Stanislav shrugged, raising his hands to the skies, palms up. He took a step past him and then stopped. “I never thought I’d see you back here, do you know that?”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He pointed a long, bony finger at him. “But you be careful.”

“I’ve had enough warnings.”

“Maybe, but the rules have changed.”

Ruzsky frowned.

“Your street investigator, Vladimir, had an assistant a year back. A young army officer, invalided out of the war. Honorable man, like you. He started trying to bring some of those thugs in the Black Bands to account. He wasn’t standing for any nonsense.” Stanislav’s stare was grave with meaning. “He was found in the Moyka with a knife in his back. No one here will tell you that; they don’t like to think of it.”

“Who put it there?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“Was there an investigation?”

“There had to be.”

“Who ran it?”

“The Deputy Chief Investigator, Murder.”

Ruzsky stared at the man. He wasn’t sure what he sought to imply. “I’m sure Pavel did his best.”

Stanislav shrugged again. “Maybe. Vladimir helped. He was upset.”

Ruzsky stared at the snow falling gently in the courtyard. Vladimir would have been upset. He was a strong man, like Pavel, but equally decent at heart. “Did the Okhrana know who these corpses were?” Ruzsky asked. “And if so, how?”

Stanislav turned back. “How did they know you’d sealed the fate of the man who killed that girl three years ago. You or Pavel, whoever it was.”

“Constables gossip. There are hundreds of people in this building.”

“Yes, but very few who know exactly what’s going on inside the Criminal Investigation Division.”

T he front door of the Mariinskiy Theatre was ajar, and as Ruzsky slipped through into the foyer, he heard the noonday gun being fired from the St. Peter and St. Paul Fortress on the far side of the river.

Ahead of him, two young women stood by the main entrance to the auditorium in animated conversation. He interrupted them with less grace than he intended. He felt, suddenly, the way he had on the ice.

The women looked taken aback. “Who wants to know?” one asked.

“Chief Investigator Ruzsky. City police.” Ruzsky fumbled in a pocket for his small, dog-eared identification card, but the girls were not interested. They nodded toward the wooden doors that led into the auditorium.

The door snapped back as he entered and one of the dancers on the stage turned in his direction.

It wasn’t her.

Ruzsky’s mouth was dry. He pulled the collar of his shirt away from his throat.

He stood beneath the royal box, the blue and gold decor of the auditorium sumptuous even in the semidarkness. At the center of the small group of dancers on the stage stood the ballet master in a blue velvet jacket, bathed in light. He had dark hair and a long mustache. He stepped back to allow his dancers room. “And again,” he shouted. “And one and two and jump… No, no, no.”

The ballet master became aware of the dancers’ distraction and spun around to face Ruzsky. “Yes?”

It was a moment or two before Ruzsky acknowledged that the remark had been directed at him. “Maria,” he said, “Maria Popova.”

“What about her?”

“I was just looking-”

“And who are you?”

“Ruzsky, Alexander Nikolaevich. Chief investigator, city police.”

“Has a crime been committed?”

“No. I mean, yes. But it’s not…” Ruzsky began to recover his wits, spurred on by the look of theatrical exasperation on the man’s face. “Where is she?”

“So it’s a private matter?”

“It’s certainly none of your concern.”

The ballet master’s smile told those around him he understood exactly the nature of Ruzsky’s confusion.

“Where will I find her?” he asked again.

“Dressing room number one. Through the side door.” The man dismissed him with a peremptory flick of the hand.

Ruzsky walked slowly toward the side exit. He glanced up at the huge gold crown above the royal box and then at the seats his family customarily occupied.

Ruzsky knew where to find the dressing rooms. It was quiet backstage and he stood alone in the dark corridor outside dressing room number one.

He ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed distractedly at his lower lip with his index finger. Now that he was here, he did not know what to do.

A dancer appeared from one of the rooms farther down the corridor. She was in a hurry. “Can I help you?” she asked as she ran past him, toward the stage, but Ruzsky had failed to reply by the time she turned the corner.

He took another pace forward.

He felt the blood pound in his head. He didn’t need the ballet master’s help to feel he didn’t quite belong here.

For a moment, he was transported back to their first meeting at Krasnoe Selo just outside the capital-the site of the summer camps of many of the Guards regiments-shortly before the outbreak of war. On that bright day, the French president had joined the Tsar for an inspection of the serried ranks of guardsmen on a dusty field leading down to a shimmering sea. Ruzsky had forgotten not a single detail. Standing here, he could almost feel the intense heat and smell the acrid odor of burning turf from a distant forest fire. He recalled the sight of the Emperor on his white horse, the stillness in the crowd, and then the cheers rising with the strength of an approaching storm.

Irina had persuaded him that they should accompany his father. After the inspection was over and a sinking sun cast shadows across the gray battleships anchored in the bay, he had been introduced to Maria. They had exchanged only a few words, but as she walked away, in a cloud of dust kicked up by a thousand horses’ hooves, she had turned to look back at him, the wide brim of her white hat pushed up and her hand shielding her eyes from the fading sunlight.

Ruzsky took another pace forward. In that moment, his life had been transformed and yet the truth was that he had nothing more concrete to go on than an instinct for her feelings.

He thought of Anton’s assertion that she had kept a picture of him on her dressing table and his face flushed with pleasure once more. Was he too late? He knocked.

“Come in.”

The adrenaline pumped through him. He put his hand on the door and pushed it gently.

Maria stood on the far side of the room, in front of a mirror, half-turned toward him.

She was tall, with long, dark hair that stretched all the way down the center of her back. She had a petite nose, long eyelashes, rich green eyes, and full, slightly upturned lips.

She was a woman of heart-stopping beauty-talented and womanly and clever-and yet the sight of him made her flush bright red. Her smile was girlish, full of unsophisticated pleasure. “Hello, Sandro,” she said, her voice soft.

Ruzsky felt his stomach lurch.

She wore a simple, elegant, cream and gold dress. “You’re back,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You’ve come home.” Her voice was warm.

Ruzsky did not know what to reply.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” he said.

She gave a tiny smile. “Is that a compliment?”

“Of course.”

“You look older.”

“And that isn’t.”

“I don’t know. It suits you.” She paused, her face serious again. “It’s been so long, Sandro.”

“A lifetime.”

Her cheeks flushed again.

“How was Tobolsk?” Maria asked.

“It was cold.”

“You missed Petersburg. City of our dreams.”

“And yet it got along without me.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. I was told that your wife came home.”

Ruzsky wanted to ask by whom. “She did, yes.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

Ruzsky didn’t reply.

Maria caught sight of a hole in his boot, then shook her head. “Don’t you have anyone to look after you?”

“No,” he said with a rueful smile.