http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e6/TatianaAlexeicropped.jpg (photo for this bit...just the link bc the photo itself is huge)
Nearly five o’ clock, a soft and quiet time. The light through the window is muted gray by the clouds but is nonetheless bright. The air has a fresh, clean smell that puts the people on edge by its promise of rain, rain over the green grass and in the quickly-cooling summer air, and even in their restlessness they long for it. I feel too awake to...feel awake, Maria thinks as she sits down, settling between her two sisters, the very oldest and the very youngest, at the long tea table downstairs. She does not pursue the thought or try to make it make sense. It’s something she does sometimes--come up with some random nonsensical or philosophical thought and then try to make it mean something in her own mind, to work through it and analyze it, in a sense. She is hardly aware of doing it. It would be too frustrating to even attempt explaining to anyone. The people downstairs are happy, a certain lightness in their hearts brought on by the clear, tense weather outside. Nicholas speaks of something funny, tossing a golden teaspoon into the air, and his three present daughters laugh. The atmosphere of waiting hasn’t affected the people in the house accordingly, but has curiously freed them from worry. They can’t think past their contentment.
In the boudoir, three people move lightly from tables to chairs, tidying up. The room is slightly dim, pleasantly cool. The layers of fresh clear air are almost visible and the movement in the room barely stirs it up. There is no feeling of burden. Tatiana places a tiny picture frame holding a snapshot of her father and older sister on a table then picks it up again, as Alexei stands nearby examining a small wooden hourglass, his head bowed. Alix straightens the silk cover on a chair, her fingers smoothing out the sharp creases in the material. The silk is warm. Alix straightens, sighing, and observes her two idle children as they pick at the little trinkets in their hands, totally unhurried and pleasantly consumed by their interest. The blurrily bright light seeping through the windows illuminates their light summer clothes; the thin and softly glowing material makes the children appear ghostly, beautiful. Alix is struck by this for a moment, and then speaks, suddenly slightly tired.
“A nice day, I think. Did you get those translations done with M. Gilliard today?” This is directed to Alexei. The boy nods, looking up from the hourglass with a somewhat detached expression on his face, fingers continuing to pick at the small toy. Tatiana places the picture frame on the little table by her side, putting one hand on her hip and smiling at her mother. This pretty smile calms Alix, and even in this wave of welcome calmness she feels inexplicably sad. The laughter drifting up the stairs feels strangely apart, an even in her unhappy weariness Alix is glad her children remain unaffected by…whatever it is.
“Olga and I cleaned today, Mama,” Tatiana says cheerfully. “You don’t have to worry about either of the girls’ rooms. None are too messy. And the playroom is okay too…I checked.” She brushes her fingers up beneath her short bangs and scratches, looking down at the table; her hair adheres silkily to her head in smooth auburn waves. The effect is lovely. Then, looking up, she sees her mother’s slightly pained expression. Her eyebrows furrow. “You look tired, Mama.”
Alix smiles, shaking her head. “I’m just fine, my dear. A little tired; hungry, maybe.” The clouds outside are almost shockingly black; it’s gotten cooler than Alix thought. She hurries to a green-shaded glass lamp and switches it on. “Too dark in here.” Moving her hand away, she hears a clinking—her rings have struck the new Kodak sitting on the lamp-table. An idea. “Why don’t you two take a picture together? Alexei?” She is almost desperate to change how she feels with some small commonplace action.
The two children straighten and glance around the room, searching for a proper photo-taking place. The both start off to a separate corner of the boudoir, and then, seeing what they’re doing, they snap back together like a rubber band. They giggle, then look at Alix. She is adjusting the Kodak, and says without looking up, “The chair.”
So Alexei and Tatiana squeeze into the mauve armchair by the window, Tatiana first with Alexei then burrowing against her shoulder. He is cozy, pleased--his smile is completely automatic. Tatiana, curiously, cannot make herself smile as she watches her mother struggle with the camera, and maintains a fairly serious expression. “Lean closer together,” Alix says. “Tanya, put your arms around your brother.” The girl places her hand on her brother’s knee, turning towards the camera. The light from the window, the strangely bright and foggy light that always comes just before a summer storm, illuminates them eerily. And the photo is taken: Alexei’s smile, his cozy happiness, showing plainly while Tatiana protects her brother in the only way she can…with one ghostly pale hand and the expression on her face. It will not be noticed until long after the photo is developed—the gravity of her expression. The fragility of their hands, their wrists, their white-clad shoulders pressing together. The softness.
Alexei rises from the chair and runs downstairs as a loud peal of laughter sounds from the tea-room below. Alix and her daughter join hands, first walking slowly, and then almost unconsciously speeding up. The stairs are cool, dark, and an explosion of light and noise greets them at the bottom, five familiar faces beaming around a gleaming cherrywood table. Something unpleasant inside both of them relaxes, and they loosen. Everything is okay.
