He looked at the clock. Tomorrow was today. He went to bed.

Only Wylie rose to say farewell to Aleksei. They had agreed on that the previous night. It was all part of Aleksei’s plan that his involvement not be too clearly remembered. An early farewell from the late tsar’s personal secretary and his two physicians would raise eyebrows.

‘I almost wish I’d never met you, Aleksei,’ said the doctor.

‘This would have happened, even if I hadn’t come.’

‘I know. And far worse. You’re a brave man.’

‘Quite a compliment, from an Englishman.’

Wylie raised an eyebrow, then smiled. ‘Are you heading straight back to Petersburg?’

‘Moscow first, but only for a short while.’ Aleksei did not explain the real reason for his haste. The Northern Society had spoken of assassination, but they had also considered a spontaneous uprising, if Aleksandr were to die of other causes. In saving one Romanov, he might have ended the whole dynasty. And that would end the threat from Zmyeevich. Perhaps it was a worthwhile price.

Wylie shivered and hugged himself. ‘It’s turning cold,’ he said.

‘It’ll get colder as I head north.’

‘I’d better not keep you.’

Wylie held out his hand. Aleksei took it, then embraced the doctor.

‘Goodbye, Aleksei.’

‘Goodbye… James.’ The sound of the first letter was strange on his tongue.

Aleksei mounted his horse and headed away. He turned and gave one final wave to Wylie, then accelerated to a canter. His departure seemed far easier than Aleksandr’s had been the previous morning as he headed off with a new name into a new life.

Aleksei knew what that name was now. Volkonsky had taken him aside the previous night and told him, afraid that the knowledge was too vital to be possessed by just one man. There was nothing remarkable about it:

Fyodor Kuzmich.

Aleksei wondered if he would ever meet a man going by that name. He hoped so.

As he rode north, he felt the cold begin to penetrate him, but it was of no concern. He thrust from his mind thoughts of what had happened in Taganrog and the Crimea – even in Moscow with Kyesha. He turned his mind instead to what was ahead of him – Domnikiia and Tamara, only a few days away. The cold did not matter, however much he hated the winter. It could never be winter where they were.

It even began to snow – a light, fine snow that did not settle – but Aleksei did not mind. If it was snowing here, then it would be snowing in Moscow, and Domnikiia and Tamara would feel it too. The snow was therefore beautiful. He let the tiny white flecks embrace him, as though they were a blanket of stars.

THERE HAD ONLY BEEN THREE LETTERS FROM PAPA. THEY’D all been in Russian, but Mama had helped Tamara to read them. Papa did it deliberately, she knew, to make her learn. It was nicer – even if it was harder – to read his words in Russian, because that was the language he normally spoke to her. It was only recently she had understood that French and Russian were separate. Her parents had laughed when she mixed the two, but not in a nasty way. She still did it now sometimes, but not nearly so much.

Papa had also sent letters to Mama, but Mama had not let Tamara read those. Instead she had read bits of them out to her. It was obvious that Papa had very important business with the tsar. She hadn’t believed Papa at first when he said who he was going to see, but now she was convinced. Even so, she wished the tsar would hurry up and let Papa come home. He’d been gone almost two months. He would be concerned to know how much taller she had grown – he always commented on that.

‘He’s there again,’ said Mama. Tamara looked up. Her mother was standing at the window, peeking through the curtains. The words had not been addressed to her; Mama had been talking to herself. She did that a lot, particularly when Papa wasn’t here.

‘Who’s there?’ asked Tamara.

Domnikiia looked down at her. There was a frown on her face, but it changed into a smile, which Tamara returned.

‘Will you be a good girl and stay here?’ she asked. Tamara nodded. Her mother began putting on her coat, buttoning it rapidly down the front. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said. She kissed Tamara on the forehead and departed.

The little girl waited for a few moments, then trotted over to the window. She lifted the heavy curtain up over her head and disappeared behind it to gaze down on the street below. Even in the twilight, the whiteness gleamed everywhere. It had begun to snow a couple of weeks earlier, and by now it had settled. Wherever Tamara and her mother went was covered with it. She remembered having seen snow before, but could not specifically remember it arriving like it had this year.

Tamara decided that she loved the winter, whatever Papa might think of it. He’d said in his letters how much warmer it was in Taganrog; perhaps that was why he was taking so long to come home.

There was a man standing outside in the snow. He didn’t seem to be doing anything, just standing there. It was the same man who had been there before – the man who had stood and watched Papa leave. Perhaps that meant that Papa would be returning soon. She hoped so.

Another figure walked out into the snowy street, emerging from somewhere below where Tamara stood, and heading out to join the first. This was someone she recognized. It was Mama.

Dmitry wondered if there was really much point to what he was doing. He could tolerate the cold and the snow blowing in his face, but that didn’t mean that he was actually achieving anything. Essentially, he wanted to irritate her – to scare her – though what either of those might accomplish, he wasn’t sure. And if he scared her then he might scare the innocent little girl who her trusting parents had placed in her care.

But the monotony allowed his mind to empty, and allowed the music to swell. It was still strange and beautiful, and if only a fraction would stick, he would be a happy man. More than that, he would be a genius. Perhaps it was ambition like this that had persuaded God to prevent him ever remembering any of it. Perhaps God was just delaying the moment. Dmitry could wait.

He looked across the street. Someone was coming. The music faded as his attention was drawn. It was Domnikiia Semyonovna. He had been in no doubt that she was aware of being watched; now it seemed she had decided to do something about it. It was all to the good. Perhaps now he could really scare her off.

‘Just who the hell do you think you…’ Her voice tailed off as she approached him. Evidently she’d had no idea that it was Aleksei’s son who was watching her. ‘Oh,’ she said. She pulled down her fur-lined hood so that he could see her face. She tried to smile, but failed. Her mood seemed to have changed from anger to annoyance. ‘Your father asked you to keep an eye on us, I suppose.’

Dmitry looked at her blankly, then began to understand. The arrogance of the woman was appalling. Did she really believe that she held such a place in her father’s heart that he would ask his own son – his wife’s son – to look out for her safety while he was away? And did she really believe Dmitry would do it, even if he had been asked? Who did she think she was?

‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked, almost spitting the words. ‘You think I’m here to make sure you’re all right? Why should my father give a fuck about that?’

Domnikiia looked at him. There was none of the flirtation he had seen in her eyes when they had met in the street not so many months before. She looked confused – surprised too. She scanned his face as if trying to determine if this was some kind of joke. She decided quickly. She turned and walked back towards the house.

‘You’re not the only one, you know,’ Dmitry shouted after her. As far as he knew, she was, but there was little else he could think of that might rile her. It had some effect. She stopped still, then turned slowly and walked back towards him.