"Mama...Mama...," he gasped, "will it hurt so much when I go to Heaven?"

With supreme confidence, Papa strode right up behind the Empress, placing his hand directly on her shoulder as if she were nothing more than the commonest of commoners. Startled, Aleksandra Fyodorovna turned, looked up, and, upon seeing him, half swooned to the side, falling upon his thigh like an eager lover. Unable to control herself, the Empress of All the Russias grabbed this ugly peasant's ugly hand and kissed it pa.s.sionately.

"Thank you, Father Grigori. Thank you for coming," she gasped in relief. "Aleksei fell on his knee, and now he needs you badly. We all need you. Help us, please help us!"

My father said nothing, focusing only on the boy. The Empress, whose health and beauty had been ravaged by years of worry and anxiety, started to beg a question but stopped. I knew what it was. She wanted to know what none of those doctors or specialists in the playroom could tell her: Would the boy cheat death yet again? She started to speak but instead started to sob, and seemed about to faint. Indeed, she might have tumbled over had she not been leaning so heavily on her Friend, her Savior, my father.

Practically brushing her aside, Papa pressed himself up against the bed and stared down upon the pathetic child, who gazed up at him with hollow eyes, eyes that expressed nothing but excruciating pain. Pulling aside a light blanket, Papa saw a leg hideously bloated with blood, twisted and bent up to the boy's chest. Papa made the sign of the cross over Aleksei and placed one of his ma.s.sive hands directly on the boy's damp, feverish forehead. He then reached down and closed his fingers firmly around the boy's right hand. Papa had healed me from the worst illnesses in just this manner, and I knew he could read it all: the boy's fear, the panic of those around him, the hopelessness everyone sensed, and the boy's pain-the unbelievable pain of the pounding blood that had burst from the veins, swelled the skin, and twisted the limbs.

Without so much as glancing down at her, Papa barked at the Empress, "Leave us!"

Aleksandra Fyodorovna could barely rise, so wrought with worry was she, so pummeled by years of constant fear, the fear that hung like a guillotine over her head every moment of every day, the fear that today the blade might come suddenly crashing down and she would lose her beloved son. She tried to push herself to her feet but could not. She rose, and then sank, and I was about to hurry to her side when a short but muscular figure charged into the room. Rushing right up to her, the man tenderly reached down and took her in his own shaking but loving hands.

"Come, my dear," the Tsar urged gently, his own tears now controlled. "We must let Father Grigori do his work."

"Oh, Nicky!" She wept, clutching his arms, kissing his hands. "I...I..."

Then Papa offered the greatest of benedictions. "Do not worry. G.o.d has heard your prayers. Now leave us!"

Aleksandra tried to contain herself. The strongest of mothers, the mightiest of tsaritsas, attempted to restrain her joy, but she could not. She fell apart, and tears of boundless relief burst from her eyes.

"Thank you, oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, grabbing my father's hand and kissing it.

The Tsar, small tears glistening in his eyes, leaned down, kissed my father's hand, and thanked him too. "Spasibo."

"Take care, my Sunbeam," said Aleksandra Fyodorovna, kissing her son tenderly on the forehead. "Rest well, my dearest. Did you hear Father Grigori? You're in the hands of G.o.d. Let's all get some rest...and we'll come back later. Everything's going to be fine. We'll be back later to kiss you good night."

"Yes, Mama," the boy replied softly, as if the pain was already beginning to pa.s.s.

Papa didn't move. He didn't budge. Not as the Tsar escorted his wife from the room. Not as the doctors and specialists were sent away. Not as the bedchamber and playroom were emptied. My father banished everyone, every last one of them except me, and within moments all was quiet and the door to the boy's room was shut. Only I was left because only I understood how to serve Papa, only I, his own flesh and blood, could antic.i.p.ate his needs. Dropping my coat on a chair, I pushed myself back into the tall floral curtains, where I disappeared. My own deep eyes never left Papa, who kept one hand pressed against Aleksei's forehead, the other clasped around his fingers. Hidden in the vines and flowers of the fine fabric, I stared at my father as he chanted prayers and began the work for which he was both worshiped and reviled, that greatest of Christian gifts, the laying on of hands. But would he be able to perform a miracle yet again?

