FYI: The Neva is the river in St. Petersberg, which flows past the Winter Palace.

10. Gray

When the Color Fades

It seems that it was gradually, and then suddenly. Memories of fire that blazed during the cold night were now white against a starless sky. The screams that had been so vivid were mere whispers, ghostly echoes bouncing off the dark corners of his mind. Even the terror that had gripped his heart when he pushed the young duchess and her grandmother through the wall had relinquished its hold years ago.

He was grateful. He wanted to forget.

But there was one memory in particular that Dimitri wished he could recall in vivid detail. Only one.

He could barely picture her face now, only the vague curves of her jawline and mouth, the long hair tied up in a severe bun. She'd smell like clean cotton and laundry soap whenever she'd bend down to hug him.

She had always been there, sneaking him candy when she happened to pass through the palace kitchen, finger-combing his unruly hair when he'd run up to her on short, dimpled legs in the grand halls.

Then one day, she was gone.

The others in the servant quarters had whispered in the dark that she'd thrown herself into the Neva after Dimitri's father had disappeared.

The feeling of abandonment stayed with him his whole life, hovering about his days and nights like a specter. Until Anya.

But there were times, especially lately, when he wished he could see her clearly in his mind. He would rub Anya's rounded belly, wanting so badly to be able to tell his son or daughter that their grandmother had brown eyes, or was tall and slender. But he couldn't. He could only paint the planes of her face in various shades of gray, nothing more.

One day, Dimitri knew, they'd ask about his mother. And maybe he couldn't tell them her name, or how her voice sounded in the night, but he could tell them that she loved their father. Of that, somehow, he was sure. And he could also tell them that wherever she was, she loved them, too.