Which one?”
“Francis,” Elodie tells her, a look in her eye that makes Belle’s jaw clench.
“Oh.” She clears her throat. “That’s nice, for her.”
“Far past time, I think,” Julianna chimes in, and Belle knows there’s a fight coming by the outraged look on Genevieve’s face.
“Flora, the books you wanted my father to have?” She diverts quickly, rising from her chair. Julianna and Genevieve are already bickering.
“Just because you married the first man to think you don’t look horrible -“
“That is a lie -“
Belle flees in the direction Flora is pointing with one arm while bracing Julianna against the other to stop her springing across the table at Genevieve.
Leaving the sisters to argue, Belle ducks under the stairs, awkwardly tries to manoeuvre the many books and boxes crammed underneath. Standing on her tip-toes, she tugs at the brown paper parcel with her father’s name scrawled in Claude’s hand until it comes free with such force that she stumbles back into a stack of boxes behind her.
The shouting from across the corridor stops abruptly. “Everything alright, Belle?” Elodie calls.
Belle cringes, looks despairingly at the mess now scattered at her feet. “Fine! I’ll - just be a moment!”
Hastily, she kneels down to stuff the papers and photos back, cursing herself - before catching sight of the papers makes her pause. Not written in French, though that’s not wholly surprising; Belle knows Flora and Claude travelled a lot when they were young and newlywed, and Claude had once told her they had planned to go off again once Julianna was old enough, but then came Adele, then Genevieve, Elodie, Celeste, Leopold and Odette. With seven children and no money to spare, their dreams and trinkets had been packed away in boxes under these stairs, and Marseille had to become home.
A knock on the wall startles her.
“Making sure you haven’t been buried underneath anything.” Elodie peers in, frowns seeing Belle still kneeling on the floor. “What have you found?”
Belle holds up the stack of photos, smiling. “Some of your parents old things, I think.”
“Oh, dear.” Elodie squeezes in, sits beside Belle with their shoulders and knees pressed together. “Come, let me see.”
Heads bowed together, they flick through photos of Flora and Claude’s wedding, of the two of them on beaches and bridges, waterfalls and magnificent buildings.
Elodie looks at them all dreamily, but sadness glints in her eyes. “I wish I’d known them, like this. God, the things they’ve seen.”
“You could always just ask them,” Belle says fondly, prodding Elodie’s knee. “They’re only across the hall.”
Elodie sticks her tongue out petulantly. “You know what I mean.” She shoves Belle’s a little, becomes so settled her chin is practically resting on Belle’s shoulder, lavender scented red hair brushing her cheek.
Belle tries to ignore the way her palms have started to sweat, clearing her throat.
There’s more letters and photos, and Elodie tells her fragments of the stories she knows of them. She’s still talking when Belle’s eye catches a photograph that sends her mind screeching to a halt.
“El.” She grabs the postcard with one hand and shakes Elodie’s shoulder with the other, white noise roaring in her ears. “Elodie.”
“Ow, what?” Elodie shoves Belle’s hand away, annoyed. “Yes, I can hear you, no need to treat me like a rag doll!”
Belle barely hears her, sweeps the photo in Elodie’s face nose-breakingly close. “Who are they?”
Elodie jerks her face away, blinking rapidly. “Mon Dieu,” she swears, before squinting. “How am I supposed to know? I can’t read Russian.”
“Russian?”
Elodie looks heavenward in exasperation, takes the photo from Belle and motions to the writing beneath. “There, see? That’s Cyrillic. Although -“ she pauses, chewing her lip. “Hm.”
Belle’s whole body is tense with impatience - she doesn’t know why she cares so much, why she feels she has to know, why the people in a photograph on the back of a postcard seem so familiar. “What? What is it?”
“Belle - you know of the Imperial family, don’t you? The Romanovs?” Elodie asks. “Surely your parents must have mentioned them, at least.”
Belle frowns. “What do my parents have to do with anything?”
Elodie stares at her as if she’s just spoken in tongues. “Your parents are Russian, are they not. Belle Sudayev.”
Belle rolls her eyes, huffing. “Yes, thank you, so?”
“Well, they must have been around during the revolution, when the whole royal family was captured. My father knows quite a bit about it, he spent some time in Moscow.” Elodie shifts forward, tongue pointed between her teeth the way it does when she’s trying to work the sewing machine or making up stories to put Odette to sleep. “Lord, I’m terrible with names. Right -“ she points hesitantly at the faces. “That’s Nicholas and Alexandra, the little boy is Alexei, I think that’s Olga and Marie, which makes…” Elodie twirls her finger, lands on the girl to the far right. “The pretty one Tatiana, and the little one Anastasia.”
