Thinking of my own path in life and how I might be able to help others, I wondered if I shouldn’t become a bride of Christ. As I chewed on a soft yet slightly crunchy fish head, I considered abandoning this life and seeking the greater glory of God in a women’s monastery. I would give up my fancy citified name of Maria and return to the real me, Matryona, the country girl of the far provinces. Yes, I would kiss my father and little sister good-bye, perhaps make a trip home to say farewell to Mama and my brother, Dmitri, and then I would seek out a place to take my vows. I definitely didn’t want a place in the capital-Smolny, say-or anywhere nearby. Better something distant, the farther east the better. Yes, definitely something removed from the European influences sweeping our nation like polluted waters. A women’s monastery hidden on an island in the middle of a lost Siberian lake would do just fine. There were many monasteries sprinkled across the length of Siberia, all the way to the Kamchatka Peninsula and the Bering Sea, and the best place would be one accessible for only a few months a year, a place where the roads and the rivers were open only during the short summer months. Being cut off from the world would encourage prayer and introspection. Surely my parents wouldn’t be against my taking the vows. And since Sasha was gone-what if we never saw each other again?-life as a nun would be far better than marrying here in the capital and becoming one of the petit bourgeoisie, obsessed with the proper address, proper hat and dress, and requisite social standing. I really had no choice, now I thought about it. If I stayed and married here in Petrograd, I could only imagine the money and invitations people would shower upon me, all in the hope of gaining access to my father, which would in turn put them that much closer to the throne. How easy that would be. And how horrid.

I looked up when I’d eaten every last bit of fish, only to realize that my sister was no longer sitting there. When I carried my dishes into the kitchen, Dunya was not to be found either, not at the stove, nor on her little cot tucked behind the curtain. Setting my dishes into the porcelain sink, I glanced at the clock ticking away on the wall. After eleven. Not so late, particularly for this household, but it seemed that sleep in this sleepless city had finally and blessedly come to our flat.

I was just rolling up the sleeves of my dress to start washing my dishes when I heard a slight, discreet movement at the rear door. I stopped still. Someone started knocking gently, a sound so soft it might even have been a mouse scratching at the wood. But, no, I heard the rustle of clothing on the back landing. At this hour I suspected it was probably Prince Felix, who was sure to start pounding until he gained entry-after all, when had a Yusupov ever been turned away by anyone anywhere?

Then it occurred to me that it might be someone else altogether. Praying for this, I ran to the door.

“Kto tam?” Who’s there?

The longest moment passed before a deep voice replied, “Me.”

A silly grin blossomed on my face. “And what do you want at so late an hour?”

“To come in.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m desperate to see you.”

“Promise?”

“With all my heart.”

I glanced quickly over my shoulder. Seeing no sign of my father or Dunya, I did it. I turned the lock. I opened the door. And Sasha came into our home and into my arms. Without a bit of hesitation, without a single word, we fell into each other’s arms. I tilted my head slightly to the side, closed my eyes, and felt what I’d wanted so very much, his lips upon mine. An exhilarating flush of warmth filled my head, my stomach. It seemed to last both forever and yet only a fleeting moment, that kiss, that embrace. All of me seemed to rush into him, and all of him certainly flooded into my entire body. He held me with an intensity I’d never experienced, his strong hands pressing into my back, pulling me against his hard chest. Then I felt his entire body tremble.

“Sasha,” I said, finally pulling back, “you’re freezing.”

“I was desperate to see you. I’ve been waiting out back for hours.”

“How did you get in?”

“Someone came out the back door and I caught it before it shut.” He kissed me lightly on my forehead, my eyebrows, my cheeks. “Is everything all right? Did you really go to the Palace?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And?”

“There was an emergency,” I said, wanting to tell him everything and knowing I would. “I’ll tell you later. It was amazing.”

Suddenly his lips were fluttering down my neck. And suddenly I was having trouble breathing. My eyes fell shut, my breath came short and shallow. Which is when I heard it, steps from within our apartment.

“Sasha,” I said, pushing away from him, “you really shouldn’t be here, not now, not so late.”

“But-”

“My father will kill me if he finds you here.”

And someone was up. I could hear it clearly now, the sound of someone walking about.

“Please, let me stay. I’d love to meet your father.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Suddenly I was afraid. Not just of what Papa would think if he walked in here and saw Sasha, but of everything else. I still hadn’t had the chance to tell my father about my surreptitious visit to the Sergeeivski Palace, how I’d been forced to flee through the watery cellar, or, most important of all, the warnings from Elena Borisovna.

Gently nudging Sasha out the door, I said, “Sasha, you can’t stay here now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, good night, my sweet,” he said, with one last little kiss.

And he was off, my delectable Sasha. I locked the door behind him and then listened to him make his way down the dark, steep rear stairs-his clothes rustling as he left-and then nothing.

I took a deep breath and turned away from the door.

I really did need to talk to Papa. What if he was gone by the time I woke up? What if something happened to him, even tonight? Or to the Tsar or the Tsaritsa? What if the grand dukes acted in one decisive swoop-perhaps as early as tomorrow-first, assassinating my father, second, locking the Empress in a monastery, and, finally, forcing the Tsar from the throne, maybe even killing him too? Bozhe moi, I was never going to be able to sleep until I talked to my father and made him understand just how serious the situation was. How could he not see it? I cursed myself for not speaking of it earlier, but in all the confusion and desperation at the palace the only thing that had mattered was saving the Heir. There hadn’t been a moment to tell Papa about the threats being made against him and the Emperor and Empress. And thinking of the high treason floating throughout the city, I was as stirred as if I’d drunk four glasses of tea. I had to talk to Papa before he went to sleep. He had to do something. At the very least, he should summon Minister Protopopov. Never mind us, but perhaps a special troop of soldiers should be dispatched this very hour to protect the royal family.

Putting Sasha out of my mind, I quickly made my way through our apartment, expecting to find Papa wandering about. When he wasn’t to be found, I went right up to his door, which was shut tight. Had he already gone to sleep? Leaning forward, I could hear his deep voice mumbling and moaning. No, he was lost in prayer, perhaps continuing his work for the Heir, as he often did from afar. I imagined him out of bed, prostrate before the icon in the corner, crossing himself and touching his head to the floor over and over again. I knew from experience that rousing him from his entreaties to the Lord was more difficult than waking him from his deepest sleep. But I was so worried about the dangers I had no choice, so I carefully turned the doorknob and pressed open the door. The room was dark, of course, with the only light coming from the tiny red oil lamp hanging in front of the icon he most valued, his simple, unadorned copy of the Kazanskaya. Papa’s voice was indeed deep and full of passion, but he wasn’t praying. Peering in, I realized with a horrible start that while Papa was indeed prostrate, it was not before a piece of wood with its holy depiction of the Virgin Mother and Child. Rather, he was lying face down on our very own Dunya. They had both dropped their clothes on the floor and crawled into Papa’s narrow metal bed, and beneath the blanket that barely covered their moving naked bodies, I could clearly see my father holding our housekeeper by her soft parts. So involved were they that they didn’t even notice my intrusion, and so shocked was I that I couldn’t even gasp, for I had stopped breathing.