There are footsteps coming from the drawing room. Someone is coming. They glide across the dining room, around the large table, six-seven-eight, why do I bother counting? It's late. I'm far too tired for this. There isn't any other choice but to answer when the footsteps knock on our bedroom door. I let Tatiana do this, she's already thin as a stick, why waste my effort, I can't imagine that walking to the door or any amount of exercise could help my appalling weight gain. Even Mama had mentioned it. Spasiba Mama, I love you too. That's a quip, but what the footsteps say sounds like anything but a funny prank.
"Tatiana Nicholaievna? Could you inform the family we must get dressed? Commandant Yurovsky has told me we all must prepare for an hour or two in the lower area of the house. It seems our Czech friends have come for us! Pray let it be so, I'm sorry for this disruption your highness"
This last bit is whispered, the Lord forbid those pigs hear ou