"Dear G.o.d," I prayed quietly, "please grant Papa strength, please let Aleksei Nikolaevich live through the night."

CHAPTER 16.

For all my frustrations with my father, I knew one thing for sure: He was a healer. I knew this for one simple reason: Whenever I was ill, his presence, his touch, and his prayers not only made me feel better, they returned me with speed to good health.

The horse with the lame leg-the very first creature he had ever healed-knew that as well, as did the babushka, once bent with arthritis and now walking tall. And the boy run over by the carriage, now living in happiness and good health. Also Madame Vyrubova, who survived the train wreck when the doctors thought her lost. Papa had healed hundreds, if not thousands. Indeed, his powers were not limited to mere living creatures. Back home farmers frequently brought him c.u.mbersome bags of seed to bless, and when he did-holding them close to his heart and chanting heavenly words-they grew into the best fields of rye. Everyone in our province was aware of that. Seeds and plants that Papa talked to would thrive, whereas the ones he ignored would more often than not fail.

My own mother believed firmly in my father's skills. Healers, she said, had always existed across our vast nation, men and women who could bring nature under their control. They were known by the Siberian word shaman, shaman, and in the 1700s they were found by explorers all the way from the Urals to Chukchi in the Far East. Like Christ, they were special people with a special touch who could make the blind see and the lame walk. It was only recently that modern thoughts-modern and in the 1700s they were found by explorers all the way from the Urals to Chukchi in the Far East. Like Christ, they were special people with a special touch who could make the blind see and the lame walk. It was only recently that modern thoughts-modern Western Western thoughts, my mother always added, with great disdain-had torn the fabric of our ancient Russian beliefs, casting doubts and questions everywhere. Whereas before we took understanding and meaning from the sun and the moon, the trees and the plants, the modern scientists of the last fifty years, almost all of them educated abroad, were trying to explain away our natural world, not in a spiritual manner but a logical and mechanical one, continually dissecting everything into neat little black-and-white packages. thoughts, my mother always added, with great disdain-had torn the fabric of our ancient Russian beliefs, casting doubts and questions everywhere. Whereas before we took understanding and meaning from the sun and the moon, the trees and the plants, the modern scientists of the last fifty years, almost all of them educated abroad, were trying to explain away our natural world, not in a spiritual manner but a logical and mechanical one, continually dissecting everything into neat little black-and-white packages.

"If your father had been born a hundred years earlier," Mama had said one snowy afternoon, as her thick fingers made a large, square pirog pirog-a savory pie-filled with fish in one corner, wild mushrooms in the next, potatoes and onion in the third, and chopped egg in the fourth, "all Russia would be at his feet. Back then no one questioned the ability or the respectability of a healer. And that's the difference between your father and the modern scientists and doctors-your father seeks to heal people, whereas they seek to cure them."

My mother hated Sankt Peterburg. It wasn't the capital of Russia, she said, it was the capital of the material world, Peter the Great's little window onto Europe which had let in this terrible draft, and made our country ill...with two different sorts of consumption. I had read how even our great Leo Tolstoy had said the capital city was "stupefied and deadened by wine, wealth, and lovemaking without love." Yes, call it Sankt Peterburg or Petrograd, the capital had lost in the struggle of the spirit over the flesh, the very struggle my father was determined to fight every single day of his life.

And which the Heir Tsarevich Aleksei Nikolaevich himself was now facing.

