‘Can you come and play?’

  He turned. Tamara’s face was grinning through the door. It would be so easy to say yes, but this had to be done – and she had to learn that sometimes she couldn’t have what she wanted.

  ‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he said. ‘Not just now.’

  Toma ran back into the other room. Aleksei heard her voice as she went, speaking to her mother. ‘I told you he’d say no,’ she said, with an air of smugness. It looked like she wasn’t the only lady in the family who had yet to learn she couldn’t always have what she wanted. He turned back to his papers.

  The one on top concerned the poet Aleksandr Sergeivich Pushkin. Aleksei moved it swiftly into a pile he would not be showing to anyone – he would burn them, most likely. Pushkin had a revolutionary spirit, but it manifested itself only in what he wrote, never in what he did. He was a better poet than Ryleev and a worse rebel – he would not have managed to kill a dozen in twenty years, with or without a guillotine, unless each one had challenged him to a duel.

  Underneath that was a small paper envelope. Aleksei wondered for a moment what it was, and then remembered with a shudder. It was where he had placed the two fingers Kyesha had given him, the last time they had met in Moscow. It seemed a little crushed by the papers on top of it. Would a sensation as mild as that be transmitted to Kyesha, wherever in the world he might now be?

  He picked up the envelope. It felt surprisingly light. He opened it and looked inside. There were no fingers. God forbid Tamara should have found them. But the desk had been locked all the time Aleksei had been away – and Domnikiia would not have let the little girl near it. What if Valentin Valentinovich had taken them? It was he who had allowed Aleksei the use of his desk – along with this section of the house – and had given him the keys. He might well have kept a spare set. Aleksei could only laugh at what his host might think at finding a pair of severed fingers in his desk. What if he had taken them out into the sun?

  But when he looked inside the envelope once again, he saw that it was not empty. He tipped the contents out on to the desk. It was a dusty, grey powder – not a huge amount, but instantly recognizable for what it was: the final, rotted remains of a dead vampire. It had been over fifteen years since Kyesha had abandoned his humanity and become a voordalak. Now that he was dead, those years of decay had acted upon his remains in an instant. There was little left of him. It was hard to mourn his passing, but it was difficult, unlike with most of them, not to regret his becoming a vampire. Clearly Kyesha had chosen the path he had taken, but in their conversations there had been no sign of the base malice Aleksei had known in the Oprichniki. Even so, he knew Kyesha had killed, and would have killed again, and so ultimately his death had to be applauded.

  There was one concern though. Aleksei could not be sure – there were a hundred ways in which he could have died, at the hands of any righteous Christian he might have chosen to attack – but Aleksei felt it in his bones. Wherever it had taken place, it had been brought about by the man for whom Kyesha had himself been searching.

  It had been done by Iuda.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  ALEKSEI HAD BEEN IN MOSCOW FOR NINE DAYS, UNDECIDED as to what to do. It was easy to assert that action must be better than inaction, but to do the wrong thing now could bring disaster, and change the future of Russia for ever. Even if he simply went to the wrong place, he might find himself too distant from events when they finally occurred to have any influence over them. True, little was likely to happen in Moscow, but Moscow was at least reasonably central. The seat of government was to the north, in Petersburg; Tsar Konstantin was to the west, in Warsaw, though presumed to be preparing for his return, if he hadn’t already set out; the Southern Society, and its revolutionary fervour, was to the south, around Kiev. Minsk was the city most ideally positioned between those three potential powder kegs, but Aleksei was damned if he was going to Minsk.

  And that was the point on which his judgement might have been a little more subjective. Moscow meant Domnikiia and Tamara. They were reason enough to stay, particularly when there was no good reason to leave. He was reminded of the winter of 1812, after Bonaparte’s hasty retreat from Moscow. Then he had lingered in the city with Domnikiia, awaiting events. Then, the event had been a letter from Dmitry Fetyukovich, announcing that he was on the trail of Iuda and the last remaining Oprichnik, Foma. This time, he would be summoned . . . how?

  There was a polite knock at the door. Aleksei opened it. A footman stood outside.

  ‘A gentleman to see you, sir.’

