#(and then they tried to do a mutiny and march on moscow; and now their leader is chilling in Belarus)

[medicinemane]

Anyway... I've been following this invasion since the lead up to it, don't think there's been a single day I didn't look at an update about it, unless I was just too tired and rolled that update in with the one from the next day

Point is, if you have question I may not have all the answers, but I have a basic understanding and would be happy to answer them

I just think that supporting Ukraine is something important in the same way that knowing about the Iranian people's struggles and supporting them against their government is important

I hope we're all on the same page here, but if you don't support Ukraine I've got a mountain of reasons why I do, and I'm happy to answer questions

[bangkokjacknews]

Sunday Mysteries: The Bermuda Triangle

Try to See It from My Angle: The Bermuda Triangle - What is it about this infamous stretch of ocean (and sky) that causes ships and planes to vanish without a trace? At ten past two in the afternoon of 5 December 1945, five US Navy Avenger torpedo bombers took off from the naval air station at Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The commander of Flight 19, Lieutenant Charles Taylor, had been assigned a routine two-hour training flight of fifteen men on a course that would take them out to sea sixty-six miles due east of the airbase, to the Hen and Chicken Shoals. There the squadron would carry out practice bombing runs, then fly due north for seventy miles before turning for a second time and heading back to base, 120 miles away. Their plotted flight plan formed a simple triangle, straightforward to execute, and Lieutenant Taylor and his four trainee pilots headed out into the clear blue sky over a calm Sargasso Sea. Even though everything seemed set fair, some of the crew were showing signs of anxiety. This was not unusual during a training flight over open water. Less usual was the fact that one of the fifteen crewmen had failed to show up for duty, claiming he had had a premonition that something strange would happen on that day and that he was too scared to fly. And, within a few minutes after take-off, something strange did happen. First, Lieutenant Taylor reported how the sea appeared white and ‘not looking as it should’. Then, shortly afterwards, his compasses began spinning out of control, as did those of the other four pilots, and at 3.45 p.m., about ninety minutes after take-off, the normally cool and collected Taylor contacted Lieutenant Robert Cox at Flight Control with the worried message: ‘Flight Control, this is an emergency. We seem to be off course. We can’t make out where we are.’ Cox instructed the pilot to head due west, but Taylor reported that none of the crew knew which way west actually was. And that too was highly unusual as, even without compasses and other navigational equipment, at that time of day and with the sun only a few hours from setting, any one of them could have used the tried and tested method of looking out of the window and following the setting sun, which will always lie to the west of wherever you find yourself. Just over half an hour later, Taylor radioed Flight Control again, this time informing them he thought they were 225 miles north-east of base. His agitated radio message ended with him saying, ‘It looks like we are …’ and then the radio cut out. By then they would have been desperately low on fuel, but the five Avengers had been designed to make emergency sea landings and remain afloat for long enough to give the crew the chance to evacuate into life rafts and await rescue. A Martin Mariner boat plane was immediately sent out to assist Flight 19 and bring the men back; but as it approached the area in which the stricken crew were thought to have been lost, it too broke contact with Flight Control. None of the aircraft and none of the crew were ever found and the official navy report apparently concluded that the men had simply vanished, ‘as if they had flown off to planet Mars’. To this day, the American military has a standing order to keep a watch for Flight 19, as if they believed it had been caught up in some bizarre time warp and might return at any time. At least, that is how the story goes. And it would have had a familiar ring for some, as it wasn’t the first time a mysterious disappearance had been reported in the area. On 9 March 1918, the USS Cyclops left Barbados with a cargo of 10,800 tons of manganese (a hard metal essential for iron and steel production) bound for Baltimore on the east coast of America. The following day, Lieutenant Commander G. W. Worley, a man with a habit of walking around the quarterdeck clad in nothing but his underwear and a hat and carrying a cane, reported how an attempted mutiny by a small number of the 306-man crew had been suppressed and that the offenders were below decks in irons. And that was the last anybody ever heard from Captain Worley or any of his crew. The 20,000-ton Cyclops simply vanished from the surface of the sea, into thin air. The conclusion at the