I looked past my father, past the small blue robe draped on a bedside chair, and stared at the young boy, lying there on his nickel camp bed. Never had I seen such pain, such a blatant fight between good and evil. And in this child I saw not just an illness but a terrible metaphora metaphora for all the woes facing the Empire. Here was a young boy afflicted by a sickness brought into Russia by his Western relatives, a disease against which even the best Western doctors were powerless. Only Papa-who'd walked barefoot out of the depths of Russia-and his crude, backward spiritual treatments had offered any hope, let alone comfort. Yes, lying here before me was the body, the vessel, of a small boy, torn between East and West, ancient and modern. Looking at him, one couldn't help but wonder if the sickly dynasty was strong enough to go on or if the time had come for it simply and easily, to die away. for all the woes facing the Empire. Here was a young boy afflicted by a sickness brought into Russia by his Western relatives, a disease against which even the best Western doctors were powerless. Only Papa-who'd walked barefoot out of the depths of Russia-and his crude, backward spiritual treatments had offered any hope, let alone comfort. Yes, lying here before me was the body, the vessel, of a small boy, torn between East and West, ancient and modern. Looking at him, one couldn't help but wonder if the sickly dynasty was strong enough to go on or if the time had come for it simply and easily, to die away.

"Help me, please, Father Grigori," Aleksei beckoned, reaching up from the bed. "I hurt."

"I am here, Alyosha. And through me G.o.d's will shall be done. He has seen and heard your suffering, my child, and he has chosen to remove your pain."

"Thank you, Father Grigori."

"I have done nothing," said Papa, whose greatest skill was, undoubtedly, his ability to calm people. "It is G.o.d Himself whom you must thank."

"Da-s," he said, and closed his young eyes in serene prayer. he said, and closed his young eyes in serene prayer.

My father started chanting and mumbling, and as the words of the Lord fell upon the child, covering him in a blanket of sweetness, I could feel his tension pa.s.sing. I too closed my eyes, found my lips mumbling, praying, calling to the heavens for serenity and peace, comfort and warmth. I bowed my head and emptied my body of myself. Yes, we have power, all of us, to affect things, just as things themselves have power as well. Like a dream out of nowhere, an image of a blue heart-shaped diamond came into my mind's eye. I could see it as clearly as if I were holding it. I knew what it was. I had read about this gem in our papers, and the ladies had talked of it at the tea table. It was huge and gorgeous, supposedly stolen from the eye of an idol, a terribly famous diamond that had belonged to many doomed personages, including the ill-fated Marie Antoinette, the Hope family of bankers, our Prince Ivan Kanitowsky, and now an American heiress. Death had followed the diamond everywhere and, I was sure, would continue to do so now that it had left Russia for America. So if death could be attached to an inanimate thing, couldn't goodness be tied to something as well? Absolutely, I thought, reaching into my dress and clutching the small Orthodox cross that hung from my neck. Yes, there was hope.

"Death is not here today," I mumbled aloud, not sure how or why I knew this, but certain that I did.

"It has pa.s.sed us by," muttered my father, mid-prayer.

A shiver traveled my spine, reached a crescendo, and flowed down my arms and out my fingertips. What was it that I was feeling, this glory, this exaltation now surging through me? And where was it coming from?

"It comes from on high," said my father, as if he'd heard my silent question. "Dochenka maya, please come here." please come here."

I trembled like a schoolgirl called on by a dominating teacher. The fingers of my right hand clutched the fine curtain. Did Papa intend to involve me in some way?

"Come, child of mine," my father beckoned, holding out his hand with its incredibly long, gnarled fingers.

There were so many things I didn't understand about my father. Then again, all that mattered was what he could do right here and now. Papa, I realized, was like Chiron the centaur, who had been wounded by a poisoned arrow but did not die, and who could heal everyone but himself. If only the entire country were here, right in this bedchamber, there would be no shouts for my father's death, there would be no calling the Empress a traitor. Quite the contrary. She and my father were doing everything they could to save the Heir and the Empire.

