Things weren’t going so well. The family had been under house arrest for some time now, moved first from their palace to Tobolsk, and finally here, to Yekaterinburg. The “House of Special Purpose,” the Bolsheviks called it. A cruel joke, perhaps. It was terrifying to wonder what sort of plans they truly had for them.

Despite the dire situation, things had started off somewhat bearably. Back in Tobolsk, the guards had shown a hint of civility—greeted them in the mornings, answered questions, reexplained rules when needed. They weren’t warm, but they were tolerable. A thread of compassion still lingered in the air, barely enough to lift their spirits.

But here, in the Ipatiev House, it was a different world entirely. There were invasive check-ups, guards barging into rooms, rummaging through personal belongings, examining everything: their clothes, letters, keepsakes. Nothing felt safe. It truly was a prison—every corner seemed to mock them.

Crude, hateful drawings of Alexandra and Rasputin had been scrawled on the walls by bored, bitter soldiers. One guard, constantly drunk, stumbled into the dining room during meals, shirt half undone, unwashed hands grabbing food from their plates like a wild animal before being dragged out by another. The young women and Alexei had never witnessed such base vulgarity before. Not even in the streets of St. Petersburg had they seen such filth, such hatred.

Nicholas was no longer a tsar, only a man—a father trying to protect his family as best he could.

And still, through it all, they tried to hold on to the shreds of normalcy, keeping conversations light, avoiding the dark thoughts creeping into every silence.

Like now. It was the 26th of June—Maria’s nineteenth birthday. Oh, how she had grown among her siblings! A bright, affectionate young lady. Nicholas sat at the head of the table, quiet tears threatening to rise. He wouldn’t let them fall. He was proud of his children. Alexandra, poised as ever, smiled gently as she poured a little champagne into each of the seven glasses.

“I suppose we’re classy prisoners now,” Alexei muttered, lifting his glass with a grimace. His tone was dry, bitter. The treatment he endured from the guards wore heavily on him. Anastasia gave a small, unimpressed hum, trying to play along. “Better drink it while we can…”

Maria’s smile faltered. She had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they might try to enjoy this moment—just one day without bitterness. Her gaze dropped. Birthdays came only once a year. Would she ever have another?

“Now, now,” Alexandra said softly, trying to smooth things over. “No need to be so sullen.” She gestured subtly to Tatiana, who smiled gently and rose from her seat.

Maria tilted her head, watching curiously as her sister moved to the double doors leading out to the hallway. She had a feeling they were up to something. Indeed, they were.

Tatiana opened the doors—and in walked a young guard she undoubtedly recognized, handsome and quiet, carrying a small tray. He set it down carefully in front of Maria. On the tray sat a modest birthday cake, its frosting uneven, but it was a cake nonetheless. His eyes met hers briefly—just long enough for her cheeks to flush pink. Ivan had kept his promise. Despite everything, he had brought her a gift.

Maria gasped, rising from her seat in delight. Her siblings gathered around her with smiles and hurried kisses on the cheeks. “Happy birthday,” they chimed in unison. Alexandra held her daughter’s hand, gently brushing hair from her face.

Nicholas, always watching, had caught the glance exchanged between the guard and his daughter. A flicker of unease passed through him. There was something there. He wasn’t sure what, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

“Happy birthday, my dear,” he said, managing a rare smile. “Let’s all sit and cut the cake, yes?”

Just for a while, they would allow themselves to forget.