“Come on, my father’s in danger!”

From the worry on his face, it was clear that, while Sasha understood nothing, he understood it all. I grabbed him by his good arm and pulled him along, the two of us darting out the back and through the maze of alleyways. We charged along the same path I had taken when I’d followed Fedya the other night, hurrying down one discreet passage, turning left at the next. In the smallest of snowdrifts I saw two fresh tracks, the larger certainly belonging to my father, the smaller undoubtedly that of the lithe prince. There were no other immediate tracks, at least none that I could see, meaning that while they weren’t followed by an assassin, neither were they tailed by a security agent. And of course I understood: This was why Prince Felix was leading Papa out the back and down these lost alleys-so no one would see them, no one would know. But know what, the true nature of their relationship or the dangers ahead?

Oh, Papa, I thought as we ran, you can’t be so stupid, can you? Are you nothing but an ignorant peasant after all?

Holding hands, Sasha and I bolted around the last corner. But we were too late. At the far end of the arching passage a motorcar painted military gray roared to a start and took off like a leaping tiger. Breaking away from Sasha, I started running as fast as I could. By the time I reached the street, however, the motor was speeding around a corner, and the last I saw of it was its black canvas top and rear windowpane of mica.

Feeling completely helpless, I stood there in the cold night air. What should I do, just return to our apartment and wait? Telephone the Empress-and say what, that I was desperately worried about my father? No, though I was on the verge of tears, I knew exactly my next step.

I called over my shoulder, saying, “Sasha, I’ve got to get to Prince Felix’s palace on the Moika Kanal.”

“No, Maria, that’s not a good idea. Why don’t you-”

“You don’t understand, I have to!”

“But-”

Glancing up and down the narrow snow-swept street, I searched for a horse cab. “I’ve got to find a driver.”

Understanding how determined I was, Sasha came up and brusquely kissed me on the cheek. “Wait right here.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“When I came there was a motorcar parked in front of a restaurant back there. Just give me five minutes.”

He was off that very instant, dashing to the left, down the street, and around a corner. I didn’t know if he was going to try to bribe the driver or steal the car, but the moment he disappeared, I knew this was wrong. I couldn’t involve him. Who knew what was going on tonight and just how dangerous it really was, but this was family business. I had no choice. My mind made up, I turned in the opposite direction and made my way quickly down the block. As I hurried along, I glanced back only once, desperately sad but relieved there was no sign of him.

Seconds later I emerged on Goroxhovaya Street, which to my dismay was deserted. Were this the middle of the day, the terribly straight street would have been full of horse cabs, their drivers, huge men with bushy beards wearing thick blue coats and square red hats, perched up front. But of course this was the middle of the night. When I searched up and down the street, there was nothing, no cabs, no sledges, certainly no motorcars. A squall of snow suddenly burst from the skies, and the flakes fell large and heavy on my head and shoulders, dusting me like confectioners’ sugar. Was it hopeless?

Then I heard it, that most famous of Russian sounds, the jingling of troika bells. And not just heavy brass bells but silver ones, their chime fine and sophisticated in the still night. Any family of significance had their own troika with silver bells precisely tuned so their vehicle could be heard coming, as this one was. Or was it going? I looked one way, another, searching for a sound that seemed to bounce out of every street and off every building. My heart began beating faster, for with each moment the bright sound grew. Suddenly, a magnificent sleigh pulled by three horses burst out of a side street, the middle horse high and proud, the side horses lean and fast. In a flurry it turned my way. The coachman was cloaked in a heavy fur, and when I saw the peacock feather sticking like a flag from his big black hat, I knew I was right, this was a private sleigh.

Waving my arms madly, I leaped into the street. At first the troika didn’t slow and barreled down on me, snow flying from the horses’ hooves, the bells ringing away. Finally the burly driver spotted me, this speck in the street, and pulled back on reins as thin as leather threads. I didn’t budge until the three horses, steam spouting from their nostrils, slowed to a prance and then a stop just steps from me.

“I need to hire you!” I said, running around the side.

The driver stared down at me like an amused bear ready to swat a pathetic bee. “This is a private sleigh, young lady.”

“I have an emergency-”

“Sorry, I’m no Vanka,” he said with a chuckle, referring to common horse-cab drivers, all of whom were so nicknamed. “Besides, I’ve just dropped off my master and am returning to the stable. My night is through.”

When I saw him ready to crack the reins, I shouted desperately, “Two hundred rubles for an hour of your time!”

He froze, looked down upon me, his grin wider yet, and said, “And where does such a young thing as you come upon such great money? That’s more than I make in months!”

“I’m Rasputin’s daughter,” I said, more proudly than ever. “Take me to the Yusupov Palace and back, and I swear there’s two hundred rubles in it for you. Agreed?”

He thought for only a moment, then calmly said, “No doubt you’ll find the sable blanket in the rear seat very warm.”

I clambered in the back and we took off with a jolt. Speeding along, we were halfway down the block when I heard a desperate plea calling through the snowy night.

“Maria, no!”

Pushing myself up, I peered out the back of the troika. Sasha was running after us like some sort of crazed man. I kissed my hand and held it up to him in loving farewell.

And then I shouted out, not to Sasha but over my shoulder to the driver, calling, “Faster!”

The night of Rasputin’s death, I remember, it was just two or three degrees above freezing and a damp snow was falling. I know for a fact that Maria thought it was up to her to save her father, that she thought she was his last hope. And perhaps she was. What she didn’t know was that we knew her every move, nearly her every thought, which meant that every step she took was in fact a misstep.

And another strong memory, yes, most definitely: I remember staring down at Rasputin’s body as it lay in the snow. He was wearing a fur coat and a beaver cap. And, too: His coat was flung half open and he wore a blue silk shirt embroidered with cornflowers, a thick crimson cord around his waist, and…and, oh, yes, black velveteen pants and high black boots, all of which was very grand for a peasant, very grand indeed. Someone told me later that the Empress herself had stitched those cornflowers on his shirt with her very own hand.

To tell you the truth, you’ve never seen such a trusting victim. Right up to the end Rasputin didn’t suspect a thing. I kept thinking he would. After all, he was famous for his second sight.

You know about that telegram, don’t you, the one from the Grand Duchess Elizavyeta, the Tsaritsa’s sister? She congratulated us! The very day after the murder, she wrote, “All my ardent and profound prayers surround all of you for the patriotic act.” Can you imagine, she, a nun, congratulating us for committing an act of murder? That was how widely hated, how dangerous, that bastard Rasputin was.

Actually, you know, the only thing I keep coming back to, the only thing that haunts me, was that poor girl, Maria. You can’t imagine the shock on her face. I see that in my sleep, her absolute horror. The blood, too. She was covered with blood.