There’s an itch in the back of Belle’s mind, one she can’t quite reach. “They died,” her mouth is saying before her brain catches up. “The Romanovs. They were killed.”
“So the story goes.”
“No, no, they -“ A memory, flickering behind her eyelids like an afterimage. Her mother’s distraught voice, muffled crying. “They were shot, all of them, in a cellar.”
Elodie’s staring at her now, hazel eyes huge. “Belle,” she finally manages, voice barely above a whisper. “How on earth do you know that?”
Belle feels sick, the cupboard too small, blood pulsing in her head painfully. It takes two tries before she can smile weakly at Elodie. “My - my parents, probably. You said they would have grown up in the revolution, I must have overheard them talking about it.”
A lie. Her parents have never, ever told her anything of their lives in Russia beyond the two of them being orphans, always quick to change the subject whenever she or Luka try to bring it up.
Elodie doesn’t look at all convinced, but she lets the lie go.
“Can I -“ Belle bites the inside of her cheek. “May I keep this?”
“...I suppose,” Elodie says reluctantly, concern written all over her face. “It’s hardly any use in here. Just -“ she pauses, searching Belle’s face, then sighs. “Don’t forget the books for your father, too.”
Belle stuffs the postcard into her coat when Luka and Monique are ready to leave. The entire walk home, it burns a hole in her pocket.
Crying had woken her up.
It was summer, sometime after Belle’s birthday - she couldn’t have been more than five years old, yet the memory is so clear she can still feel the pattern of the wooden floor beneath her feet as she’d crept to her parents bedroom, remembers seeing one of Dasha’s kittens asleep on the hallway carpet.
Belle had assumed it was the new baby crying again, as that’s all Monique seemed to do. Papa had to keep gently reminding her to be nice to her little sister, which Belle didn’t find fair since said little sister didn’t seem to care about everyone else sleeping.
Tonight, though, it hadn’t taken her long to realise it was not Monique’s ear-splitting wails that had disturbed her, but her mother, whose sobbing was so raw and pained that for a terrible moment Belle thought someone had died.
She’d never heard her mother cry like that before, not even when she’d broken her wrist chasing Luka or when Papa had accidentally spilled paint over the dress she was modifying.
Her mother's voice was fraught, heavy with exhaustion and babbling a mix of French and Russian. Belle only caught fragments.
“...so tired...always the cellar...the guns...Mitya, I can’t -”
Papa murming, trying to calm her down. “It’s alright, Natsya, you’re safe, everything is fine.”
Belle doesn’t know how long she had sat there, listening to Mama weep and Papa’s voice never once waver. Part of her wonders how much of the memory is real, and how much the confused fabrication of a tired five year old girl.
Caught between sleep and waking, Belle blearily wonders if she’s reliving the memory a little too vividly when the soft sobbing does not leave her ears - until she realises it’s Monique.
Belle doesn’t move, stares at the curtain diving their beds until she’s certain neither of her parents will be coming tonight, probably haven’t heard her yet. It’s pitch black, the moon barely a glimmer through the window.
God, she should have gone to see Peter tonight.
“Mona,” she calls softly, uncertain. “Are you alright?”
No answer, just more pillow-muffled crying. Belle counts to ten in her head, before she slips out of bed and crosses the barrier.
Her little sister is curled up in a small ball, trembling, blankets balled up against her face.
“Mon chou,” Belle sighs, gently tugging her shoulders. “Come here, it’s alright.”
Monique rolls over, her face wet. “I thought you had gone out,” she whispers, letting Belle wipe tears from her cheeks.
Belle smiles, brushing stray hair from her sister's face. “Not tonight. Come on, move over for me.”
It’s unnerving, seeing her like this - of all of them, Monique is the bright spark, all smiles and hope where Belle and Luka tend to be solemn and cynical. Belle hopes such a cruel world never turns her sister harsh.
Monique shifts, blankets shuffling as Belle comes to lay beside her. “Did I wake you?” She asks, resting her head on Belle’s shoulder.
Belle pats her sister's head. “No, a dream did.”
“What was it about?”
“Ah,” Belle frantically thinks of something to say. “Do you remember when we went to Paris, and Luka ran across that bridge over and over until Mama had to catch him?”