Following my father and his unspoken movement, I proceeded around the nickel bed, while Papa continued to the kiot, kiot, which was filled with a glittering ma.s.s of gold-covered and bejeweled holy icons and flickering lamps. As his hand stretched upward, I knew at once which icon he was reaching for, the radiant which was filled with a glittering ma.s.s of gold-covered and bejeweled holy icons and flickering lamps. As his hand stretched upward, I knew at once which icon he was reaching for, the radiant Kazanskaya, Kazanskaya, Our Lady of Kazan, the painted image covered in a ma.s.s of gold, seed pearls, emeralds, and diamonds. Depicting the Holy Mother and Child, this icon had over the centuries become linked with the destiny of Russia. While the original rested in town in the Kazanski Cathedral on Nevsky Prospekt, there were many miracle-working copies, of which I could only hope this was one. In our own family this icon was of particular importance for the story of my namesake, little Matryona. In the 1500s a soldier's house had burned entirely to the ground and everything was thought lost, icons and all. That night, the soldier's daughter, Matryona, had a vision of the Holy Mother in the ashes. No one believed her, but Matryona insisted, and in time a spade was got, the girl's mother dug, and the icon was found, completely undamaged. Ever since, many miracles had taken place before this icon, including when it was taken into battle and victory was secured, first over the Poles and much later over Napoleon. Our Lady of Kazan, the painted image covered in a ma.s.s of gold, seed pearls, emeralds, and diamonds. Depicting the Holy Mother and Child, this icon had over the centuries become linked with the destiny of Russia. While the original rested in town in the Kazanski Cathedral on Nevsky Prospekt, there were many miracle-working copies, of which I could only hope this was one. In our own family this icon was of particular importance for the story of my namesake, little Matryona. In the 1500s a soldier's house had burned entirely to the ground and everything was thought lost, icons and all. That night, the soldier's daughter, Matryona, had a vision of the Holy Mother in the ashes. No one believed her, but Matryona insisted, and in time a spade was got, the girl's mother dug, and the icon was found, completely undamaged. Ever since, many miracles had taken place before this icon, including when it was taken into battle and victory was secured, first over the Poles and much later over Napoleon.

Papa reached up, placed one hand just before the icon, and intoned, "O Most Holy Mother of G.o.d, Thou who saved Thine image from harm, we beseech Thee to save us, Thine unworthy ones!"

My father stood there, mumbling and chanting, trembling and shaking. As he called to the heavens to pour forth from and through this religious image, I watched-and felt it, a power, a kind of divine security. Slowly, Papa turned to me, his eyes not blinking, but steadfast and remarkably intent.

"Matryona, daughter of mine," he said, his voice unusually deep and strange, "turn and place your hands over the boy's pain."

I panicked. I had seen death, but only at a distance. I had heard pain, but only from afar. I looked down at my open palms, which were staring blankly back up at me. What were these simple hands and what could they do? Might I hurt the boy instead of help?

Suddenly Papa was touching me on the forehead, saying, "Your wisdom and faith are not here." Next he was pressing his flat hand against my chest and over my heart. "But here."

Startled and worried, I raised my eyes.

"There is no fear here tonight, my Matryona. Trust me. Tonight you must help me reach from the icon to the boy, which you can do. It is time for you to realize your own strengths, of which you have a great many."

As soon as he said it, I realized my father was right. I didn't know if I'd inherited something from him, much in the same way as a singer or painter or sculptor inherits gifts from her parents, or if in fact I had merely observed and absorbed my father's skills. But I felt something, a power perhaps, albeit nascent. Or perhaps what I recognized was simply belief, a trust that these things can be made to happen, that the power of prayer can indeed beckon G.o.d to shine down and heal someone.

I turned to the bed and stared at the Heir Tsarevich, who lay there against his sheets like a pallid ghost hovering in a pale cloud, his eyes sunken and rimmed with ashen circles. Several days ago he'd nearly died from a simple nosebleed. Today he'd fallen, and now his leg was horribly bloated and twisted; blood had rushed to the contusion on his knee, filling the entire joint and forcing him to make more room by bending it up. A deep wave of pity surged in me and I wanted to cry out, but Aleksei smiled weakly up at me. He will take his cue from me, I thought, so I must convey my belief and my hope. I must give him my strength so he can find his. So I smiled warmly down upon him.

