Dmitri turned around. For a moment, neither man moved.

Ruzsky searched Dmitri’s face and saw the same things deep in his brother’s eyes that had always been there: love tinged with loneliness, joy at their reunion tempered by the shadows of the past that nothing could dispel.

They gripped each other tight, Dmitri’s hands digging into his back. Neither man appeared to want to break the embrace.

They stepped apart again.

“You look terrible,” Dmitri said. He had already been drinking.

Ruzsky grinned. “You don’t look so great yourself.”

They both sat down. Dmitri’s eyes were drawn toward the door and Ruzsky half turned to see the Grand Duke entering the dining room, still chomping on his cigar.

“Do you know what the tragedy is?” Dmitri leaned forward, his face earnest, but having lost none of his impetuous, exuberant charm. “Father knows everything. He knows it. In his heart, he understands what is going on, but nothing will shake his faith in the system. He doesn’t-or won’t-understand that, to the people, Boris Vladimirovich and his kind are the system: vulgar, lecherous, crass, whoring, drinking, debt-ridden, and corrupt beyond redemption.” Dmitri took hold of his brother’s arm. “Please tell me it doesn’t upset you.”

“What doesn’t?”

“You know what I mean.”

Ruzsky sighed. “That my wife is having an affair, or that my father turns a blind eye to it because he does not like me, and the recipient of her affections is a grand duke?”

Dmitri shook his head despairingly.

“If it is what Irina wants, so be it,” Ruzsky said. “It’s only Michael’s situation that upsets me.”

“The whole thing disgusts me.” Dmitri leaned back. “Michael is a Ruzsky though, isn’t he?”

Ruzsky looked up into his brother’s eyes and saw there exactly what Dmitri was thinking-that Michael could have passed for Ilya-even if his words had not intended to convey it. Dmitri immediately looked away.

Ruzsky felt his pulse quicken.

They were silent. The noise in the dining room-the hubbub of conversation and the sound of silver scraping bone china-seemed unnaturally loud.

Ruzsky picked up the menu. The front was embossed with the yacht club insignia and inside, a handwritten sheet had been glued to the board.

A waiter approached, took the white linen napkin from the table, and placed it on Ruzsky’s lap. “Something to drink, sir, some champagne perhaps?” He was French. All the waiters in here were.

“Damn right, Armand,” Dmitri said loudly, overcompensating for the awkwardness of the moment. “It’s a reunion. Brothers back from the dead.”

“Dom Perignon?”

“Let me look at the list.”

Armand hurried away and returned with it a few seconds later. Dmitri consulted it and then looked up. “Dom Perignon, yes. Make sure it is properly chilled.”

“Of course, sir.” An assistant scurried away.

Ruzsky stared at the menu. He was crucifyingly hungry.

“Vous avez choisi?” The waiter smiled at both of them.

Ruzsky examined the menu with exaggerated care. “The fish and the venison.”

“The same,” Dmitri said.

Another waiter approached with a silver bucket and their champagne. He opened the bottle and poured it into tall crystal glasses. Ruzsky wondered if his brother was still in debt. Before the war, Dmitri had always eaten here because he was able to use their father’s account.

“Begin at the beginning,” Ruzsky said. “Tell me what happened.”

Dmitri waved his hand dismissively. He lit a cigarette. “What is there to bloody say? Everything you hear is true. Thankfully, I nearly lost an arm, or I’d be buried in six feet of mud by now.”

“At least you went. I was being serious when I said the ancestors would be proud.”

Dmitri snorted. “Yes, but the point is that I’ve never consciously chosen to do anything in my whole damned life and you know it. All I’ve done is take the easy way out, and going to war was the easy route. Not going would have been impossible. You know how Father is. And as to our ancestors being proud, believe me, no one could do anyone proud out there, it’s not possible. The war is a disgrace not just to Russia but to mankind and somone will be made to pay for it.”

Dmitri’s voice had risen an octave and Ruzsky noticed they had attracted a few curious and disapproving glances from a group of older men at the neighboring table. “It’s as bad as they say?”

“Bad! Unless you’ve experienced it yourself, I don’t think you could possibly imagine the corruption and incompetence. The Germans are fighting a war, but we’re just being massacred. I’ve seen battalions of our finest troops going into battle against machine guns armed only with revolvers.”

“Where did you fight?”

Dmitri sighed. “Father secured me an appointment as aide-de-camp to Bezobrazov.”

“What’s he now, commander in chief of the Guards?”

“The old man thought it would be good for my career. We started out in Warsaw, then transferred to the southern Lublin front to join the Fourth Army and roll up the Austrian left.” Dmitri hesitated, staring out of the window. “That is where we lost most of the Pavlovsky, all laid out in the morning sun, like giant brothers. I found Bibikov, without his head. I only recognized him by his family ring.” Dmitri turned to him. “You remember Bibikov from the Corps?”

“Yes.”

“Too conscious of himself for you, perhaps. He wasn’t a bad sort.”

“I know he was a friend.”

Dmitri stared at his hands for a moment, then turned back to the window. “From Lublin to Ivangorad, then Warsaw, then Lomja. Back to Warsaw, south to Kholm just as the Great Retreat was getting under way. And so on. We were always short of everything, so I toured the railheads searching for ammunition like a beggar scavenging for food. I pulled a revolver on the commandant of the station at Keltsi and almost shot him. Our men were going to their deaths with solemn faces and a few rifles to share between them and meanwhile all the fat bastards in the rear, friends of Rasputin or some grand duke, were busy lining their pockets. You should look into the eyes of the men, Sandro. It would break your heart. They march to a certain death fully understanding the futility of their sacrifice. When the Germans started using gas, the respirators we were promised in Lomja ended up in Warsaw by mistake and a telegram from headquarters suggested we tell the men to urinate in a handkerchief and tie it around their faces.” Dmitri was staring at him now. “And, amongst all this, they are commanded by officers who, with a few honorable exceptions-and they perish soon enough-billet themselves to the rear of the front and visit it only to shout at their men for not polishing their boots-when they are lucky enough to have boots, because I’ve seen soldiers fighting barefoot.”

“How did you get hurt?”

It took Dmitri a few moments to gather his strength. “The Great Eastern Offensive in July. We were ordered to advance to the section of the front between the Third and Eighth Armies. The idea was to break through at one spot and cavalry charge the Germans.” Dmitri took a sip of his champagne. “Actually, a ridiculous plan. I went out as an observer with the Rifle Division. And the section chosen for our attack turned out to be a bog. Brusilov told us not to advance, but our commander knew better, so in we went. Some of the men sank and drowned. And since the Germans were on high ground, the rest were mowed down. We lost more than fifty thousand officers and men and it was my unbelievable good fortune to be cut down in the first arc of fire, before we hit the swamp.”

Dmitri stared at the table in silence. He took a gigantic gulp of champagne, then drained the rest of the glass. He took the bottle from the silver bucket and refilled it. “And excuse me for saying it, but Father tolerates the wife of his eldest son having an affair while living under his roof because she is fucking a grand duke. All is well and good, then. Boris Vladimirovich. Look at him.”