‘When do we leave?’ asked Dmitry.

‘Today,’ said Aleksei.

‘Can I come, sir?’ asked Batenkov.

Aleksei looked at him, and then at Dmitry. Batenkov had a certain earnestness that it was hard not to admire, but there would be little benefit to his company. And now that their goals were concurrent – albeit from different points of view – Aleksei felt an unaccustomed closeness to Dmitry that he did not want to share. ‘No, you stay here, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘We’ll be sending any information we get back to Moscow through you.’

The lieutenant saluted, and Aleksei and Dmitry left. Out on the street, it seemed even colder than when Aleksei had arrived.

‘We’ll meet in two hours,’ he said. ‘That should be enough time to pack. We’ll meet outside my hotel.’

‘Your hotel? Shouldn’t you be saying goodbye to Domnikiia Semyonovna?’

Aleksei froze. He should have expected it – his son was no fool. It was hard to judge his mood. There was a certain bitterness to his voice, but the very fact he mentioned it must indicate some acceptance. And was there a hint of friendly advice in there – a suggestion that Aleksei should do the right thing, and that meant saying goodbye to his mistress? Aleksei hoped so.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s not waste time. I’ll meet you at the Lavrovs’ house.’

They parted. Aleksei put his head down and forced his way through the blustering snow. It was impossible to judge Dmitry’s attitude over Domnikiia – the boy probably didn’t know it himself. The one consolation was that he was apparently quite unaware that living there in the Lavrovs’ house, along with her mother, Dmitry had a little sister, Tamara.

‘Well, I suppose if you have to go.’

Aleksei wondered who Tamara had been listening to, to come up with a sentence like that.

‘I’m afraid I do have to,’ he said. He was squatting down at Tamara’s level, looking into her face, but he knew he was addressing Domnikiia. ‘It’s only to Petersburg this time.’ He glanced up at Domnikiia. It was no consolation to her. Petersburg meant his other home – his other wife. His only wife as far as Domnikiia was concerned, however he might tell her he felt.

‘How long will you be?’ asked Tamara.

‘I don’t know. I’ll try to be home for Christmas.’

‘Will you bring me something?’

‘Of course.’ Almost immediately, Aleksei understood what was behind the question. He hadn’t brought her back anything from his journey to Taganrog. He thought quickly. ‘Don’t you want something now?’ he asked.

‘What?’

It was a good question. ‘What would you like?’

She pointed to his chest. His shirt was buttoned up tight against the cold, but he knew what she meant. He reached inside and fished it out, pulling the chain off over his head.

‘This?’ he asked.

Tamara nodded. Aleksei cradled it in his hand. The fine silver chain hung down. He could see the knot where he had once hastily repaired it, a long time ago. The icon itself was oval; the face of the Saviour looked back at him.

‘Do you want it?’ he asked. Tamara nodded again. He held the chain wide open with his fingers, slipping it over her red curls and sliding it down to her neck. Then he pulled at her hair so the chain disappeared under it. She picked the icon up off her chest, tilting her head in one direction and the image in the other so that she could see it the right way up.

Then she dropped it and flung her arms around Aleksei’s neck, squeezing tightly.

‘Thank you, Papa,’ she said. Aleksei hugged her back, feeling her heartbeat against his, and the tiny strength of her arms that was everything she had to offer. At last he let go and stood up. Her arms tried to hold him a little longer, but could not. He bent down one final time and kissed her. Then he picked up his bag and went to the door. Domnikiia followed him.

‘Did you have to give her that?’ she asked, once they were alone in the hallway.

Aleksei had guessed she might not be happy. Originally the icon had been a gift to him from Marfa. He touched Domnikiia’s arm.

‘It may have been my wife who gave me it, but it was you who insisted I wear it.’

‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘It was never much protection, anyway.’

‘There’re no vampires where I’m going,’ he said.

‘She’s there, though.’

Aleksei avoided the issue. ‘I was originally intending to give it to Dmitry, because of Dmitry Fetyukovich.’ The image came clearly to his mind; him breaking open the frozen, dead fingers of Dmitry’s hand to get hold of the icon he had once given him as a sign of their friendship.

‘No,’ she said, firmly. ‘It’s best you give it to Toma.’ She raised her hand to her cheek and thoughtfully rubbed the corner of her mouth. ‘Won’t Marfa expect you to stay with her for Christmas?’

‘I’ll make up some excuse.’ Marfa would need little persuading, he was sure. It would give her more time to spend with Vasiliy. He had almost forgotten about his wife’s lover. If the man’s very existence could slip from his mind so easily, how could he claim truly to care?

He held Domnikiia close to him. She did not put her arms around him; they were trapped between them, pressed against her bosom and his chest. He kissed her, closing his eyes and leaning against her, as if falling into her beautiful, sweet mouth. Eventually, she was forced to step back rather than lose balance. She giggled and slapped him lightly on the arm, then pushed him towards the door.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you soon. Christmas, remember? You promised.’

He let her herd him towards the stairs, then turned and kissed her once more, briefly, on the lips.

‘Christmas,’ he said.

Every day, Tamara knew, she got a little taller, and that meant that, every day, it was a little easier for her to look out of the window and on to the street below, pulling against the window-ledge with her fingers to raise herself up and see over it. It was already starting to get dark, and the snow in the street looked grey. She looked as straight downwards as she could and saw the top of Papa’s head – or at least the hat on it. He was standing just outside the front door, not going anywhere.

Then he moved, reacting to something. Tamara looked and saw another man, walking over to her father, who patted him on the shoulder. They walked off down the street together. That was very strange. Why should Papa be so friendly with the man who had hit Mama? Did he know what the man had done? Did Mama know that they were friends? Should she tell Mama what she had seen?

Her father didn’t turn and wave like he usually did when he left, particularly if he was going a long way away. Tamara wished he had. But he would be back at Christmas. And he’d given her the picture of Jesus.

She ran over to the bed and lay down on it, holding the icon so that she could look at the picture. Jesus looked like a very kind man, though a little stern. If He hadn’t had a beard, perhaps He would have looked a bit like Papa. She would ask her father to grow a beard when he came back; then she’d know. In the meantime, she had the icon, and she could look at it whenever she needed to be reminded of him.