Behind me, Papa raised one hand again to the Kazanskaya, Kazanskaya, while he clasped me on my shoulder with the other. Oh. So this was how. We were to telegraph the energy from the icon through my father, through me, and down to the boy. I can do that, I said to myself with confidence. I reached down and placed my right hand on the boy's hot forehead and my left gently onto his swollen leg. Aleksei flinched ever so slightly, but I remained sure in my newfound confidence, and a moment later I sensed him already relaxing. while he clasped me on my shoulder with the other. Oh. So this was how. We were to telegraph the energy from the icon through my father, through me, and down to the boy. I can do that, I said to myself with confidence. I reached down and placed my right hand on the boy's hot forehead and my left gently onto his swollen leg. Aleksei flinched ever so slightly, but I remained sure in my newfound confidence, and a moment later I sensed him already relaxing.

Papa breathed in, exhaled, and intoned the trope, half chanting, "O fervent intercessor, Mother of the Lord Most High, You do pray to Your Son Christ our G.o.d and save all who seek Your protection. O Sovereign Lady and Queen, help and defend all of us who, in trouble and trial, in pain and burdened with sin, stand in Your presence before Your icon, and who pray with compunction, contrition, and tears and with unflagging hope in You. Grant what is good for us, deliverance from evil, and save us all, O Virgin Mother of G.o.d, for Thou art a divine protector to Thy servants."

Throughout the years my father had studied the Scriptures endlessly, memorizing long pa.s.sages because he could not read, and this afternoon none could have p.r.o.nounced the prayer more simply or more humbly. He went on and on, beseeching the heavens for mercy, for comfort, for intervention. And I could feel it, the warmth rushing down my father's arm onto my back, through my body, out my hands, and into the Tsarevich. I closed my eyes tightly and felt the power burning out of my fingertips. It was as if Dr. Derevenko, the Heir's personal physician, had attached one of his electrical apparatuses to me. My entire body began to tremble. Something akin to perspiration began to bubble from my palms onto the boy's skin and sink into his wounded body. One moment I was overcome with warmth, the next I was shivering, icy cold. Papa's words echoed in my ears and resounded through my entire body.

I don't know how long I stood like that, ten minutes or two hours, but I came to understand something that had always been before me but which I had never seen: the infinite power of love. Yes, truly, the power of love to calm and strengthen, the power of love to relax and imbue confidence-and, most important here this afternoon, the power of love to nurture and heal. Such were the lessons of Christ Our Lord, and such was my father's simple and secret weapon. The monarchists, the social democrats, the rich, and the poor were all seeking to use my father, to turn the fabled Rasputin into a political legend of one kind or another for their own benefit. My father knew that but didn't care, for he had found the ultimate truth, this intense feeling of affection and caring called love and the extravagant benefits love could lavish, not just on the heart and soul but on the physical being as well.

After a while Papa turned from the icon and, still chanting, came over to the other side of the bed and touched the boy ever so gently. And I saw it with my own eyes, my father's prayers lifting Aleksei to a place where there was no pain. From my father's mouth the words of the Lord fell upon the Heir, carrying him on a soft cloud to a place of heavenly rest. And like a fever that burst, I could see the pain pa.s.s from that small body and move on like a quickly pa.s.sing storm.

Then Papa took Aleksei on a trip to other lands and other times.

"Close your eyes and hold my hand, dear boy," came Papa's deep, sweet voice. "Now imagine we are strolling through the forest near my home in Siberia. Can you picture it? Can you see the endless pine wood and smell the sweet scent? The trees-they are so big!"

His eyes closed, Aleksei breathed in, exhaled, and replied softly. "I see it all, Father Grigori...so many pine trees...and mushrooms too! Lots and lots of mushrooms!"

"Yes, that's right! Let's pick some, shall we?"

"Da-s!"

So Papa led the boy via a story to our forest, showing him all the glens and little brooks and the best places to find endless numbers of mushrooms. And when they were done there, when their baskets were overflowing, the snow fell, soft and white.

"Alyosha, would you like to go on a wild troika ride pulled by three of the most beautiful horses in the Empire?" asked Papa.

