The mention of Vadim Fyodorovich brought back to Tamara the conversation of the previous night, when Dmitry had told her of how he died. She saw Rodion in the same pose, hanging from a nail, his throat bearing the teeth marks of a voordalak, his body slowly decaying. She tried to force the image away, but it began to fill her mind; when she looked at her brother she could see the maggots crawling among the hairs of his newly grown beard. Try as she might to ignore it, it lingered at the back of her mind, waiting to find readmittance.

They sat and talked for some time mostly Tamara and Rodion, with their mother smiling happily on them. The vision of Vadim returned to her again and again, Rodion's words emitted from his grandfather's dead, caked lips. Of all she had learned from Dmitry the previous night, that was the thing that most personally affected her. That and one other: throughout she was itching to ask the question that had been the whole reason for her visit. She marvelled at her own priorities. Last night she had seen first-hand creatures she had never dreamed existed, heard stories of horror that she had no reason to doubt were true, and yet her obsession was with the one tiny clue that Dmitry had given her that might lead to the truth about her parents.

Rodion sensed her impatience.

'Weren't you about to ask Mama something?' he said at length.

Yelena scowled, but with Rodion there she could do little to avoid the issue. Tamara posed her question.

'Mama, when I was young, did I ever have a nanny?'

Yelena hid her reaction well, but it was plain to see that the question meant more to her than Tamara might have expected. Her mother's eyes narrowed, trying to fathom what was behind it. Even Rodion seemed taken aback. His eyes shot over to his mother to watch how she dealt with it.

'You had several,' said Yelena calmly.

'Really? I can scarcely remember.'

'Only when you were very young. Once you started growing up, there was less need for one.'

'Do you remember any of their names?'

Yelena made a show of thinking about it, but Tamara knew at once that she wasn't going to get an answer. Clearly this nanny did know something something that Yelena wanted to remain a secret.

'It was so long ago,' Yelena said at last. 'None of them comes to mind. I'll ask Valentin, but I doubt he'll do any better.'

I bet he won't, thought Tamara.

The door burst open and a voice shouted across the room. 'Come on, Papa, we'll be late.'

'Vadim!' said Yelena sternly. 'Don't be so rude. Say h.e.l.lo to your aunt Tamara.'

Vadim bowed and kissed Tamara's hand. She beamed back at him, but again visions of his great-grandfather and namesake haunted her. He turned to his father. 'Now can we go?' he asked.

'Let me go and get ready,' said Rodion, rising to his feet. He bid farewell to Tamara and Yelena and followed his son out of the room.

There were a few moments of silence, broken by Tamara. 'Do you mind if I go and look at my old bedroom?' she asked.

'Your bedroom?' Yelena was still suspicious, even of so innocent an enquiry.

'Fond memories.'

'This is still your home. It always will be.'

Tamara went out to the hall and up the stairs. Her old room was at the front of the house. She hesitated as she put her hand to the door. She had slept here until she was nineteen, when Vitya had taken her away to Petersburg. The ghosts of the past still resided in there, somewhere. She hoped that just one of them would give her some clue to this mysterious nanny.

The door creaked as she pushed it it always had. The large double bed, in which she had spent so many nights, was still there, and beyond it the window. The bed was made up ready for whenever Tamara chose to come home, but she'd never once stayed there since her marriage. To the left, there was another room, which could also be accessed straight from the landing. Tamara always thought of it as the study, but she never recalled it being used as such. She looked inside, but it was just boxes, as it had always been. Valentin had his own study, downstairs, so why should he need to use this as one?

She went back into the bedroom. To the right, near to the bed, a smaller room led off. She went into it. Here there was another bed a child's bed. She had slept in here too, when she was small enough to fit in the bed; she had almost forgotten. And her nanny had slept in the main room then.

Tamara felt a shiver. She tried to hold on to the thought the memory. She was sure of it. As a little girl, she had slept in the small bed and a woman such a beautiful woman had slept in the bed in the other room. It could only have been her nanny. She remembered being put to bed and having lullabies sung to her. She tried to picture the woman, but could not see her face. Then that sweet, soft voice came flooding into her mind.

Bayoo, babshkee, bayoo, Zheevyet myelneek na krayoo, On nye byedyen, nye bogat, Polna gorneetsa rebyat.

Vsye po lavochkam seedyat, Kashoo maslyenoo yedyat.

Kasha maslenaya, Lozhka krashenaya, Lozhka gnyetsa, Rot smyeyetsya, d.o.o.s.ha radooyetsya.

Bayoo, babshkee, bayoo.

Bayoo, babshkee, bayoo.

Tamara went back to the main room and another image came: her nanny standing at the window looking out. She could only picture her from behind, but she was as real as had been her grandfather's ghastly, dead face minutes before. A long plait of dark hair ran straight down her back. It was a strange image to have of the woman just standing there watching and waiting. But it was how she most remembered her.

And then Tamara recalled that she herself had done the same stood in that same pose, sometimes beside her nanny, sometimes alone. She went over to the window and put her hand down to touch the ledge. It scarcely reached her waist, and yet she remembered a time when she had only just been able to peek over it. Outside in the snow, a man had stood watching, always watching. He had been tall and young but Tamara could remember his face no more than she could her nanny's. And just as the face would not come to her, neither would the name. She stared down into the street below.

'Domnikiia Semyonovna.' The two words cut through the room and through her recollections, shattering the images that played in her mind and dragging her, unwillingly, to the present. Before she could turn to look, the door had closed, but she knew well enough who had spoken.

