“That’s it, dorogaya maya. Drink up, Maria. I’m going to get you in a hot bath, and then I’m going to heat you some sweet fresh milk with forest honey gathered not too far from your very own home, just past the fields where your brother and mother work. You know the place-yes?-where the birch trees are so thick and the bees so busy? Now, don’t you worry, child, everything’s going to be all right.”

No, it wasn’t. No, it wouldn’t be. She couldn’t see what I saw, all the terrible possibilities. They could be killing Papa at this very moment. They could be turning him inside out or dragging him behind one of their fancy motorcars.

“Dunya, you don’t understand-”

“I understand everything.”

“No, you don’t. I have to find Papa right away. I have to warn him. He’s in terrible danger.”

“Oi, such dark days we’re living through.”

“But-”

“My child, you’re not going anywhere until you’ve sat for an hour in hot water, do you understand? One full hour, am I clear? And after that you should go to bed for the rest of the day. Yes, that’s the best plan, bed and soup. Lots of hot fresh cod soup. And rest. Don’t worry, I’ll bring you your favorite poetry books, and you can lie in bed and read. If we follow that course, I’m sure you’ll be fine tomorrow and the day after, and then you’ll be in an open field.”

I should never have come home, I realized. I was practically shackled, trapped here for at least a day, if not two. The greatest of storms was about to roll across Mother Russia, and it would strike only one place to do any real damage: my father. He was the lightning rod, and I saw that as never before, that that was his role in the events of our country. Those who wanted revolution not only knew it but wanted the lightning to strike him so everything would explode. Others, such as the Romanovs, upon whose House my father was so wildly dancing, were terrified that this lightning would in fact strike him. Perhaps I’d finally eaten enough fish to see what Papa did, for the storm roiling on the horizon was all too clear. I also saw the River Neva rushing with blood. I saw the bodies floating in its turgid waters-my father’s, I feared, among the many. But was I not wiser than he was? Shouldn’t all of us, Papa included, leave before these things actually transpired? Might not the storm then whoosh harmlessly past?

Leaving a sloppy wet trail of spilt tea behind, I was trundled down the hall to the washroom. Dunya and Varya peeled away the last of my underlinens and forced me, baptismal-like, into the burning water and right under its placid steaming skin. With all their force they held me like that, beneath its surface, until finally I screamed a mass of bubbles. As limp as a piece of soiled clothing beaten against the rocks in our river, I was finally yanked back up.

“I’m going to heat some milk,” snapped Dunya to my sister. “Don’t let her move from that tub!”

When our housekeeper was gone, I glanced up at my younger sister, who leaned against the wall, her arms folded tightly, her bottom lip pinched in her teeth. I’d always been the stronger one, and I wanted to shout at her to stop staring at my pale, watery body, to leave me alone, better yet, to help me escape. But when I looked up at her, all I could do was burst into one long painful sob.

Whenever the bath water began to cool even slightly, Dunya made it scalding again. Even worse, she made me drink not one but two hot cups of painfully sweet milk, thickened with so much dark forest honey that it was nearly the color of the fancy bonbons made in the palace confectionary.

An hour later I was, as promised, finally liberated. Whereas before I was faint because of the cold, now I was light-headed because of the heat. As Dunya wrapped me tightly in towels, I leaned on my sister for support.

As our housekeeper fashioned a towel around my head, she said reassuringly, “That’s it, child. Everything’s going to be fine. I’m sure we’ve driven out most of the danger. Now, Varya, you help your big sister to bed. And make sure she’s covered and nice and warm, agreed?”

Varya, relishing the opportunity to lord over me, nodded her head eagerly. “Konyechno.”

“And Maria, you’ll stay there in bed, won’t you, while I run down the block for some more fish? Promise me, yes?”

Defeated, I could do nothing more than nod.

“You don’t need yesterday’s soup with yesterday’s fish. You must have something fresh and cooked only once. You see, the fish will be stronger, and that in turn will make you stronger too. Now put on your tapochki,” she said, handing me my slippers. “We can’t have your feet getting cold again. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Hopefully, there won’t be any lines like last week. Can you imagine, there wasn’t even any cod! Oh, this war!”

Even as she quit the tiny washroom where all of us were still gathered, Dunya rattled on about this and that. I paid no attention, and as soon as she was gone I unwound the towel wrapped around my head and used it to blot and dry my thick dark hair.

“Help me, Varya,” I said in a faint voice as I bent toward her.

She grabbed part of the towel, started rubbing my head, and then, for the first time, asked, “What happened to you? Did you fall down or something? I mean, how did you get so wet?”

Should I tell her? Could I? Last night Papa’s visions had reduced her to tears; what would my own do today? Suddenly I felt much older than Varya, as if my youth had run away with the wind, never to return. Whereas only a few days ago my head had been aflutter with pretty frocks and fine shoes, handsome young soldiers and the glances they tossed me, now I saw only intrigue and threat, poverty and desperation. And imminent danger to my family.

“Someone chased me through the market,” I said, careful not to look her in the eye. “And that’s right, I fell down in a big puddle.”

“Why were they chasing you? Was someone trying to steal something?”

“I suppose.”

Her questions would have gone on and on, I knew, but the hard metal bell of the phone broke our conversation. Instantly Varya started out of the washroom.

“I’ll get it,” she said, in her carefree manner.

Had it been only yesterday, that would have been all right, I would have been happy to indulge her in one of her favorite treats, answering the telephone. But yesterday was ages ago. Without even thinking, I spun and went after her, grabbing her by the white lace on her gray dress.

“Nyet!” I screamed.

My sudden ferocity scared her, and she moved to the side. In an instant, still wrapped like a mummy in towels, I managed to lunge past her. Information, that was what I needed, and instinctively, protectively-or perhaps simply because I was a Rasputin and had my own powers of foresight-I knew it was I who was destined to answer this call.

Reaching for the phone mounted on the wall, I lifted the earpiece on the third ring and practically shouted into the mouthpiece. “Ya Vas slushaiyoo!”

The palace operator had undoubtedly been chosen for her voice, the tone always pleasant, elegant, and rich. Although she was surely not highborn, her accent was refined and educated, her manners cultivated to the highest. After all, this was the woman who completed the telephone connections between Emperor and grand duke, Emperor and minister, and, of course, between Empress and her beloved friend, my father. But this time there was no ease and no sophistication, let alone any formality.

The woman on the line snapped, “This is the Palace-hold!”

Immediately my heart began to charge as fast as a young mare running from a Siberian tiger. Something was horribly wrong, and it took no gift of insight to understand that. Had something happened to Papa?

There was a distinct click as the operator pulled cords and made the connection, and the next instant a hysterical voice came on the line. It was a woman, that much I could tell, and though she tried to speak, her words were flooded by tears. Nevertheless, I recognized the otherwise beautiful voice as that of Her Imperial Highness, the Empress of Russia. I clutched the towels covering my heart and clenched my eyes, preparing myself for the worst possible news of my father.