time was the ship had been a victim of German U-boat activity, but when investigations in Germany after the end of the First World War revealed that no U-boats had been located in the area, that theory was ruled out. Instead, speculation ranged from the suggestion – proffered quite seriously – by a popular magazine that a giant sea monster had surfaced, wrapped its tentacles around the entire ship, dragged it to the ocean bed and eaten it, to the rumour, UFO hysteria in full swing (see ‘The Famous Aurora Spaceship Mystery’), that the vessel had been lifted, via giant intergalactic magnets, into outer space. And then, in 1963, eighteen years after the disappearance of Flight 19, it happened again. The SS Marine Sulphur Queen was on a voyage from Norfolk, Virginia, to Belmont in Texas. On 3 February, the ship radioed a routine report to the local coastguard to give her position: she was, at the time, sailing close to Key West in the Straits of Florida. Shortly afterwards she vanished. Three days later the coastguard, searching for any sign of the missing vessel, found a single life jacket floating in the sea. Since then, no other evidence of the Marine Sulphur Queen, its cargo or the 39-man crew has ever been found. Back in 1950, connections had already been made between the disappearance of Flight 19 and of the USS Cyclops: reporter E. V. W. Jones was the first to suggest mysterious happenings in the sea between the Florida coast and Bermuda. Two years later, Fate Magazine published an article by George X. Sand in which he suggested that the mysterious events – thousands of them, by his calculation – had taken place within an area that extended down the coast from Florida to Puerto Rico and in a line from each of these to Bermuda, creating what he called a ‘watery triangle’. His views were shared by one Frank Edwards, who published a book in 1955 called The Flying Saucer Conspiracy in which he claimed that aliens from outer space were also operating in the same area; hence the sky was incorporated into the ‘watery triangle’, which became known as the ‘Devil’s Triangle’. In 1963, following the disappearance of the Marine Sulphur Queen, journalist Vincent Gaddis wrote an article for Argosy magazine in which he drew together the many mysterious events that had taken place within the triangular area of sea and sky. This proved so popular that he expanded the article into a book, which he called The Deadly Bermuda Triangle, thereby coining the famous expression that was to become synonymous with unexplained disappearances the world over. Eleven years later, a book by former army intelligence officer Charles Berlitz, simply entitled The Bermuda Triangle, sold over 20 million copies and was translated into thirty different languages. In 1976 the book won the Dag Hammarskjöld International Prize for non-fiction and the world became gripped by Bermuda Triangle fever – and has been ever since. But it is worth noting that even as recently as 1964 the Bermuda Triangle, as we now know it, simply did not exist. Geographically, the Bermuda Triangle covers an area in the western Atlantic marked by, at its three points, Bermuda, San Juan in Puerto Rico and Miami in Florida – although, on closer study of the locations of some ocean disasters attributed to the myth, it would be easy to extend that area halfway round the world. The Mary Celeste, for example, has even been connected to the Bermuda Triangle, which would extend its boundaries closer to Portugal! But could there be any truth in the myth – some more prosaic explanation to account for the seemingly paranormal events? Is there anything about the actual geography of the area that might cause so many ships and aircraft to vanish apparently without a trace? To start with, the sea currents in the area are heavily affected by the warm Gulf Stream that flows in a north-easterly direction from the tip of Florida to Great Britain and northern Europe. The warm current divides the balmy water of the Sargasso Sea and the colder north Atlantic and is why the climate in northern Europe is much more moderate than might be expected, considering that Canada and Moscow are as far north as England. Once leaving the Gulf of Mexico, the Gulf Stream current reaches five or six knots in speed and this affects the heavy shipping in the area in many ways, including navigation. Inexperienced sailors, especially in the days before radar and satellite navigation, could very easily find themselves many miles off course after failing to measure the ship’s speed with sufficient accuracy, especially in the days when this was calculated by throwing from the bow of the ship a log attached to a rope and timing the appearance of each of a series of knots in the rope as it passed the stern. Failing to do this often enough while sailing in the fast-moving Gulf Stream could quite speedily lead to the crew of a ship becoming hopelessly lost in the vast Atlantic Ocean. Another effect of the fast-moving current would be to scatter the wreckage of lost ships and aircraft over a vast area, many miles from the site of an accident, making