Chapter Text
Dmitry shifted on the stone steps, feeling the Parisian sun burning the back of his exposed neck. Despite the summer heat, the lawn of the Romanov mansion was almost insultingly green, flowers and ivy sprawling up the grand stone walls. Running a hand through his dampening hair, he squinted into the windows, attempting to make out figures in the darkened rooms. Swearing under his breath, he raised his knuckles to rap impatiently at the door again, cutting himself short as the door swung open.
“Bonjour.” A man Dmitry assumed was the butler stood in the entryway, looking incredibly bored as he stared dully at Dmitry, his white moustache quivering like caterpillars above his lips as he spoke.
“Bonjour.” Dmitry worked out, waiting awkwardly until the butler finally sighed, stepping aside to allow Dmitry inside the house. It was more like a palace, Dmitry couldn’t help from thinking, unable to keep himself from gaping in wonder as he entered the foyer, gazing up at the gilded ceiling and paintings that adorned the walls.
Moustache Man turned, saying something in French Dmitry supposed was ‘stay here,’ not waiting (or expecting) Dmitry’s answer as he exited the room through one of the many doors.
Alone, Dmitry felt his heartbeat quicken; suddenly conscious of every weapon concealed in his bags as he set them gingerly on the floor, wincing in the effort to not somehow scratch the pristine tile.
Opting to study a painting, Dmitry jumped as incessant barking came from an open door to his right, echoing throughout the room. Looking through the open doorway, Dmitry saw a young woman on her knees, lunging after a small gray dog with a black slipper in its mouth.
“Pooka!” The woman let out a string of curses in Russian, her black mourning dress looking quite rumpled as she caught the dog, pulling the chewed slipper from its mouth and shoving it back on her bare foot.
Dmitry caught his breath. There she was. His target.
He had heard a lot about the famous Anastasia Romanov, of how she had went with her Grandmother to Paris a week before the Romanov family was overthrown and executed, of how she had grown up in Paris, her upbringing little altered; complete with fancy parties and glittering presents and high-class guests alike. He didn’t know what to expect when he met her, but it was certainly not with her sprawled across the floor, her strawberry blonde hair escaping it’s careful chignon, falling across her face and neck as she glared at her pet, scrunching her features as the dog licked at her nose, almost in an apology for stealing her shoe.
Anastasia sat back, flicking her hair out of her face. She gazed at the dog, a reluctant emotion overworking her features. Slowly, her shoulders started to shake, a hesitant laugh bubbling her chest, as if she had forgotten how. Soon, the joyful sound bounced throughout the empty room, her giddiness colliding with the mournful spell as she picked up her dog and twirled, the black satin swishing around her legs.
“Oh, Pooka, whatever are we going to do with you?” Anastasia sighed, stopping as her gaze landed on Dmitry in the doorway. “Oh.” She blushed scarlet, setting the dog on the floor, hastily righting her dress and hair. “ Excusez-moi.”
After a moment, Dmitry bowed, “Mademoiselle, je suis Dmitry Sudayev.” His French caught at his teeth, stumbling out of his mouth awkwardly. Anastasia smiled warmly, gesturing for him to enter.
“Wonderful to meet you, Dmitry. I’m Anastasia, the Grand Duchess.” She responded in Russian, sweeping a royal curtsey, extending her hand as Dmity stepped forward. He clasped her delicate fingers, once again bowing his head. When he looked up, Dmitry wondered how he could have ever doubted she was the Grand Duchess, her royal blood evident in her sapphire eyes as she gazed at him with her nose slightly upturned, her thin lips poised in a regal smirk.
“How did you know?” He asked, slightly embarrassed.
Anastasia responded with a genuine smile, the gesture regulating the same joy she had when she laughed. “Dmitry Sudayev?” She cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t find many of those in France, and I’m afraid your accent could use some work.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Anastasia turned, walking deeper into the room, and Dmitry hesitantly followed, hovering by an armchair. “French may be the language of love, but Russian is my mother tongue, and it’s refreshing to hear it being spoken again. I’m afraid the servants only know French - or their Russian is very poor, and now there’s no one I can practice it with.” She halted by the window, and the sunlight caught on her askew hair, setting it alight in a golden halo. Her hands fluttered around a bouquet, tracing the petals softly. Mourning flowers.