Aleksei, seeing it all as he lay there with his eyes pinched shut, grinned and nodded, and off they flew through the snow, my father at the reins, whooping and hollering, the bells jingling, and the cold, cold air rushing against their rosy cheeks.

"Here, you drive, Alyosha. I'm going to hand you the reins."

"But...but I've never-"

"Of course you can do it! You have power, you have strength! Here they are, take the reins...but be careful! Stay on the road! Watch out for the trees! And just look at the snow, it's up to your waist!"

Aleksei laughed aloud and drove them on through fantasy.

After that, Papa took him fishing and hunting, walking and hiking, and finally swimming in the cool waters of our favorite brook. And in all this the boy found peace and comfort and did not that afternoon, thanks to my father, step over the threshold of death.

When Aleksei fell from story into sleep, Papa slipped into prayer and stood there by the bed for hour after hour, mumbling and chanting to the heavens. His strength and endurance were incredible, something I could not even aspire to. At some point I started to sway. My head became light, and I slumped to the floor, pulled my cloak over me, and tumbled into dream, lulled by the deep tones of Papa's voice. I was awakened only by the sounds of the Tsar and Tsaritsa coming back into the room. It was dark of course, our northern sun had already fallen, but it was obvious that a miracle had indeed taken place, for not only was Aleksei's temperature back to normal but his hideously swollen and twisted leg was resting flat on the bed. To everyone's great relief, the boy's color had returned as well, and within the hour he ate two eggs and drank an entire cup of tea with milk.

With the crisis averted, Papa and I were back home by ten that evening.

We decided on poison.

You probably realize that by this time Vladimir Purishkevich, the great monarchist, was deeply involved. Also old Dr. Lazavert, whom I know you have already questioned at length. We were all terribly nervous-we were talking of the sin of murder, after all-but the nightmare of Rasputinism had to be stopped at all costs.

Purishkevich ran his own charitable hospital train, gathering the wounded at the front and bringing them home. Dr. Lazavert worked on this train, as I'm sure you're well aware. It was there, in Purishkevich's private car, that we gathered to make the final arrangements. We decided on the night of December 16 because Dmitri Pavlovich was busy every other night, and we didn't want to change his schedule, lest we attract attention. And, as I've said, we decided on poison. In fact, I clearly remember Dr. Lazavert holding up a small gla.s.s vial of pota.s.sium cyanide dissolved in liquid.

"We will sprinkle it liberally into the pastries and his wine," said the doctor.

The plan was simple. Promising a party, we would pick up Rasputin after midnight and take him to the palace on the Moika. We would lead him through the side door and down into the bas.e.m.e.nt, into that cozy little dining room. As he waited for the supposed festivities to begin, he would feast on the sweets and wine. Death would come quickly.

I honestly confess I was not in favor of harming Rasputin's daughter as well. Nor did I want to be any part of the plan against the royal family. By that, I mean just what should be done with Aleksandra Fyodorovna and the Emperor, whether or not she should be locked up and he...he...

Well, that was a matter for the senior grand dukes, you know, the Tsar's uncles. That was family business. Getting rid of Rasputin was mine.

CHAPTER 17.

Papa might have been exhausted, but I was famished.

When we entered our flat, my father dropped his coat on the hall floor and walked in a daze to his bedroom, mumbling that he was going to sleep for two whole days. I stood for a moment in the front hall, still trying to absorb my father's actions and all that had transpired at the palace. After a few moments I hung up my coat and headed to the kitchen, where Dunya waited to do what she did best, comfort us with food.

"What would you like, milaya maya milaya maya?" My dear.

"Fish," I replied.

Amazed by my father's special abilities, I sat down at the dinner table and ate every different type of fish we had in the house. One after the other, Dunya brought out cod soup, herring in sour cream, jellied fish heads, and finally a piece of sturgeon fried in fresh b.u.t.ter. The only utensil I used was a spoon, everything else I ate with my fingers, proud of the milky broth and juices that dribbled down my chin. Even though I didn't really want any, I took a piece of black bread, careful to break it with my hands, just like the Apostles. And just like those who couldn't afford utensils, let alone a napkin, I used the dark, sour crust to wipe my chin and blot my lips. When Dunya offered me a sweet warm compote of stewed apples and raisins, I paused in thought. What would Papa do? He hated sweets-"Sc.u.m!" he always called them-but was compote really the equivalent of a flaky cream-filled French pastry or magnificent Austrian torte? Not sure, I declined. After all that fish I didn't want to do a thing to darken my soul.