Monique giggles. “You ruined your dress at the ballet.”
“Because you threw ice cream on my lap!” Belle has to bury her laughter in Monique’s honey-brown hair to stop herself waking her whole family.
Monique goes quiet for a long moment. “I wish I still had dreams like that,” she mutters.
“Mona…” Belle doesn’t know how to handle the nightmares, barely her own and certainly not her siblings. Her father has always been better at it.
“Why won’t they stop?” Monique’s voice breaks. “It’s in my head, all the time, the noise.”
Belle doesn’t need to be told. War left a scar so deep she doesn’t think it’ll ever fully heal. Their house by the docks, Papa’s old workmates, the women Mama made tea with - all gone.
She was ten when the war started. Luka was eight, Monique five. Bombs and soldiers had chipped away those years from their lives until it felt as if there was nothing left to salvage. Belle doesn’t know who she hates more for that yet.
“It’s only been a year since it ended,” she tries uselessly. “I’m sure - soon, they’ll stop. They have to.” She clears her throat. “Go to sleep, Mona. No one’s going to hurt us.”
“Don’t go?” Monique’s fingers tighten on Belle’s arm.
“You know I won’t.”
Luka’s always been the genius, always known more than he’s ever let on. Everyone knows it, no matter how much he tries to hide it, tries too hard to follow their father into manual work. It’s the argument they’ve been having for years.
“You could go to university,” Belle told him once, hanging upside-down on her bed watching her brother write a paper for Claude, one of the cats trying to steal his pen; Monique and Mama’s voices chimed from downstairs, warm and light.
Luka had ducked his head, bashful. “Don’t joke.”
“I’m serious!” Belle rolled over and sat up. “You might be the next, what was his name, the rabies doctor.”
“...Louis Pasteur?”
“Yes!”
Luka scoffed, not meeting her eyes. “I’m not going to be a doctor, Belle. Not even close.”
“You’re not going to be a deckhand, either.” It was a low blow, but worth the glare Luka pinned her with.
“What do you want me to say? That I don’t want to be - a scientist, a doctor. I do, of course I do.” He threw his hands up. “But it’s never going to happen, because -” he stopped himself short.
“Because of the money,” Belle finished. What it always comes down to - why Belle herself never went no matter how much she wants to be a writer - her meagre wage writing magazine columns won’t get her through any education -, why Monique will never go to ballet school, why Mama embroiders dresses and skirts until her fingers bleed and there are days when Papa can barely move his arms working overtime at the docks.
“Maybe Uncle Vlad could -”
Luka laughed bitterly. “Aunt Lily isn’t likely to agree to handout. And I won’t take charity, Belle.”
“Why, because of your pride?” Belle challenged. Their mothers pride, their fathers pride.
“Does it matter?”
She tilted her head. “You’re not our father, Luka. Stop trying so hard to be.”
Luka looked away, but Belle saw the flicker of sorrow across his face anyway. “Not like we have any other options.”
“You were terrible.”
“You were any better?!”
“At least I know where I got it from, what’s your excuse?”
Papa splutters something in Russian and grabs Luka in a headlock, Monique shrieking “oh, be careful.”
Belle hangs off her mother’s arm, stomach aching with laughter.
“Boys. Luka. Dmitry.” Mama finally objects sternly after several minutes of her husband and son stumbling down the street and Monique growing gradually more distressed, but she’s grinning. “Do try not to break anything before we’re even home.”
Luka is freed, auburn hair a mess and eyes watering, still in good spirits. Belle wonders exactly how much he drank at the dance hall.
“You’re both equally terrible dancers, anyway,” Monique declares, bumping Luka’s shoulder. “Two left feet.”
“And you’re the exception, I suppose.” Luka rolls his eyes. Monique frowns, offended.
“You were wonderful, Mona,” Mama assures her warmly, eyes flickering to Belle and Luka. “You two, however -“
A cry of protest goes up immediately.
“I don’t even like dancing.”
“At least I can play piano!”
“Ah, Anya, leave them be.” Papa’s arm slips over Mama’s shoulders, a kiss pressed to her temple, their faces a mirror of fondness.
Belle let’s her arm go, falls into step with Luka and Monique on the cobbles. It really had been a wonderful night, terrible dancing aside - she’d finally admitted defeat after stepping on all of Peter’s toes and almost tripping Elodie up. Although, she had to admit her parents had not been terrible at the slower dances, as if it was muscle memory.