  ‘Send him in.’

  ‘He’s in a great hurry and says you must accompany him,’ the servant replied.

  Aleksei put on his coat and grabbed his hat, heading out to the front door. Waiting for him was Lieutenant Batenkov, that young stalwart of the Northern Society in Moscow.

  ‘I have a message for you, Colonel,’ he said, ‘from Dmitry . . . from Lieutenant Danilov. You must come at once.’

  They walked briskly through the snow, towards the Kremlin and then past the manège and the Bolshoi Theatre before heading up to Lubyanka Square. The club was as busy as Aleksei had ever seen it. He saw Dmitry across the other side of the room, and forced his way through to him, half listening to the hubbub of conversation that filled the air. Three names stood out – the brothers Romanov: Konstantin Pavlovich, Nikolai Pavlovich and Mihail Pavlovich.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Aleksei as soon as he and Batenkov had reached Dmitry.

  ‘Grand Duke Mihail,’ explained Dmitry. ‘He reached Petersburg five days ago.’

  Of the surviving brothers, Mihail, the youngest, was the only one whom Aleksei had met personally. Aleksandr had briefly introduced them six years before, and had recommended the soldier to the grand duke. The news that Mihail should have gone to the capital at this time was no surprise. ‘And Konstantin?’ Aleksei asked. It seemed the obvious question.

  ‘No,’ said Dmitry. ‘That’s just the thing, but worse than that, Mihail is refusing to swear allegiance to Konstantin.’

  ‘What?’ That was news – or more likely, rumour. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘We’ve heard it from three sources.’

  ‘Why should he refuse?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘It’s a coup d’état,’ said Dmitry. ‘Nikolai is trying to take over.’

  ‘But Nikolai swore allegiance to his brother days ago – as soon as he heard Aleksandr was dead.’

  ‘He would do, wouldn’t he?’ Dmitry seemed very sure of what was going on. ‘That way no one suspects him, and he can see which way the wind is blowing. And see what his agents could do in Warsaw.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Konstantin is being held prisoner – that’s why he’s not back in Petersburg.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Even as he spoke, Aleksei wondered if his scepticism was a reflection of his naivety. It would be a very Romanov way of doing things. Both the father and the grandfather had had power ripped from them by other members of the family. Why should this generation be any different? ‘What do our friends in the Polish Society say?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no news,’ said Dmitry. ‘I’ll be honest – what we’re hearing from Warsaw is vague so far.’

  ‘The plan was for them to rise up at the same time as we did,’ said Batenkov, who had been listening intently to the conversation.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Dmitry. ‘And if they see that Konstantin has been arrested, who are they to know that it’s not as a result of a direct order from us, having taken charge here.’

  Aleksei nodded. ‘So what’s the mood here?’ he asked.

  ‘We have to liaise with Petersburg, but the obvious plan is to back Konstantin. If we ensure he takes the throne, then he’ll have to repay us by delegating much of his power to us.’

  ‘A constitution, you mean? That’s less than we’d hoped for.’

  Dmitry touched his father’s arm. ‘You’re such an old idealist, Papa. We have to grab what we can get when the chance arises. Who knows what may come of it in the end?’ His patronizing manner cut Aleksei to the quick, but not for the obvious reason. What really hurt was how utterly deceived Dmitry was as to his father’s motivations.

  ‘Why side with Konstantin though?’ Aleksei asked. ‘Why not with Nikolai? He’d be just as grateful for the victory, and he’s younger – maybe more in tune with our views.’ To be honest, it didn’t sound like the Nikolai Aleksei had heard descriptions of.

  Batenkov nodded. ‘And he’s in a stronger position,’ he added, ‘being in Petersburg.’

  ‘That’s exactly why we have to support Konstantin. Nikolai is too strong. He’ll win and be under no obligation to give us anything.’

  Dmitry was right, Aleksei knew it. There was another reason too. ‘Plus, we’ll have right on our side – in the sense of supporting the correct succession,’ Aleksei explained. ‘Anyone loyal to the crown will be loyal to Konstantin.’

  ‘I don’t like standing around waiting, though,’ said Dmitry. ‘We should act.’