it well nigh impossible for rescue teams to locate survivors. Then there is the North American continental shelf which is responsible for the clear blue water of the Caribbean Islands. After only a few miles, the shelf gives way to the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean, an area known as the Puerto Rico Trench. And at over 30,000 feet deep, nobody has ever been down there to clear up any mysterious disappearances. And furthermore, the continental shelf is home to large areas of methane hydrates (methane gases that bubble up through the water after being emitted from the seabed). Eruptions from any of these in the relatively shallow waters cause the sea to bubble and froth, affecting the density of the water and hence the buoyancy of vessels travelling on its surface. Scientific tests have shown that scale models of ships will sink when the density of the water is sufficiently reduced, which could account for the sudden disappearance of various craft within the area. Added to which, any wreckage might be carried away by the Gulf Stream and scattered across the Atlantic in no time at all. The Bermuda Triangle is also known to be an area of magnetic anomalies, or unusual variations in the earth’s magnetic field. Indeed this area of ocean is one of the two places on earth where a magnetic compass points to true north (determined by the North Star) rather than magnetic north (located near Prince of Wales Island in Canada). The only other place where true north lines up with magnetic north is directly on the other side of the planet, just off the east coast of Japan, an area known by Japanese and Filipino seamen as the ‘Devil’s Sea’. In both these areas, navigators not allowing for the usual compass variation between true and magnetic north will become hopelessly lost, and mysterious disappearances are equally common in the Devil’s Sea. But locals there do not blame UFOs or sea monsters; they blame human error. Christopher Columbus, the famous fifteenth-century navigator credited with ‘discovering’ the Americas, was one of the first people to recognize the difference between true and magnetic north; and he wasn’t at all fazed by the odd compass readings he seemed to be getting as he sailed between Bermuda and Florida over five hundred years ago. Magnetic anomalies are also thought to be responsible for the fog that appears to cling to aircraft and boats in the Bermuda Triangle and Devil’s Sea. In such cases, the fog gives the strange illusion that it is travelling along with the craft rather than that the vessel is travelling through it, creating a ‘tunnelling’ effect for the passengers on board. Many reports have been made of the disorientating effect of this curious fog. In one of the most celebrated instances, the captain of a tug towing a large barge reported that the sea was ‘coming in from all directions’ (due to methane hydrates, no doubt) and that the rope attached to the barge plus the barge itself, only a few yards behind the tug, appeared to have completely vanished, presumably shrouded in magnetic fog. Another natural phenomenon that might be held responsible for the strange disappearances in the region are hurricanes, notorious in the area of ocean between Bermuda and the Gulf of Mexico, in the middle of which lies the Bermuda Triangle. These must take their fair share of the blame in bringing down small aircraft and swallowing boats, sending the wreckage to the floor of the Atlantic in minutes and leaving no trace of the craft on the surface. So what really happened in the case of Flight 19, the USS Cyclops and the Marine Sulphur Queen? Let’s examine the first of these disappearances in a bit more detail. Squadron Leader Lieutentant Charles Taylor, although an experienced pilot, had recently been transferred to the air station at Fort Lauderdale and was new to the area. Added to which, he was a known party animal and had been out drinking the evening before the fateful day. A very hungover Taylor then tried to find someone else to take over as leader of the training flight – the only point of which was to increase the flying hours of the four apparent novices – but no other pilot would agree to stand in at such short notice. Shortly into the flight, Taylor’s compass malfunctioned and, unfamiliar with the area, he had to rely on landmarks alone. After nothing but open sea, the aircraft eventually flew over a small group of islands Taylor thought he recognised as his home – Florida Keys. Flight 19 was in constant touch with Flight Control and was told to head directly north which, Taylor thought, would take him straight back to base. But Flight 19 was not over Florida Keys in fact; it was over the Bermudan Islands – exactly where it should have been. Heading north simply sent the stricken aircraft out into the open Atlantic. Crew members were heard to suggest to each other they should immediately head west, as their compasses were actually working, but none of the trainees dared to contradict their leader. With a storm gathering and the sun not visible through the cloud, Taylor refused to listen to