“Did you see Adele and Francis?” Monique asks dreamily. “So romantic together.”
“Which time, dancing or when they thought no one could see them together in the stage wings,” Luka says dryly.
Belle laughs. “Good God, I thought Flora was going to have a heart attack. Claude almost died of embarrassment.”
“They’ll be insufferable once they’re married.”
“If they’re married, they’ve only been courting a few weeks.”
“Do you really think Flora and Agnes won’t force an engagement on them after that display?” Luka points out.
Belle grimaces. “Touché.”
“That’s not right,” Monique protests.
“Welcome to the real world, dear.” Luka ruffles her hair and barely misses being swiped at.
The rest of the walk home is spent with the two of them bickering, which escalates into a childish chase that their mother puts an end to with a look. Belle accepts her father's offered arm, giggling. “Grateful I wasn’t like that?”
He laughs, a familiar bright sound. “Belle, you were much worse.”
She chooses not to partake in the evening commentary once they’re home, slips upstairs just as Monique is dragging their father up to apparently reenact the quickstep. Luka’s eyes find hers briefly, questioning, but he says nothing.
There’s a tabby cat she’s never seen before curled up at the end of Monique’s bed, probably one of the strays Papa says he hates but feeds anyway. “Five people and rotating cats!” Mama always protests when they jump on the kitchen table. “Do we need any more mouths to feed?!”
Smiling, Belle lifts the tabby into her arms; it yowls and claws at her coat. “Oh, hush and keep me company,” she scolds tiredly, scratching behind its ears.
It hops out of her arms when she takes the coat off to sit at the small vanity she shares with Monique, her sisters hair ties and brightly coloured clips spilled across the wood. The cat lies in front of the mirror and lazily watches Belle clear up the mess.
A soft tap on the door makes her spin around to find her mother, smiling cautiously. “Is Ilya bothering you?”
Belle frowns. “Ilya?”
Her mother gestures to the cat, walks forward to stand behind Belle. Looking at her in the mirror, Belle raises an eyebrow. “You named one of the cats? I thought you hated them?”
Mama rolls her eyes. “Not me, your brother. I believe I’ve been outnumbered on that front.” Her hands hover uncertainty over Belle’s hair, still pinned up. “May I?”
Belle nods wordlessly. For several minutes, the only noise in the room Ilya’s purring.
Seeing both their faces reflected, it strikes her once again how truly little she resembles her mother. You’re certainly your father's daughter, everyone says. They’re hardly wrong - from her dark hair to the dimple on her right cheek, Belle is her father's daughter. Her mother even jokes that the same muscles in their jaws jump when they’re upset or angry.
It used to upset Belle, when she was much younger, how little they look alike. She would sit beside her mother in the mornings and stare at the face in the mirror, looking for any trace of herself. Luka got her auburn hair and nose, Monique her heart-shaped face and smile. The only physical trait Belle seems to share with her mother are her eyes. Blue as the Neva in spring, her father had once said.
She’s never seen the Neva. She wonders if it looks anything like the Rhône.
Mama takes the last pin from Belle’s hair, runs her hands through the tumble of dark curls. “You looked like you had fun with Peter tonight,” she comments, none too subtle.
“Mama,” Belle protests in a half whine, face flushing crimson.
“I’m just saying,” her mother laughs, squeezing Belle’s shoulders. “I remember what it was like, thinking you could fall in love with the first handsome boy you dance with.”
Belle doesn’t take the bait. “I danced with Elodie, too,” she points out.
Mama’s eyes flicker to hers briefly. “So you did.”
“What happened to the handsome boy you danced with?”
“I married him.”
Belle rolls her eyes, snorts when her mother tugs a lock of her hair. Ilya’s tail flicks in warning when his paw is moved to gather hair ties.
She studies her mother’s face, and wonders. Ever since she found the postcard, now hidden under her mattress, she’s wanted to ask - but she’s torn between the need to quash her one curiosity and desperately not wanting to hurt her mother.
“Can I ask you something?” She’s blurting before she can stop herself, inwardly cursing herself a second later.
Mama doesn’t even look up from plaiting Belle’s hair. “Of course,” she says distractedly.
Belle counts to five in her head. “What was it like - living in Russia?”
Mama’s hands go very, very still in her hair, expression closed like shutters falling. To her credit, she keeps her composure. “Why do you ask?” Her voice is completely flat. Belle’s heart pounds painfully.
She swallows. “You just - you’ve never said. You or Papa. It was your home, once.”