Varya sat opposite, her elbows on the table, her blunt little chin in her hands, and just stared at me. After a few minutes, she brushed aside her bangs and scratched her nose.

She asked, "So what happened, Maria? Is the Heir dead?"

I shook my head.

"Then he's all right? Papa fixed him?"

I nodded.

"Xhorosho. I thought he would."

There was nothing to say, no way I could explain to her how amazing the healing had been, so I just ate in silence, my little sister watching me as I slurped up my food, fish by fish. I hadn't witnessed a miracle at the palace, but I had witnessed something miraculous, of that I had no doubt. I had no idea just how Papa was able to beckon the glory of G.o.d down from the heavens and into that suffering boy, how he was able to accomplish what no other-no priest, monk, scientist, or doctor-had ever been able to do. But he had and he did. Somehow, the strength of my father's character and belief had not simply enabled Aleksei to find serenity and peace but had inspired the boy's own faith in the power of his body and in his G.o.d. No wonder the Tsar and Tsaritsa's trust in my father was unshakable. How could it not be when Papa had saved their son over and over again? As amazing as it seemed, it was now perfectly clear to me that the Heir would have been dead long ago without my father's aid.

Thinking of my own path in life and how I might be able to help others, I wondered if I shouldn't become a bride of Christ. As I chewed on a soft yet slightly crunchy fish head, I considered abandoning this life and seeking the greater glory of G.o.d in a women's monastery. I would give up my fancy citified name of Maria and return to the real me, Matryona, the country girl of the far provinces. Yes, I would kiss my father and little sister good-bye, perhaps make a trip home to say farewell to Mama and my brother, Dmitri, and then I would seek out a place to take my vows. I definitely didn't want a place in the capital-Smolny, say-or anywhere nearby. Better something distant, the farther east the better. Yes, definitely something removed from the European influences sweeping our nation like polluted waters. A women's monastery hidden on an island in the middle of a lost Siberian lake would do just fine. There were many monasteries sprinkled across the length of Siberia, all the way to the Kamchatka Peninsula and the Bering Sea, and the best place would be one accessible for only a few months a year, a place where the roads and the rivers were open only during the short summer months. Being cut off from the world would encourage prayer and introspection. Surely my parents wouldn't be against my taking the vows. And since Sasha was gone-what if we never saw each other again?-life as a nun would be far better than marrying here in the capital and becoming one of the pet.i.t bourgeoisie, obsessed with the proper address, proper hat and dress, and requisite social standing. I really had no choice, now I thought about it. If I stayed and married here in Petrograd, I could only imagine the money and invitations people would shower upon me, all in the hope of gaining access to my father, which would in turn put them that much closer to the throne. How easy that would be. And how horrid.

I looked up when I'd eaten every last bit of fish, only to realize that my sister was no longer sitting there. When I carried my dishes into the kitchen, Dunya was not to be found either, not at the stove, nor on her little cot tucked behind the curtain. Setting my dishes into the porcelain sink, I glanced at the clock ticking away on the wall. After eleven. Not so late, particularly for this household, but it seemed that sleep in this sleepless city had finally and blessedly come to our flat.

I was just rolling up the sleeves of my dress to start washing my dishes when I heard a slight, discreet movement at the rear door. I stopped still. Someone started knocking gently, a sound so soft it might even have been a mouse scratching at the wood. But, no, I heard the rustle of clothing on the back landing. At this hour I suspected it was probably Prince Felix, who was sure to start pounding until he gained entry-after all, when had a Yusupov ever been turned away by anyone anywhere?

Then it occurred to me that it might be someone else altogether. Praying for this, I ran to the door.