his subordinates, accepting the instruction from Flight Control instead. But when told to switch to the emergency radio channel, Taylor declined, stating that one his pilots could not tune in to that particular channel and that he did not want to lose contact with him. As a result of this, contact between Flight 19 and Fort Lauderdale became increasingly intermittent. After an hour of flying due north, and with no land in sight, Taylor reasoned he must be over the Gulf of Mexico, and with that made the right-hand turn, due east, he thought would bring his team back to the west coast of Florida. But instead, an hour north of Bermuda and flying over the Atlantic with Flight Control believing them to be close to the Gulf, this manoeuvre only served to take them further out to sea. Flight 19, miles away from where anybody believed them to be, would then have run out of fuel, ditched into the sea beyond the continental shelf, and been broken within minutes by the storm. The Mariner sent to look for them was, in fact, one of two that were sent to assist. The first arrived back at base safely but the second exploded shortly after take-off. (The Mariners, notorious for fuel leaks, were nicknamed ‘flying gas tanks’.) Radio contact had been lost twenty-five minutes into the flight and debris floating in a slick of spilt oil was found in the exact location the plane was though to have come down. In short, there was nothing mysterious about the accident after all. The official report at first stated that flight leader error was to blame for the loss of Flight 19, but this was then changed to ‘cause unknown’, giving rise to the mystery. Contrary to the fictitious version of events, nobody has ever stated, in an official capacity, that the aircraft simply vanished ‘as if they had flown off to planet Mars’. The disappearance of the USS Cyclops does remain a mystery, however, although heavy seas and hurricanes were reported in the area at the time. It is now thought that a sudden shift in its eleven-thousand-ton metal cargo was to blame, causing the ship to capsize with all hands on deck and sink to bottom of the ocean. In the case of the SS Marine Sulphur Queen, something Triangle enthusiasts rarely mention is that the cargo was made up of 15,000 tons of molten sulphur sealed in four giant tanks and kept at a heat of 275 degrees Fahrenheit by two vast boilers connected to the tanks via a complex network of coils and wiring. They also do not tell us that the T-2 tankers such as the Marine Sulphur Queen had a terrible record for safety during the Second World War and that within the space of just a few years three of them had previously broken in half and sunk. Indeed, a similar sulphur-carrying ship had vanished in 1954 under less mysterious circumstances, having spontaneously exploded before any distress call could be made. But what clinches it for me is one particular detail: the fact that officers on a banana boat fifteen miles off the coast of San Antonia near Cuba reported a strong acrid odour in the vicinity. The conclusion at the time, but overlooked later by Triangle enthusiasts, was either that leaking sulphur must have quickly overcome the entire crew and a spark then ignited the sulphur cloud, causing a fire that the unconscious crew were unable to put out, or that an explosion had torn through the boat, depositing the crew in the shark- and barracuda-infested waters. Either way, investigators decided the ship must have gone down just over the horizon from the banana boat whose crew had detected the sulphurous odour. In addition to natural phenomena, there are man-made ones to consider too when it comes to the Bermuda Triangle. Indeed, the Caribbean and southern Florida have long been a favourite haunt for pirates and it’s not exactly in their interests to report the ships they’ve sunk after looting their cargo or crew they’ve murdered in the process. Many unexplained disappearances would be far better explained by pirate activity than by extraterrestrial abduction or sea monsters lurking in the deep. The pirates of the Caribbean were not heroes but vicious murderers who took no prisoners and left no evidence of their piracy, and don’t let Johnny Depp or Keira Knightly seduce you into thinking otherwise. The main explanation for the mysterious events of the Bermuda Triangle is sheer invention. Indeed there are many examples of writers bending facts to suit their stories (notably in the case of the Loch Ness Monster and the Mary Celeste) or indeed pretty much every story I’ve covered in this book), which is hardly surprising since mysterious and ghostly goings-on can be very profitable (as I hope to find out), as everyone loves a good mystery. One of my favourite examples of this is the story of the incident in 1972 of the appropriately named tanker V. A. Fogg that was said to have been found drifting in the Triangle without a single crew member aboard. Everybody had vanished apart from the captain whose body was found sitting at his desk with a steaming mug of tea in front of him and a haunted look upon his face. Read the full article

