Interlude
Anastasia:
And so my usefulness is reduced to staying alive and hanging around, in another country, until I am—maybe . . . someday—needed.
How depressing.
Of course, I cannot complain to my sister; she has enough to worry about already. So I will suffer in silence and do my duty. In England.
Stuffy England. Wet England. England where the lazy-as-dirt royalty may go an entire lifetime without ever once drawing the curtains on their windows for themselves.
Mother, Father; I never appreciated you enough for making us do our own chores, clean our own rooms, make our own beds . . . and even take cold baths. I am alive only because you insisted, Mother, that we sew jewels into our clothing, ourselves.
Maria is going to love it, of course, just love it. But I will not, not in the slightest. I am going to be bored and depressed and useless. In England.