“We must act quickly now, Anastasia. The hostler will harness the ponygirls to the troika landau. The three chosen, are intelligent creatures and will take you to Gatchina with all speed”, the Czarina reminded, rehearsing, yet again, the vital details of the plan to get Anastasia to a port, and a ship sailing for London, with her message from the Czar, and the appeal of her very appealing self, to support it.

Even as the Czarina fussed over these final details, she stole an arctic fox stole around her daughters neck, and bade her enter the troika, thereafter pulling a white wolf-fur rug over the sweet child-woman’s knees.

The hideous haunting howls hollered as if in the same building. But such was it the normalcy of expectation that such dissonant discourse would be heard in the crisp air of the deepening Russian winter, that only the high-strung ponygirls seemed to register it: the Czarina and the Grand Duchess showed no sign they had even heard it.

Iskra, Pravda, and Siberia, aligned line abreast, clomped their heavy hooves: a line of six beautiful breasts, with the black beauty herself, Iskra, trusted to lead from the centre: all three harnessed ready, and longing to go.

Sweet Anastasia sat at the rear centre of the open-topped sled, with the three reins in her lap, knowing she would not need them, but could snuggle her hands in her wolf-fur muff against the clinging cold, and trust the proud ponygirls to deliver her to her destination.

Time was moving on so fast. The wish that she had spent the metaphorical kopeck had increased, but Anastasia could not disappoint her momma by delaying her departure for the leisure to fountain her golden treasure. She must be at Gatchina before dusk. She would have to stop off on the way. Some faithful peasants would surely let her use their cesspit.

Even with the snow compacted to blue-sky-white sheet-ice at the exit of the stable yards, such was the power from the six stupendous legs which the tremendous strength the pony girls pumped to ground with the pounding of their iron-shoe-shod wooden hooves: hooves that held their feet on tiptoe within them, that Anastasia was thrown back in recoil, as the troika was whisked away on its skis in the bitter biting cold freeze.

She was on her way. The loveliest daughter of the Czar and Czarina, was on her journey to make a personal plea to the king of England for help or sanctuary for her family.

With tears coursing down her proud face, the Czarina ran to the gated palace entrance her daughter had just left through, and called piteously after her youngest daughter: Anastasia!”

But a glorious golden-red curl surround crowned head had already turned her way, and the Czarina could see the cherry-red lips on the angel’s face whispering a pleading sad: Momma! as Anastasia’s sled, sped her into and beyond the horizon of history.

.

Anastasia could not help but cry. She was alone being whisked toward uncertainty. She was so young, so vulnerable, and so laden with the trust her parents had put in her, to get the British Empire to help, or at least provide succour and shelter for the Czar’s family.

Yet, after five miles Anastasia’s lovely optimists smile returned, and her face glowed brighter than the winter sun that was wanly making the blue-white field of endless snow through which her sled was being hauled, blinding to the sensitive eye.

A pack of wolves was spotted on the horizon. Anastasia shuddered, and nestled her pretty hands deeper into her fur muff, after arranging the rug higher up her lap.

Anastasia smiled; despite that she felt soreness in her nipples from the arrival of a would-be familiar over-sensitivity: a prelude to an interlude that she, though now seventeen, had never yet experienced.

Even had she known what was happening, she had nothing with her to deal with the curse’. Had she been aware, she must have hoped that her flow would not begin yet awhile, and that she could make Gatchina, where Colonel-General Lodst would help her provide for her woman’s heavenly cycle.

Though Anastasia could not recognise the signs telling her she was about to enter her period, she knew a more immediately pressing need. And pressing her pretty knees together was no longer getting the better of the burning in her bladder. Anastasia was getting desperate to relieve herself.

.

Seven miles out of St Petersburg now, there was nowhere for a girl to go except in the open. There was no housing; just the endless open road and the boundless fields to the visible edges of the world, where the curved sky kissed mother earth.

The distant woods, despite the wandering wolves seen just now before, seemed ever more attractive to a shy girl.

At the thought of dropping her knickers and peeing in the open air, as she had once been told off for doing when she had been a little girl, Anastasia’s musical giggles lit the lovely lantern of her face, and her eyes glowed with her irrepressible zest for zoë.

The shush of the skis on which her sled sped with the thud of the hooves of her ponygirls, disposed Anastasia to sleep. But she must, but must, answer the pressing call of nature, before slumber’s sweet nurture would, or indeed could, approach further.

The edge of the woods had arrived. Anastasia took her gloved hands out of her muff, and gentled the ponygirls reins to guide them into slowing and then turning onto a path that would take them, she hoped, to a suitable place for a shy Grand Duchess of the Russian peoples, to have a sly pee.

“Slow now Iskra, you darling creature! she coaxed, slow now, slow Pravda and Siberia you faithful souls! How I love you for serving me so unselfishly”, she whispered after she had turned her ponies to trot the troika along the side-path.

The hoped for proximity to a place of relief, only increased the need for Anastasia to go’, and she would have danced her lovely legs to increase her will not to pee herself, if it had not been so undignified.

As it was, in microseconds after her gentle call of Whoa!”, she whisked the rug off her knees, and jumped from the troika, careless of the reins, as she trotted in her tiptoe boots, sliding twice on ice patches, but recovering her hurry to find a hide where she might drop her bloomers, and make true the saying that a girl has to do what a girl has to do’.

The sound of Iskra’s pee thundering steaming to the ground on the spot, where the ponygirls stood and shook their bitted heads and leather reins, seemed to echo in the eerie silence, and its hiss increased Anastasia’s panic for her own chance to piss.

In the clearing there was a slope behind her. Anastasia thought she heard a noise, but was too distracted by her need, to pay it heed.

Her muff was cast off, hanging by the ribbon around her wrist. Her mittens came next, else she would never undo her wolf-fur coat’s buttons and hooks.

Indeed, there was insufficient time to undo more than those up to her knees and half her thighs.

She must lift the skirt of her dress, and her under-slip, and get to the ribbon tie holding up her knickers.

The panic with which she fought to undress, and thus increase a clumsiness not natural to her, would have made her giggle helplessly if she had been a witness of herself, rather than her actual self on the very verge of urinating in her panties.

Thank god her skirt was up, but oh the pretty bow tying her bloomers waistband! If she had known of Fort Knox, Anastasia would have concluded she could better have accessed its golden treasure, than get down her panties in time to piss her own more precious.

Her bloomers were undone at last.

Anastasia danced on her divine legs to stop herself from peeing before she could squat.

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