[best-left-hook-jones]

It Is Not Yet Evening (1/?)

Summary: Historical AU. It is 1917, and with the Russian empire on the verge of collapse, Emma - a former maid for the Imperial family - means to escape the imminent revolution and start a new life in London. Desperately fleeing the Bolsheviks and armed with fake documents and a new identity, she sets out to find the mysterious man with the power to grant her her freedom. But the road to Moscow is a treacherous one, and a chance encounter with a wealthy British businessman may change her life forever.

Words: 3,010

Chapter 1 (AO3)

Alexander Palace; March 14th, 1917. 10:04am.

“Are you nearly ready, devotchka?”

“Nearly.”

Emma picked up her pace, rolling the last remaining shirts and dresses into tight balls before gracelessly cramming them into the overstuffed bag. She could only hope that they wouldn’t be too crumpled and distressed when it came time to unpack them. It would be a long journey, so the chances of that were slim. She sighed and looked around the room.

In her rush, she had left many of the drawers and closet doors propped open, a handful of heavier clothing that she would have to leave behind piled in a heap on the floor. Granny had reassured her that she would take care of it after she had left, but Emma still felt guilty at leaving a mess.

She picked through the leftovers one last time before settling on her warmest shawl and a modest sized hat. She had originally picked out the wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat that her mother had sent her for her birthday a few years earlier, but had had to reluctantly swap it out for a snug fitting winter one instead. It would be a struggle to carry one of the more extravagant ones, she reasoned, and besides, she wasn’t meant to stand out. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she would have to buy all new clothes later anyways; after today she would no longer be in need of her maid’s uniform.

She stood in front of the tall mirror, turning and twirling to see the outfit from all angles. There was nothing too ostentatious about her high collared blouse and long dark skirt, which would hopefully dissuade beggars and thieves. With any luck, she could hide the pearl hairpins that were keeping her long blond hair up under her hat.

Granny appeared in the doorway then, waddling over to the small French mattress upon the gilded bed and seating herself amongst the mess of outerwear sprawled there. Her eyebrows raised as she took in the chaos around her.

“I thought you said that you were nearly finished!”

“I am, babuska. I am just deciding on the last few things.” Turning away from the mirror, Emma spread her arms out to her side. “What do you think?”

Granny bowed her head slightly, her glasses perched low on her nose, as she looked up at the young woman before her.

“I think you will be cold. The snowstorm has picked up again.”

Emma’s shoulders dropped. “But it will be warm in London, will it not? You said the weather there was much more agreeable than here.”

“That may be so, but a million things could go wrong between now and then and I will not have my best lady freeze to death on the streets.” She picked up a long fur-lined coat hanging from the grey partition that divided the room. “Take this.”

The younger woman relented, heaving the coat over her shoulders and fastening the large buttons. She was rewarded with a small smile of approval from her friend.

“Much better.”

She took one final glance in the mirror before moving to collect the last few things she would need for the train. Even with her back turned to her, Emma could sense Granny’s uneasy shuffling in her seat, her palms rubbing nervously over her simple black gown. She knew what the woman was going to say before she spoke.

“I want to go over the plan with you one more time.”

“Babushk-,” Emma began to protest, but the older woman cut her off.

“No, Emma, this is important.”

The elderly lady stood, handing her a large envelope. “These are your new papers and your new passport. They have all been changed to your new name and I have been assured that you should have no problems with them. However, you will still need to pass the security check.” She dug around in the envelope and pulled out a small card with a name scrawled hastily upon it. “You must look for this man. He is an Imperial soldier and will be able to help you.”    

“How will I know which one he is?”

“Don’t worry about that, my dear, he will find you.”

When Emma nodded her understanding, Granny continued, flipping the card over to reveal a new set of names and addresses. “When you arrive in Moscow, you must go to this man on the written time and date. By then he should be waiting with everything you need.”

“We hope.”

“Emma,” Granny sighed, “You know I would never put you in danger if I thought there was another way. The English king is a reasonable man. We must have faith that he will come to his cousin’s aid.”

“Of course, babuska.” She tried not to let her skepticism show on her face. The Tsar had only made the request for asylum a few days prior and there was still no word on whether it would be granted. The Bolsheviks were becoming restless and brave, and many feared that the Tsar’s trip to Stavka would not be enough to keep their soldiers from resorting to mutiny. In his absence, the few reserves the Tsar had commissioned to guard the palace had already begun to desert, leaving the family woefully unprotected. The entire palace staff had been on edge since the attack on Petrograd and it had only been the Tsarina’s reassurance that they too would be granted asylum under the request that had finally settled the anxious whispers. Still, the possibility remained that their pleas for rescue would fall on deaf ears and that they would be left to be taken by the revolutionists.

She shuddered at the thought of travelling the long journey to Moscow only to find that her invitation to Britain had been denied. There would be nothing for her to do, nowhere to go, if that were to happen. She had to swallow down her nerves.

Emma took a long look at the woman who had become like family to her over the years. She tried for a moment to remember what it had been like all those years ago when she had first arrived at the palace, but she could not imagine the portly English woman with anything other than the tight grey curls and crows feet eyes she had now. She had learned so much, seen so much, during her time as a maid for the Imperial family. It felt as if she was leaving a piece of herself behind, leaving now.