Dmitry inwardly cursed, mentally smacking his forehead. “I should have brought flowers - I’m sorry.”
“Please, you’re the one visitor that hasn’t showered me in orchids and chrysanthemums.” Her reassuring smile saddened slightly. “I take it you’re here to pay respects in regards to Marie?”
“Yes, I’m afraid the people of Paris will miss her terribly.”
“You knew the Dowager Empress?”
“No,” He quickly recovered, halting excuses in his mouth, opting for the safe route of embellished truth. “But I know she was a great woman.”
“She was.” Anastasia’s voice was wistful, her eyes misting over with memories privy to her. “France has lost a charitable woman, and a gracious member of society. But I’ve lost my grandmother, and I’m afraid all the flowers in the world won’t bring her back, just clutter the tabletops.” Her nose scrunched in a slight chuckle, her tone conveying no awkwardness.
“Madamoiselle Anastasia!” The butler appeared in the doorway, his moustache quaking as he spoke rapidly in French, lifting his foot every second syllable or so to alleviate the dog - Pooka? - from chewing on his laces. It looked almost like a grasshopper’s dance, and Dmitry struggled to swallow his laughter.
He glanced at Anastasia as she responded, and he saw that while her brow was stitched in seriousness, her mouth tightened resolutely at the corners, as if she was fighting the urge to crack a smile.
After the butler left, Dmitry let out a low whistle. “I’m afraid Monsieur Moustache Man is displeased of my presence. What, are we not chaperoned?”
Anastasia looked shocked, and for a split second Dmitry wondered if he said anything wrong, but then she laughed, bright and clear, the sound once again lighting the room. “I’m afraid there is no pleasing Paul Anouilh ,” she over-enunciated the name, rolling her right shoulder good naturally. “But he was Nana’s friend, and a good servant.” She strolled by him, slightly raising her arm, and etiquette took over as Dmitry offered his, her touch feather light on his forearm as they walked back out into the foyer. “I wouldn’t comment on his moustache if you favour your head, I hear his wife compliments it every night before bedtime, and he’s extremely proud of it.”
Despite himself, Dmitry chuckled, shaking his head slightly.
“Oh, are you travelling somewhere?” She inquired, seeing his suitcases still sitting beside a table.
“Just arrived in town, actually.” Thought over lines scrolled through Dmitry’s mind, planned sentences starting to flow from his mouth. “I’m a bit of a vagabond, you may say. Looking for a place I could call home. I’m on my way to look for a hotel.”
“Oh, don’t think of it!” Anastasia faced him, one hand still lightly resting on his arm. “The Parisien Hôtels may be grand, but we can treat you just as fine here, and for a much cheaper price.”
“I couldn’t take advantage of your hospitality, not in your time of mourning.” Dmitry faked humility, her gracious spirit predicted.
“Please, you’re the one person who hasn’t walked on eggshells around me since Nana passed. I’ll be hosting dinners throughout the month, and at the end I’ll be hosting a ball - a coronation of sorts; a ceremony crowning me the official heir to the Romanov title and fortune.” Though she said the words easily, almost heedless of their implications, Dmitry saw her countenance shift, apprehension akin to fear clouding her clear blue eyes.
He smiled. He had already known about the dinners, already known about the ball.
“There will be other Russian ex-royals,” Anastasia continued, as if he needed convincing of staying, “and-”
“Alright.”
“Alright?” She looked taken aback.
“Well,” Dmitry scoffed, shrugging his shoulders humorously. “I imagine the company here is better than at any hotel.” - Anastasia giggled, blushing slightly - “And I think I could afford to spend a few weeks in a place like this,” he gestured vaguely to the surrounding grandeur. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all, it’ll be nice to have a friend.”
“Friends? Your Highness, we’ve only just met.” He smiled flirtatiously.
“We have an entire month to find out.” She grinned back