Rasputin looked mollified by his presence. He was an interesting mix, this so-called holy man — one moment a man of the people, speaking for the peasants, and the next a craven adventurer, eager to find favor with the nobles whom he pretended to despise. One thing Yussoupov did know was that Rasputin had become a liability to the aristocracy; with the Tsaritsa completely in his thrall, he was able to make or break the fortunes of anyone at court. And he had begun to use that influence, more and more, to meddle in affairs of state — and even to influence the course of the war. With Rasputin trying to second-guess everything from the military’s strategy to the Tsar’s choice of ministers, it was plain to patriots like Prince Felix and the Grand Duke Dmitri that something had to be done.

And tonight, they would do it. When the news got out, the prince was certain that he would be miraculously transformed in the public mind from notorious, rich wastrel to the Savior of Mother Russia.

“We’ve made your favorites,” Dmitri said, proffering the platter of cakes that Rasputin normally adored, but to his and Felix’s consternation, the starets declined them. He wandered around the room, passing under the stone arches and admiring the objets d’art that filled the glass vitrines. The granite floors were covered with thick Persian carpets and a white bearskin rug, the bear’s head still attached and fangs bared.

“Music!” Yussoupov said, clapping his hands, and Dmitri picked up a balalaika and began to strum. Rasputin began to wave his hand in time to the music, then slumped onto a carved divan. On the table beside him, the cakes beckoned, and as Yussoupov pretended not to notice, Rasputin idly picked one up and gobbled it down.

Dr. Lazovert, who had personally ground up the potassium cyanide and sprinkled it into each pastry, had sworn that death would be nearly instantaneous.

Even Dmitri slowed his strumming to watch.

But Rasputin simply grinned, and said, “Again! And play something more cheerful this time!”

The prince looked on in wonder as the monk picked a crumb from his bushy beard and ate it.

Along with a second cake.

Dmitri’s fingers fumbled at the strings of the instrument. Yussoupov waited with bated breath. Rasputin appeared unaffected.

“Perhaps our guest would enjoy some wine,” Dmitri said, a telltale quaver in his voice, and Yussoupov, as if waking from a bad dream, quickly went to fetch the decanter. Filling a crystal goblet with Madeira, he held it out to the reclining monk.

“You want me to drink alone?” Rasputin said, taking the glass, and the prince, feigning amusement, returned to the bar and poured himself a generous snifter of brandy, instead.

“To the New Year!” he said, raising his glass.

“To the beautiful Princess Irina!” Rasputin bellowed, as the clock in the corner struck the hour. “Is she ever planning to join us down here?” He downed the glass of Madeira, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, then held out his glass for more. The prince nearly staggered as he fetched the bottle and refilled the glass.

Was it possible, he began to wonder? Could this creature — this filthy monk from the wastelands of Siberia — truly be some sort of prophet? Even without the pectoral cross, was he invulnerable, watched over by some divine Providence, as he had so often and grandly proclaimed?

The Grand Duke Dmitri, pleading a sudden headache, dropped the balalaika on an ottoman and fled up the winding stairs in terror. Rasputin stirred himself on the couch, then abruptly stood. Thank God, Yussoupov thought, the man was at least weaving on his feet. He ambled like a bear toward one of the vitrines, the one that held a rock-crystal crucifix fashioned in sixteenth-century Italy, and studied it through the glass.

Yussoupov was at his wit’s end. As a last resort, he had hidden a Browning revolver in an ebony box behind the bar, and with shaking hands he retrieved it now, and stepped behind the monk.

“Feel free to take the crucifix out of the case,” he said, but Rasputin seemed content to leave it where it was. Instead, his hands went to his gut and began to massage his belly.

“You might be wise to hold it,” the prince said, his tone more determined than before, “and say a prayer.” Yussoupov could see Rasputin’s face reflected in the glass, just as the monk could see his own.

Rasputin suddenly gagged, and putting out a hand toward the cabinet, said, “You have poisoned me.”

Yussoupov did not reply. Instead, he raised the gun, his hand trembling, aimed it squarely at Rasputin’s back, and fired once.

For several seconds, Rasputin did not move or even flinch. The prince tried to fire again, but his finger was so slick with sweat it slid off the trigger. Slowly, the monk turned around, his blue eyes now blazing with rage, before he toppled over, falling flat on the bearskin rug.

Yussoupov heard footsteps on the stairs, and when he turned he saw Grand Duke Dmitri, Dr. Lazovert, and another conspirator, Purishkevich, all staring at the gun hanging from his hand, and then at the body lying prostrate on the floor. The monk lay still, his eyes closed, but there was no sign of any blood. Dr. Lazovert cautiously approached, took Rasputin’s pulse, and declared him dead.

“Good, then let’s wrap him up in something and get him out of here,” Purishkevich, the oldest and most levelheaded among them, said, looking all around the vaulted cellars.

How had they not thought through this part of the plan, Yussoupov berated himself.

“Upstairs,” Purishkevich declared. “We’ll use the blue curtains from the drawing room.”

As the others all too eagerly raced back up the stairs, Yussoupov was left alone again with the corpse. He slumped into an armchair, dropping the revolver on the carpet. He had expected to be overcome with emotion, to be brimming with a sense of triumph. But there was none of that. His hands were still shaking, and his ears were ringing from the clamor of the shot.

A spark flew from the hearth, landing only inches from the monk’s outstretched boot.

Which twitched.

The prince’s breath stopped in his throat, and as he studied the monk’s face, he saw first one eye open, then the other. And before he could even jump up from his chair, Rasputin was back on his feet, spittle flying from his snarling lips, his hands tearing at Yussoupov’s clothing.

“You murderer!” the monk said, as his fingers clenched around the prince’s neck. They were both being dragged to the floor, but the prince was able to break free and run for the stairs, screaming for help.

“Murderer!”

Rasputin was close behind him, scrambling up the winding steps like an animal on all fours. Yussoupov could hear him panting and felt his hands grasping at the hem of his trousers.

“He’s alive! He’s alive!” he shouted running into the drawing room and slamming the doors closed behind him. Purishkevich and the others, gathering up the torn curtains, looked slack-jawed with disbelief. “He’s still alive!” Yussoupov repeated, barring the doors with his back.

“It can’t be,” Dr. Lazovert said. “He had no pulse.”

“You shot him,” Dmitri said. “You shot him in the back.”

“He’s been poisoned ten times over,” Lazovert added.

“But he’s escaping!” the prince screamed. “Even now!”

“This is impossible,” Purishkevich said, dismissively, but at the same time drawing a pistol from beneath his waistcoat. “Get out of the way.”

Pushing the prince aside, he strode out into the hallway with the gun drawn. A trail of blood led toward the marble vestibule, and a cold wind was blowing into the palace through the open doors. Yussoupov, cowering behind him, pointed outside and said, “You see? You see?”

Slipping and sliding in the falling snow, the monk was making his way inexorably across the courtyard and toward the main gates, which fronted onto the canal.