“Are you sure you cannot come with me?”

Granny placed her weathered hands on either side of the blond’s face. “I must stay with the family, my dear. I have been in their service for many many years now. This is my home as much as it is theirs.”

“Perhaps I could wait a bit longer-”

“Now, now. You know you must leave today. The Bolsheviks could overtake us any day now, and it would be best for you to be far away when that happens. Those papers will not protect you for very long. I have no doubt that you would be in great danger if your association with the palace were to be discovered before then.”

The woman’s word of caution only furthered Emma’s worries. “But you will be in just as much danger if you stay!”

“Yes, devotchka, but I must remain. The Tsar returns in a few days.” She forced a small smile, “It would not do for the Tsar to return to an unkept palace, now would it?”

Emma only looked down, eyes misty. Granny gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before reaching over to close up the travelling bag.

“Now, no more fussing. You will miss your train if you do not leave now.”

With a final look behind her, Emma closed the door to her room and followed the maid out of the room and down the hallway. At the sound of footsteps, Ingrid, the Tsarina’s second chief maid, poked her head out from her bedchamber.

“Oh, are you leaving already?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Emma answered politely, averting her gaze.

The Baltic woman tilted her head, her pale blue eyes studying the younger maid as if she were trying to find one final flaw to pick out before her departure. “We wish you well, I suppose,” she stated indifferently, her voice high and musical.  

Emma nodded, trying not to shuffle under the scrutiny. Thankfully, Granny intervened.

“Your ribbon is lopsided, Ingrid. You would do well to fix that before her majesty sees you.”

Ingrid shot the English woman a glare, her lips crumpling into a tight pout, before she turned sharply on her heels and returned to her room.

Granny rolled her eyes and led Emma by the elbow down the rest of the hallway.  “Miserable hag,” she heard the elderly woman mutter, her voice full of disdain. Emma only hoped that they wouldn’t tear each other apart in her absence, although, even as Granny’s assistant, Emma had never been able to ease the tension between them.

They paused briefly outside the doors of the children’s rooms, listening for any indication that the occupants might be awake, but there was none. All but one of the Imperial children had fallen ill with measles not a week ago and had been confined to their beds. The Tsarina had become increasingly anxious over the children’s health and had donned a set of nurse aprons to see to their recovery herself. Then again, that had always been her majesty’s way; even when one of her own maids were sick, the empress was adamant about tending to their sore throats and fevers.

Fortunately for Emma, the five children had been well enough to receive her the day before and she had been able to give them each a swift peck on the cheek and a sweetie for when they were feeling better again. The Tsarina had been as gracious as ever in her goodbyes, offering a sizeable amount of rubles in addition to her final pay. She had left her employer with a small curtsy and a multitude of thanks pouring from her lips, though the elegant woman had simply waved off the praise.  

The two maids walked the long hallways of the palace, the young blond taking her time as she committed the last images of her home to memory. The halls were quieter than usual, with what little staff remained having been designated as nursemaids to help with the children.

They descended the short staircase to the main floor and stepped out into the large, semi-circular room that occupied a large portion of the back of the palace. The morning sun shone brightly through the tall windows that overlooked the vast back garden. Granny had been right; the snow outside had only gotten deeper over the night, and the fresh blanket of snow only served to amplify the sun’s rays as they passed through the crystal chandeliers that hung heavily from the ceiling, the reflected light sparkling against the white walls.

The palace curator, Belle, would likely be a wreck when she saw it. Every morning, the serving staff would go through the interconnected rooms and throw open the long curtains, insisting that the Imperial family should enjoy the beautiful scenery as they made their way down to their small breakfast room. The petite French woman had begrudgingly agreed, however the moment that the Tsar and his family had finished their morning meals, she would race down and snatch the curtains closed once more, all the while muttering about the effects that the harsh sun would have on the beautiful portraits and tapestries.

But looking up at the mammoth painting of Tsar Nicholas I, strong and brave as he lead his generals into battle, Emma couldn’t help but think it would take more than sunlight to bring down such a monumental piece.

The beauty was only slightly tainted by the faint smell of smoke that hung in the air. Emma had heard whispers that the Tsarina had begun burning private documents and letters, lest they fall into the wrong hands should they be captured. She may not have been a mother herself, but Emma felt nothing but sadness and grief for the woman. The days seemed to be growing darker for the family and she only prayed that the rulers were granted a miracle soon.