She expects anger or a curt reply, but her mother just sighs. “Not for a very long time, Belle.”
Her eyes are so sad, Belle almost regrets asking, but she refuses to let go. “Please.”
After a tense few seconds, her mother slowly sits beside her at the vanity, back to the mirror. It seems to take her several tries before she can speak. “For - for a long time, it was good. Wonderful, even. Until it wasn’t.” She refuses to meet Belle’s eyes, fiddles with her silver wedding ring instead. “You have to understand, my love, Russia can be a very unforgiving place. Either it hurts you or you hurt it. My family -“ she falters, voice breaking. “We had it better than most, protected from awful things. Your father, though...well, you can ask him, but I’m not sure he’ll tell you.”
It’s the most her mother has ever said of her past, but Belle latches on to one specific part. “Family? I thought you were an orphan.”
Her mother’s face flickers with annoyance as if she’s been caught in a lie, but she clears her throat quickly. “I was orphaned during the Great War. They died when I was seventeen.”
Guilt sits heavy and bitter in Belle’s stomach. She takes her mother’s hand and squeezes. “I’m sorry, Maman.”
Tapping Belle’s chin, her mother smiles sadly. “It was a very long time ago, Masha. But thank you.”
The old nickname makes Belle sit up straight in surprise - Masha, a diminutive of her middle name Marie. Her mother hasn’t called her that in years.
When her mother stands up, she knows the conversation is over. Belle’s mind races.
“Our grandparents,” she voices quickly. “What were they like?”
Hand on the doorknob, her mother pauses, frowning. “They loved us,” she says eventually. “Until the very end. I believe that’s what is important, now.” She blows a kiss to Belle. “Goodnight, my darling.”
Belle doesn’t move until Monique comes up to change, and it’s only when she’s lying in bed listening to her sisters humming that she realises her mother had said us, not me.
“When Sylvie said that Sudayev kid had taken up residence in the library,” Elodie remarks loudly, making Belle jump in her seat, “I was expecting Luka.”
Belle groans, slumping. “Really?”
“No.” Elodie chuckles, moves from where she’s leaning against a bookcase to sit across the table. “Lettiere said you’d be here.”
Belle’s eyebrows shoot up. “You had a conversation with Peter?”
“Beat it out of me, more like,” Peter grumbles, emerging from around the corner.
Elodie rolls her eyes. “Take your hat off, idiot, you look ridiculous.” Peter tosses the hat at her in retaliation.
“Alright,” Belle says in a tone similar to the one her mother uses when Luka and Monique fight. “Aside from how worrying it is that you two are willingly spending time together, why are you looking for me?”
“Minor concern.” Peter plucks one of the many papers scattered across the table between them. “Why are you reading newspapers from -” he squints. “Thirty years ago?”
“And books on the Russian revolution?” Elodie adds, holding up a copy of Trotsky.
Belle cringes. “It’s for work?”
“Yes, because the column has exclusively delved into Russian history.” Elodie pins her with a hard look. “Belle, please tell me this isn’t about that damn postcard.”
“Postcard?” Peter looks up, sandy blond hair falling in his eyes. “What postcard?” Elodie shushes him.
Belle hides behind her clasped hands. “You’re going to say I’m insane.”
“Probably. Elaborate.”
Sighing, she pushes the stack of papers towards them. “You’ve heard of the Romanovs, yes?” Elodie murmurs an affirmative; Peter still looks baffled. “Well, did you know about the rumours of one of the daughters surviving?”
It’s a dam breaking - she tells them everything, rambles and talks with her hands until her throat is dry and Elodie and Peter are looking at her as if she’s grown a second head.
Elodie blinks several times before turning to Peter. “Please say you have cigarettes.”
“You don’t even smoke!” Belle protests.
“I think this counts as an exception.”
“Wait, just -” Peter rubs his temples. “You think your mother - Anya Sudayev, who made Julianna's wedding dress, collects coloured glass paperweights, will not eat mushroom stroganoff and has a temper worse than yours - is secretly a Russian princess?”
“Grand Duchess,” Belle automatically corrects.
Elodie groans. “What about that - Anderson woman?”
“She’s in Germany. The family denounced her after the Dowager died.”
“How long have you been sitting here reading this shit.”
“Elodie,” Peter hisses.
“Shut up, Lettiere, you’ve heard worse from Francis.” Elodie lays her hands flat on the table and rests her chin on them. “Is there - anything else to this frankly bizarre theory?”
