He climbed down into the dinghy and rowed away, parallel to the coast, not towards it. He had no plans to come ashore anywhere near Taganrog.

It was dark now. It had been almost twelve hours since Wylie had announced the death of Tsar Aleksandr I. Almost twelve hours that Tsar Konstantin I had reigned, though he did not know it. It would take a week for news to reach him in Warsaw; about the same to reach Petersburg. Taganrog knew already. The flag above the palace would have told them, and gossip spread rapidly.

The palace had died its own death since that morning. Yelizaveta had composed herself and quietly retired to her rooms. The guards had been stood down; there was no one to guard. Wylie and Tarasov had no one to make well. The staff sat idly in their quarters. There was only one less soul to tend to in the house than there had been when all awoke that morning, and yet the reason for anyone to be there had gone.

Aleksei noticed it now as he returned more than when he had left. It had not been a long trip, but a necessary one – just to Orekhov and back. He had to go by carriage, which slowed him down, but he had driven himself, so there had been no questions.

When he got back to Taganrog, he had called immediately at Wylie’s lodgings. Both doctors were there. The three went together to the imperial palace. Tarasov uneasily eyed the heavy burden that Wylie and Aleksei carried between them.

Volkonsky let them in through a side door. His face was grim. He knew what they had to do, but he had chosen not to participate. It was to the good – someone had to wait outside Aleksandr’s bedroom. They arrived at the door. Aleksei felt the urge to knock, and almost laughed at himself.

‘This is going to be the worst part,’ he said to Wylie.

‘I’m a doctor,’ came the reply, ‘a field surgeon. I’ve operated on men who’ve screamed in agony as I worked. I don’t think I’m going to have any qualms over whatever must be done to a dead body.’

‘The worst part is the pain we’re causing the tsaritsa,’ said Tarasov. Wylie nodded.

Aleksei opened the door. It was dark inside. Only the moonlight, leaking through the closed shutters, cast any light, picking out on the bed Aleksandr’s familiar, still profile.

The three men went inside, closing the door behind them.

TAGANROG WAS JUST VISIBLE, A FEW VERSTS AWAY TO THE SOUTH-west, its lights shining through the early twilight. In the other direction the road led to… who knew where? It was an adventure – the first ever adventure in the life of a man who, since the instant of his birth, almost forty-eight years before, had spent each moment of his existence under the minutest scrutiny. Freedom was terrifying to him, but so, so exciting. To make his own way in life, to plan his day, merely to be ignored as he walked down a street – all those were joys too familiar for others to appreciate.

He looked down from his horse at the four men who had made it possible: Volkonsky, Wylie, Tarasov and Danilov – two soldiers and two doctors. They had killed him, and they had resurrected him. And it had taken them less than a day. It was terrible to say goodbye, not because of who they were or what they had done – though there was that too – but because this was the final goodbye, the final cut that separated him from the life he had known.

‘I so wish we could have told Yelizaveta Alekseevna,’ said Aleksandr.

‘She would have wished to come with you,’ replied Volkonsky.

‘I would have dearly loved that,’ Aleksandr answered, ‘but in the end, she would not have. Even if her mind had grown accustomed to the privations of our new life, her body never would have.’

‘She is a frail woman, Your Majesty,’ said Tarasov.

Aleksandr nodded, then frowned. ‘I’m not “Your Majesty” any more,’ he pointed out. ‘That burden has passed on.’

‘So what should we call you – Aleksandr Pavlovich?’

Aleksandr smiled. ‘For the next few minutes, yes,’ he said, ‘though it’s not the name I will be keeping.’

‘Where will you go?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I don’t know. And if I did, I would – as with my new name – keep it to myself. Only Volkonsky will know these things; it’s much safer for all that way.’ He looked down at the four mournful faces in front of him. ‘This is worse than when I was dying!’ he exclaimed.

There was laughter all round.

‘You would have made a fine actor, Your… Aleksandr,’ said Wylie.

‘There was no acting involved. Whatever it was that Tarasov gave me had me halfway to death already.’

‘It was laudanum,’ explained Tarasov. ‘I’m not even sure its effects will have worn off sufficiently for you to be riding yet.’

‘He has to leave today,’ said Aleksei. ‘Someone might see him.’

‘I don’t think anyone’s going to recognize him looking like that,’ said Volkonsky.

Aleksandr put his hand to his face. There was stubble on his chin that would soon grow into the full beard that would be essential if he was going to pull this off. The sides of his cheeks felt the cold of the wind where his sideboards had been shaved. For now, that – plus the application of a little grime – was all that could be done to change his facial appearance. It was his clothing that would fool most people. He wasn’t exactly dressed like a peasant, but he no longer looked like a city dweller. His clothes were practical – comfortable, even. There was no sash across his chest, no epaulettes on his shoulders or cockade on his hat, and these were the things by which he was recognized as tsar, not by his face, which few outside Petersburg or Moscow would know. At least, that was what he had been assured.

‘I hope you’re as much a master of disguise as you claim to be, Aleksei Ivanovich,’ he said.

‘And what was the one vital thing I did say?’ Aleksei asked with a laugh, his Russian countering Aleksandr’s instinctive French.

Aleksandr repeated his question, switching to his people’s language. It felt a little uncomfortable on his tongue, as it always had done, but he would get used to it.

‘That’s better,’ said Aleksei.

‘Will Major Maskov’s body really pass for mine?’ asked Aleksandr. He looked at Wylie as he spoke. It was a strange repetition that the doctor should be involved in falsifying the deaths of two successive tsars. Not that Pavel’s death had been a falsehood, merely the declaration of its cause. They had never spoken of it, and Aleksandr would not change that now.

‘His body was remarkably well preserved, thanks to the nature of the soil,’ said Wylie, his eyes seeming to guess Aleksandr’s thoughts. ‘The fact that his death occurred earlier than yours will scarcely be noticed – and the embalming process distorts the features. By the time the body gets to Petersburg, I doubt anyone will want to examine it too closely.’

Aleksandr swallowed hard at the thought. ‘You must ensure that his family is well cared for, Volkonsky.’

The prince nodded.

‘And what of Cain and Zmyeevich?’

‘I think we’ve convinced them,’ said Aleksei. ‘No one saw Cain return after he rowed out to that yacht – and the yacht itself left within hours of your “death”.’

‘But if they should become suspicious…’

‘In a few years, you’ll be of no use to them,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Once the new tsar has established himself, you’ll be… forgotten.’

‘Charming.’

‘I mean,’ explained the prince, ‘that few would believe a man who returned to the capital and claimed to be the late tsar; fewer still would let him retake the reins of power.’

‘What about those False Dmitrys?’

‘That was in a different time,’ said Volkonsky.

‘Zmyeevich wouldn’t run the risk,’ added Aleksei.

‘So the Romanovs are safe,’ said Aleksandr, ‘until the next generation; then what of my poor nephew?’

‘I’ll see that he remains safe,’ said Volkonsky.

‘You’ll tell him?’