  Aleksei couldn’t help but agree. His mind was in turmoil. As a loyal Russian, he had to support Konstantin as the next in line to the throne. But if the Northern Society threw its hat into the ring with Konstantin, then whose side did that really put him on? And in his heart, didn’t he believe that a constitutional monarchy – what Aleksandr had seemed to promise in the early days – was best for Russia? On top of all that, there was the question of Zmyeevich and the next generation of Romanovs. Aleksei had already decided that a constitution would be a good way of blunting that threat. If a constitutional monarchy it was to be, Aleksei’s new ambition must be to keep it from descending into a French-style bloodbath.

  ‘What had you in mind?’ he asked.

  ‘Go to Warsaw,’ said Dmitry. ‘Free Konstantin.’

  Aleksei shook his head. That would be a waste of time, whatever outcome they were seeking. ‘It’s too far. Konstantin may already have left – or may be dead. The Polish Society is best placed to deal with it.’

  ‘But someone has to communicate with the Poles,’ insisted Dmitry.

  ‘True – and that communication will have already been sent from Petersburg. They’re in charge and they’ve got a clear picture of what’s going on.’

  ‘So we go to Petersburg.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Aleksei. ‘We have to stop Nikolai seizing power, or at least object to it. That will give Konstantin time to arrive.’

  ‘And if Konstantin is dead?’

  Aleksei considered. If one brother had slain another for the throne, then none of them could be trusted. It would be the end of the monarchy. ‘Then God help Russia,’ he said.

  But the thought of fratricide brought the name Cain back to his mind. Power moving from Konstantin to Nikolai brought it one step closer to Nikolai’s son, Aleksandr. That would be in Zmyeevich’s, and therefore Iuda’s interests. Could Iuda have played some part in what was happening? Aleksei dismissed it – it was paranoia. But where Iuda was involved, paranoia was a healthy trait.

  ‘When do we leave?’ asked Dmitry.

  ‘Today,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘Can I come, sir?’ asked Batenkov.

  Aleksei looked at him, and then at Dmitry. Batenkov had a certain earnestness that it was hard not to admire, but there would be little benefit to his company. And now that their goals were concurrent – albeit from different points of view – Aleksei felt an unaccustomed closeness to Dmitry that he did not want to share. ‘No, you stay here, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘We’ll be sending any information we get back to Moscow through you.’

  The lieutenant saluted, and Aleksei and Dmitry left. Out on the street, it seemed even colder than when Aleksei had arrived.

  ‘We’ll meet in two hours,’ he said. ‘That should be enough time to pack. We’ll meet outside my hotel.’

  ‘Your hotel? Shouldn’t you be saying goodbye to Domnikiia Semyonovna?’

  Aleksei froze. He should have expected it – his son was no fool. It was hard to judge his mood. There was a certain bitterness to his voice, but the very fact he mentioned it must indicate some acceptance. And was there a hint of friendly advice in there – a suggestion that Aleksei should do the right thing, and that meant saying goodbye to his mistress? Aleksei hoped so.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s not waste time. I’ll meet you at the Lavrovs’ house.’

  They parted. Aleksei put his head down and forced his way through the blustering snow. It was impossible to judge Dmitry’s attitude over Domnikiia – the boy probably didn’t know it himself. The one consolation was that he was apparently quite unaware that living there in the Lavrovs’ house, along with her mother, Dmitry had a little sister, Tamara.

  ‘Well, I suppose if you have to go.’

  Aleksei wondered who Tamara had been listening to, to come up with a sentence like that.

  ‘I’m afraid I do have to,’ he said. He was squatting down at Tamara’s level, looking into her face, but he knew he was addressing Domnikiia. ‘It’s only to Petersburg this time.’ He glanced up at Domnikiia. It was no consolation to her. Petersburg meant his other home – his other wife. His only wife as far as Domnikiia was concerned, however he might tell her he felt.

  ‘How long will you be?’ asked Tamara.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll try to be home for Christmas.’

  ‘Will you bring me something?’