Belle grinds her teeth but tells her anyway. “She told me her family was killed when she was seventeen. Anas - the youngest daughter would have been that age, too. If she was still alive she’d be forty-five -”
“- and your mother also happens forty-five with the same birthday,” Elodie finishes. She stares at Belle long enough for her to begin feeling uncomfortable. “Have you been sleeping?”
Belle blinks. “What?”
“You’re burning yourself out trying to solve a mystery no one else has managed to,” Peter says slowly. “Seems like one hell of a distraction.”
Belle is not used to being around the two of them when they’re not fighting for some inexplicable reason or another - the sudden joint concern and focus on her is unnerving. “I’m fine. I’m not trying to solve anything, I just -” she avoids their eyes, taps the book in front of her. “I want to know.”
Peter and Elodie glance at one another, unconvinced. “You’ve not even spoken to your parents, have you?” Peter asks.
Belle glares at him. “Yes, Peter, because confronting my parents about the most traumatic period of their lives is what led me here.” She grinds her teeth. “I don’t know how to ask, not knowing it’ll hurt them.”
“That’s just it.” Peter waves a hand. “Is it worth the hurt, asking them to relive the worst time of their lives on the - small chance any of this is real?”
“You sound like my brother.”
“Luka’s wiser than he looks.”
“If it matters this much,” Elodie interrupts, “just ask. At worst, they’ll think you’re delusional, at best you discover you’re royalty.” She slides one of the open books towards her, frowns at an image of Anastasia. “I can’t even tell if she looks like your mother.”
Peter nods. Belle stares at them. “You two agreeing with each other is horrifying, by the way. I prefer you fighting.”
The problem is - they’re not wrong. Belle has never done anything in halves, even if there’s a risk of sabotaging herself. Luka’s called her out about it enough.
“You can’t fix everything in the world just because you can’t fix yourself!” he’d yelled at her once, mid-argument over her sneaking out. She’s called him a coward for being too proud to accept Vlad and Lily’s money to drag himself out of Marseille to school. They’d woken up Monique and made her cry. It was a bad night.
Even if this particular thing burns her out, with her inability to not go all in coupled with having to examine and re-examine every single option before she can take the plunge - she has to know. Belle can’t not ask.
She mildly resents Elodie and Peter for turning it into a moral dilemma. She’s never felt like a worse daughter.
It takes Belle three days for her to gather up enough courage to speak to her father, spends so much time pouring over history books her head spins with Russian Imperial family names. Anastasia’s face warps into her mothers the longer she stares at the postcard.
She confronts him before the second-guessing eats her alive entirely.
“I need to talk to you.” She grips the postcard so hard it crumples, stood in the kitchen doorway. Her father peers over the newspaper, brown eyes fearful.
“You are not old enough to marry the Lettiere boy,” he says hastily.
Belle gapes. “Wha- no, God, that’s not it at all.” She’d laugh if her stomach wasn’t tied into knots.
Papa cocks his head at her as she sits across from him. “What is it, ma belle? You’re making me nervous.”
Belle takes a deep breath. “You might think I’m delusional, but please don’t get angry.” Her voice is shaking, and her father's expression changes from lingering fear to frowning concern.
It drops to an empty one when she shoves the postcard towards him, muscle in his jaw jumping.
“I was going to ask Mama,” she finally breaks the excruciating quiet. “But I was afraid she’d hate me.”
Papa makes a wounded noise. “Belle, she’d never -”
“Then tell me!” Belle explodes, sudden rush of emotion heating her face. “Who she is, who you are, why nothing about your lives make sense!”
Silence drops again. Her father sighs, looking at her curiously. “You know, when you were a few weeks old,” he tells her softly. “I told your mother you’d come bursting through our door someday with files on both of us.” He chuckles humorlessly, eyes fixed on the image. “Thought we’d have a few more years, at most.”
Belle feels as if she’s standing on the edge of a cliff, pressure caving her lungs. She taps the postcard. “Who are they?”
Her father clears his throat twice before answering. “Tsar Nicholas Romanov the second and Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna.” Belle swears his accent becomes more Russian as he says it, but his voice softens with what he says next. “Your grandparents.”
Tears blur Belle’s vision - she bites her lip to keep them from spilling. “And that’s -” her voice fails.
Her father's thumb traces Anastasia’s fading face, his own softened into an expression Belle recognises as the one she always sees when he’s looking at Mama.