Just as Emma was entering the small library that led to the entrance of the palace, a flash of movement in her periphery caught her eye.

“Ruby!”

The tall brunette turned on her heels at the appell, her face lighting up as she saw Emma coming toward her. “Well look who is sneaking out of the palace while the rest of us are hard at work,” she joked, nodding down at the silver tray balanced in her hands.  

Emma rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, are we pretending that I have never caught you sneaking off in the palace?” Then, in a hushed tone, “Perhaps to meet a certain someone whose charge is a young Tsarevich?”

Ruby pretended to look affronted, eyes snapping briefly to where the head maid was lingering in the doorway. The elderly woman was making no attempt to appear as if she wasn’t eavesdropping. “What ever could you mean?”

The younger maid shook her head, grinning as she placed her bag down at her feet to draw her friend into a hug. The two maids had spent years as each other's’ confidants in the large palace, trading secrets and gossip like sisters. Emma was suddenly struck by the loneliness that awaited her and she clutched her friend a little closer.

“A second round of goodbyes? I must be special,” the dark haired beauty laughed, carefully maneuvering the tray on to the small circular table in the middle of the room.  

Emma, pulled away, ignoring her friend’s teasing. “Where are you off to? I thought you were with the children.”

“I was, but the Tsarina asked if I might bring her some tea.”

“Of course.” Emma could hardly focus, her heart aching at leaving another person so dear to her. “I will miss you.”

“And I you. Perhaps when all of this is over, the Tsarina will allow me leave to come visit you.”

Emma smiled, pushing back the nagging feeling that this could be the last time she would see her friend. “That would be wonderful.”

Just at that moment a bell rang from above, signalling that the brunette was needed.

“Do not forget to write often,” Ruby warned sternly, “or else I will be forced to hunt you down myself.”

“I would not dare, red wolf.”

Her friend snorted at the nickname but Emma saw through it. Another quick kiss to the cheek and Ruby was gone, her long legs carrying her down the hall toward the staircase.

The two ladies slipped through the main doors and began making their way down the long steps that led to the driveway. A small group of palace guards were lounging at the top of the steps, their hands filled with playing cards and hand rolled cigarettes. All decorum had vanished the moment the Tsar had left the grounds, it seemed, and the young men had begun taking more and more liberties with their posts. The oldest of the group couldn't have been more than twenty five, but their faces were rough and war worn. They had been pulled from starvation on the front lines to play protector for the family that had sent them there in the first place. The Imperial family had tried to be kind to their returned soldiers, if only to dispel their thoughts of desertion, but the recent nights of full bellies and fresh linens could not erase the many nights of hunger and unrest on the battlefield.

A roar of laughter broke out from the men as one of their comrades scowled, throwing down his losing hand and taking a deeper drag of dark smoke. The women bowed their heads courteously as they passed but the guards took no notice. The long, outstretched arms of the heavy bronze figures that flanked the bottom of the stairs seemed to reach out to Emma, begging her not to go. Or perhaps they were simply attempting to flee as well.

The car that the head maid had ordered for her was already waiting in the large roundabout at the foot of the steps. A skinny man in an oversized jacket was leaning against the hood of the car, rubbing his gloves hands together in an effort to fight away the bitter cold, but he jumped up immediately as he saw the two ladies approaching. He scurried over and kindly took the heavy bag from Emma’s hands, nodding politely at them both before hurrying back to where the car was still puttering. The man was likely apprehensive about leaving the car stalling for too long, lest its poor engine give out from the cold.

Hands now empty, Emma turned to face her friend. She had had a mess of wonderful words lined up in her mind, a list of thanks that expressed everything that the past thirteen years had meant for her. But faced with the finality of her departure, none of them seemed enough.

“Thank you, babuska. For everything,” she choked out, her throat feeling tight.  

The English lady sniffed once, attempting to hold back tears. “Of course, lovie. You were the best assistant I could ever ask for.” She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Emma’s slender shoulders.

Emma returned the tender hug, squeezing tight as her dearest friend pressed one last loving kiss into her hair. She couldn’t stop the tears pooling in her eyes.

“Proschaite, babushka. ”

“Proschaite. Be safe, Emma Lebedeva.”

It was only later, as she boarded the train that was destined to whisk her away from everything she knew, that she found the gilded pocket knife that her friend had slipped into her coat pocket.