  ‘Of course.’ Almost immediately, Aleksei understood what was behind the question. He hadn’t brought her back anything from his journey to Taganrog. He thought quickly. ‘Don’t you want something now?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  It was a good question. ‘What would you like?’

  She pointed to his chest. His shirt was buttoned up tight against the cold, but he knew what she meant. He reached inside and fished it out, pulling the chain off over his head.

  ‘This?’ he asked.

  Tamara nodded. Aleksei cradled it in his hand. The fine silver chain hung down. He could see the knot where he had once hastily repaired it, a long time ago. The icon itself was oval; the face of the Saviour looked back at him.

  ‘Do you want it?’ he asked. Tamara nodded again. He held the chain wide open with his fingers, slipping it over her red curls and sliding it down to her neck. Then he pulled at her hair so the chain disappeared under it. She picked the icon up off her chest, tilting her head in one direction and the image in the other so that she could see it the right way up.

  Then she dropped it and flung her arms around Aleksei’s neck, squeezing tightly.

  ‘Thank you, Papa,’ she said. Aleksei hugged her back, feeling her heartbeat against his, and the tiny strength of her arms that was everything she had to offer. At last he let go and stood up. Her arms tried to hold him a little longer, but could not. He bent down one final time and kissed her. Then he picked up his bag and went to the door. Domnikiia followed him.

  ‘Did you have to give her that?’ she asked, once they were alone in the hallway.

  Aleksei had guessed she might not be happy. Originally the icon had been a gift to him from Marfa. He touched Domnikiia’s arm.

  ‘It may have been my wife who gave me it, but it was you who insisted I wear it.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘It was never much protection, anyway.’

  ‘There’re no vampires where I’m going,’ he said.

  ‘She’s there, though.’

  Aleksei avoided the issue. ‘I was originally intending to give it to Dmitry, because of Dmitry Fetyukovich.’ The image came clearly to his mind; him breaking open the frozen, dead fingers of Dmitry’s hand to get hold of the icon he had once given him as a sign of their friendship.

  ‘No,’ she said, firmly. ‘It’s best you give it to Toma.’ She raised her hand to her cheek and thoughtfully rubbed the corner of her mouth. ‘Won’t Marfa expect you to stay with her for Christmas?’

  ‘I’ll make up some excuse.’ Marfa would need little persuading, he was sure. It would give her more time to spend with Vasiliy. He had almost forgotten about his wife’s lover. If the man’s very existence could slip from his mind so easily, how could he claim truly to care?

  He held Domnikiia close to him. She did not put her arms around him; they were trapped between them, pressed against her bosom and his chest. He kissed her, closing his eyes and leaning against her, as if falling into her beautiful, sweet mouth. Eventually, she was forced to step back rather than lose balance. She giggled and slapped him lightly on the arm, then pushed him towards the door.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you soon. Christmas, remember? You promised.’

  He let her herd him towards the stairs, then turned and kissed her once more, briefly, on the lips.

  ‘Christmas,’ he said.

  Every day, Tamara knew, she got a little taller, and that meant that, every day, it was a little easier for her to look out of the window and on to the street below, pulling against the window-ledge with her fingers to raise herself up and see over it. It was already starting to get dark, and the snow in the street looked grey. She looked as straight downwards as she could and saw the top of Papa’s head – or at least the hat on it. He was standing just outside the front door, not going anywhere.

  Then he moved, reacting to something. Tamara looked and saw another man, walking over to her father, who patted him on the shoulder. They walked off down the street together. That was very strange. Why should Papa be so friendly with the man who had hit Mama? Did he know what the man had done? Did Mama know that they were friends? Should she tell Mama what she had seen?

  Her father didn’t turn and wave like he usually did when he left, particularly if he was going a long way away. Tamara wished he had. But he would be back at Christmas. And he’d given her the picture of Jesus.

  She ran over to the bed and lay down on it, holding the icon so that she could look at the picture. Jesus looked like a very kind man, though a little stern. If He hadn’t had a beard, perhaps He would have looked a bit like Papa. She would ask her father to grow a beard when he came back; then she’d know. In the meantime, she had the icon, and she could look at it whenever she needed to be reminded of him.