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killed.”
    Something closed in Sasha’s face when I said that. I wished I could have swallowed back the words. “You had better be going before you get in trouble,” he said. I blushed to have my own cowardice thrown back in my face. And Sasha looked so vulnerable there, his uniform a little too big for him. What a photograph that would make. Yet if I had my camera with me, would I take it? I did not want to be reminded of Sasha in that weak state. How could he take charge of even ten men? I wondered. I wanted to run up to him and fling my arms around his neck, tell him that he should come with me, that my papa would make things all right and he wouldn’t have to go to war. But even as I took a step toward him, he flinched.
    “Take care, Alexander Mikhailovich,” I said, feeling the tears close my throat. I turned around, not wanting to prolong our good-bye. Not wanting to ask him to write to me, especially since any letters he sent would be read by several pairs of eyes before they ever reached me.
    “Wait!” he said. I stopped just before opening the tent flap. “Would you keep this safe for me?” He darted to the corner of the tent and picked up something wrapped in cloth. I could see by its shape that it was his balalaika. He held it out toward me.
    “Won’t you want it? To play to people and soothe them?”
    “The less I have to carry the better. And besides, if something happens to me, I want you…” He didn’t finish. I reached my hand out and grasped the instrument firmly by the neck. He moved his grip so that his hand covered mine, and it sent a charge through me. Our eyes met briefly, and I could tell that he felt it too.
    I was too confused to continue looking at him, so I forced a smile and lowered my eyes. “Of course, Sasha.” I pulled the instrument toward me. He let go of it and my hand. I still felt the warmth of his skin.
    “Good,” he said. “Good.” Then he gave me a half-hearted salute. I left, looking even more like a peasant than when I arrived, with my wrapped-up balalaika slung over my shoulder.

    I got back to the palace gardens just as the sun was rising. Varenka anxiously paced back and forth by the kitchen entrance. “I’d have never forgiven myself if something had happened to you, Princess!” she said.
    We went inside and exchanged clothes hurriedly. I realized how selfish I had been in getting her to help me with my little excursion. She would have been severely punished—and not just by her mother with her switch and harsh tongue—if there had been some mishap.
    Mashka was already taking her cold shower when I got to our room. I quickly hid the balalaika behind my dresses in the wardrobe, then sat at the dressing table and brushed my hair, trying to decide how to explain my early morning absence to my sister.
    She came out wrapped in a large white towel. “Where have you been?”
    “Up,” I said, deciding the less I told her the better. “I couldn’t sleep.”
    To my surprise, rather than quizzing me further, she said, “Neither could I. I lay awake for the longest time last night. I think of all the officers we know, the ones Olga and Tatiana have danced with and had tea with. And … you know who. Some will die.”
    I nodded. Mashka had had a flirtation with a soldier, but it was not serious. She had stitched him a shirt, though, to wear on dress parade. Somehow her romance was tamer than my friendship. I supposed that was because mine was secret.
    “I’ve been thinking,” she continued. “It may be impossible to make enough shirts to be useful, but we can help the soldiers by knitting socks and making bandages for the wounded.”
    “Yes, it would be good to actually do something, even so small.” I couldn’t help thinking that no amount of socks would improve the training of our army. And as for the wounded—I couldn’t bear to think about them, not yet.
    We had breakfast together in our dining room. It was the four of us with Zhilik and Trina. Mama