“That is your mother.”
Confirmation feels like a hollow victory, knowing the people in the photo who’s faces she has committed to memory - God, her family, her grandparents and aunts and uncles - knowing how they died, what her mother survived...it’s horror Belle hasn’t felt since the first bomb was dropped on Marseille.
“Wait - wait here a moment.” Her father suddenly stands up, pats Belle’s shoulder when she startles. “Don’t worry, only want to show you something.”
It brings her back down to earth, listening to him fumble with the bookcase she thought only Monique and Mama used. She bites back a laugh when something falls and he curses. “Papa?”
“I’m fine!” There’s dust in his hair when he returns, making his already gray streaks lighter. There’s a box in his hands that she’s never seen before. “Here.”
It’s full of photos - not official ones like the postcard and images in history books; personal family ones. Belle feels faint, flicking through black and white photographs of her mother and aunts in tailored dresses sat in elegant rooms. There’s one of her and Alexei squashed together in a woven chair, both of them squinting in the sun and grinning at the camera. It’s the youngest she’s ever seen her mother.
Belle hastily wipes her eyes. “How did she survive, that night in the cellar?”
Her father frowns. “How do you know -”
“Nightmares. I’ve heard you both talk about them."
He winces. “That’s not my story to tell, love. You’d have to ask her yourself.”
“I can’t -” Belle launches in a panic.
“You can, Belle, she won’t hate you. Don’t demand it, mind, it’ll upset her enough.” He squeezes Belle’s hand once. “If you just ask, she’ll tell you.”
“Won’t she be upset you’re telling me?”
“We made a promise never to lie to any of you.” His eyes crinkle at the sides. “Though, I think you outsmarted us both.”
Something occurs to her then. “How did you two meet, really?”
A smile ghosts over his mouth. “A parade.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes himself. “She needed a way out of Russia to Paris, I - had the resources.”
“”Resources”?” Belle raises her eyebrows.
He cringes. “Well - your Uncle Vlad and I -”
“He was involved, too?!”
“Ah, Belle,” her father laughs hollowly. “If you knew half the things we had to do to survive that place.” His face has gone hard, the way it always has talking about Russia.
Belle changes the subject. “You always told us you fell in love in Paris.”
“Not a lie. Or, not quite - I’ve loved your mother since I was ten years old, but that’s another story.”
“I’m going to make you tell me all of them, you know.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.”
Belle smiles, swipes a thumb through the dust on the box. “The photos…”
“Your great grandmother left them to your mother.”
Belle lights up. “Maria Feodorova,” she remembers.
Her father raises an eyebrow, bemused. “Yes. The Dowager Empress. You would have liked her.”
Belle’s eyes widen. “You met her?”
He pulls a face. “She didn’t approve of me. At all.”
Belle can’t help smiling. “Whyever not?”
He shifts in his chair, looking awkward. “Well, you see -”
“Because he was a conman.”
Belle practically leaps from her chair. “Mama.”
Her mother doesn’t seem angry - she just looks tired. Her father hasn’t even reacted, as if he’s known his wife has been standing just meters from them the whole time.
Belle feels the same way she did when she was ten and she and Elodie were caught by Flora reading the love letters Julianna would write to her future husband. Her throat hurts and tears springs to her eyes. “Mama, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t -”
Her mother hushes her, hands cradling Belle’s face. “No, no, it’s alright, it doesn’t matter.” She wipes her daughters eyes. “I should have told you when you tried to ask.”
Belle had thought, now she knows, that looking at her mother she’d only see Anastasia Romanova, the Grand Duchess of Russia. But seeing her face, graying strawberry-blonde hair, the smile she’s known her whole life and blue eyes that mirror her own - Belle just sees her mother.
Her father asks something in Russian, concerned eyes on her mother, but she just pats his shoulder and sits down. Belle’s head is pounding. “Could you - conman?”
Her mother looks pointedly at her father. “Care to explain, Dmitry?”
He makes a strangled noise. “Not particularly.” Her mother just rolls her eyes.
“Masha,” she says softly. “What do you want to know?”
Belle’s mind suddenly goes blank, staring at her parents, who have been through more than she’ll ever be able to properly comprehend and she’s not certain she’ll ever understand. She takes a deep breath.
“Everything.”
The world outside goes dark the longer they talk. Mama spins the main tale, with Papa occasionally chiming in. He gets especially uncomfortable when Mama tells her about the ballet and stepping on the Dowager’s train. Belle’s throat closes over in panic when her mother calmly tells her about a Soviet officer holding a gun to her head. Ilya jumps up on her lap and falls asleep, and someone makes tea at some point. The mug goes cold in Belle’s hand.
She’s thankful Monique chose tonight to stay with Odette, and Luka - well, she’s not entirely sure where he disappears to these days.
Belle runs her hands through Ilya’s fur just for something to do. “So.” She clears her throat, finally meeting her parents' eyes. “You had amnesia for ten years, and you -” she gestures to her father. “tried to con her into thinking she was Anastasia, only for her to actually be Anastasia.” It sounds absurd even as she says it. “And this somehow ended with you two getting married.”
“Your Uncle Vlad and Aunt Lily, too,” her mother helpfully reminds her.
Belle squeezes her eyes shut and rubs her temples, trying to soothe the pounding in her head. “And after - was there not...money?” It’s a selfish question, she knows, but all the same. “From your grandmother?”
“Oh, love.” Her mother reaches for her hand. “I know. Not a lot, I’m afraid. No secret fortune. What we had went towards taking care of the three of you.”
Belle bites back an apology, lump in her throat. She looks between her parents, tries to imagine them younger and walking across Europe with Vlad, tries to imagine her father tricking lords and ladies out of their money with small regard for his own wellbeing, and her mother with nothing but a slight glimmer of hope she clung to so tightly it took her across a whole continent. She’s not sure she’ll ever harbour that amount of strength.
“And you never wanted to go back to that world, all this time,” she directs at her mother. It’s not a question.
Her mother’s eyes flicker to her father - he’s looking at her already. “Not for a moment.”
It’s too much. Belle feels hung out to dry. “I -” She clears her throat, standing shakily. Ilya growls unhappily and slinks awaks. “I should go to bed, there’s some column work I need to catch up on tomorrow -”
“Belle -” Her parents are both standing, looking alarmed.
“I'm - I’m fine,” she assures them quickly, surprised to find she means it, an odd weight off her chest. “Thank you for telling me. And - don’t worry, I won't tell Luke and Mona, or anyone else.”
“Not even Elodie?” There’s a knowing look on her father's face.
Belle's heart flutters. “No.” She pauses, exhaling. “I love you both,” she says softly. “Just - give me some time with all of it, please? because I'd like to know more.”
Her mother’s eyes are wide, but she nods. “Anything.”
Belle smiles. “Goodnight.”
She’s not entirely sure how she makes it up to her bedroom, feeling woozy. Ilya weaves between her feet, so she picks him up and hugs him hard to her chest.
For the first time in a very long time, no nightmares disrupt her sleep.
“They eloped?" Belle’s voice echoes far too loudly across the rooftop, making her wince.
Elodie nods, face grim. “You may not want to be around my house for a while, my mother is in a state.”
“Nor mine,” Peter chimes in from where he’s lying across a ledge.
Belle shakes her head, baffled. “Where have they gone?”
“Well, Frankie sent the letter from Paris,” Peter sighs. “Says they’re leaving for London soon.”
“I can't decide if it's romantic or mad.” Elodie rubs her face, takes a long drag of her cigarette.
“Managing to avoid all your sisters and both our mothers? I’d say genius.”
Belle tries to blow a smoke ring and fails. “I suppose that makes you two brother and sister in law, now, doesn’t it?” She takes another pull, grinning at their joint cry of indignation. Peering down at the people milling on the street below, she watches a young woman link arms with a man beside her and throw her head back laughing.
“By the way.” Elodie nudges their feet together. “What did your mother say about that - princess thing?” She asks, waving a hand. “It’s been weeks.”
Peter pushes himself up onto his elbows expectantly.
For half a second, Belle considers telling them. The thought is gone as quickly as it arrives.
She shrugs. “Didn’t end up asking,” she lies casually. “It was a stupid theory, anyway. My mother, a princess?”
Peters hums, lying back down. “Would have been a hell of a story, though. Maybe you should write it, Belle.”
“Like a fairytale.” Elodie offers, before leaning over and blowing smoke into Peter’s face. He falls off the ledge, spluttering.
“A sad one, though.” Belle says softly while her friends bicker. She kicks her own cigarette butt away, eyes catching a poster for La Belle et la Bête across the road. “A good one.”
when they finally hand you heartache,
when they slip war & hatred under your door,
offer you handouts on street corners
of cynicism & defeat,
you tell them;
they really ought to meet your mother.