Rodion had been there, all those years ago when Tamara was a child, though he would have been in his teens. He would have known about everything. And then later, the first time Tamara had asked the Lavrovs about her true parents, he'd witnessed that too. Their reaction then would have been enough for him as a loyal son to keep whatever he knew to himself, and Tamara had never spoken to him on the subject. She had no idea what he knew, but now he had given her something a name; the name of a nanny who until yesterday she had not known existed. And it was a name with which she was already familiar. There had been several names on that list of witnesses to the first murder, in Degtyarny Lane, in 1812. Aleksei's had been one. Another was Domnikiia Semyonovna Beketova.

Again she let the image of the woman standing, waiting, staring out of the window come to her. But what was it that Domnikiia Semyonovna had been waiting for? Tamara remembered herself, standing beside her nanny, just where she stood now, also waiting; waiting for her parents, she felt sure of that. She glanced down into the street again and felt her blood chill at what she saw. Her memories had come to life. There stood that same tall, brooding figure in silent vigil, just as he had done when Tamara was a child. Another memory came. The man had made Domnikiia cry. He had hit her. As a child it had made her sad, but now she felt only anger towards the man who had done it. Could it be that same man who stood there now, or was it mere coincidence?

She studied the figure. His back was turned and she could not see his face. He was unusually tall. Could it be Tyeplov? It made no sense that he would have been here thirty years before. And as a voordalak he shouldn't be here now in broad daylight, unless that aspect of their nature truly was a myth.

The figure turned and walked purposefully away down the street, allowing Tamara the briefest glimpse of his face. She stepped back from the window and put her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The figure was not Tyeplov, but it was a face she knew well. And she was now certain that it had been the same man, though much younger, who had maintained his vigil there when she was a child.

It was Dmitry.

They had one last pa.s.sionate night together. Now it was over, and Dmitry lay in Raisa's bed, in her room in the brothel on Degtyarny Lane. He felt her warm body pressed against his, with scarcely a gap where their skins were not touching, from the point at which her temple pressed against his chest down to where their insteps lay gently against one another. Her breathing was quiet, but he felt her body moving. His own slow inhalation and exhalation matched hers exactly.

It was a rare treat; to be in bed with her like this, and to have the luxury of remaining still and silent for so long. It was a happy side effect of the danger they faced. Last night, after Tyeplov's visit, they had been able to stay together, and again tonight. Normally he would have been thrown out, just like any other customer, when the doors were finally locked in the small hours of the morning; it was the rule of the house.

After visiting Yudin, Dmitry had gone to see the Lavrovs, but he had been too late. Tamara was already there. He'd seen her, up at her bedroom window, just as when he'd looked up at her when she was a little girl. Then he'd believed what he was meant to believe that she was the Lavrovs' daughter and that Domnikiia was merely her nanny. He remembered his loathing for Domnikiia then, for taking his father from his mother, and worse, for taking his father from him. But he had grown to realize that neither was true.

He was sure that Tamara had seen him and recognized him. Perhaps she even remembered him standing on that same spot all those years before, his eyes blazing with hatred for her mother. But when they met again that evening, Tamara had said nothing. Dmitry did not speak to the Lavrovs. It was better to leave their secrets undisturbed.

He had returned to Degtyarny Lane to be surprised how easy it was to convince Raisa to leave Moscow. Perhaps she had seen from the first that he was going to have his way, regardless of her objections. He'd have locked her in a trunk and thrown her into the luggage wagon if need be. In the end, he hadn't even needed to explain to her the full nature of the threat she faced. He'd discussed it with Yudin, and they'd decided it was best to avoid it if possible. She understood well enough that a vampire could kill her; there was no need to tell her that it could also capture her soul.

There was a knock at the door. Dmitry had been expecting it, but he didn't respond. The door opened slightly and the light of a candle shone in.

'It's nearly time.' It was, as he had known it would be, Tamara's voice. 'He'll be here soon.'

'We'll start moving,' he said, turning his head towards her. She left the candle on the table, along with a jug of hot water, and departed.

'Do we have to?' Raisa had been woken by Tamara's arrival, but she still sounded sleepy. She coughed heavily, but waved Dmitry away when he showed concern.

'You know we do,' he said, when she'd recovered.

'Then you come too.'

'You know I can't.'

She rolled over and pushed herself up with her arms, straddling him on all fours. Her loose, golden hair, translucent in the candlelight, hung down over him, tickling his shoulders and his forehead.

'Aren't you going to miss me?' she asked, rubbing herself up and down against his belly.

'Of course.' He pulled her down on to him and pressed his lips to hers, knowing that if she continued, he would not be able to resist her. They didn't have time. He rolled her over on to her back, so that he was now above her, then gave her one final kiss before standing up. He washed and dressed quickly, then went to the door, leaving her running a comb through her shimmering hair.

'I'll wait downstairs,' he said, then departed.

In the salon, Yudin was already waiting. He had in his hand a gla.s.s of tea. Tamara offered one to Dmitry. He sipped it.

'I should come with you,' he said. 'At least to the station.'

'We're not going to the station,' said Yudin. 'Not in Moscow, anyway.'

'What?'

'It's too obvious. I have a carriage. I'll take her to Khimki and she can get the train from there.'

'Can you trust the carriage driver?' asked Tamara.

'Oh, I think so,' said Yudin, with the slightest of smiles.

Then both Yudin and Tamara looked up, to the top of the stairs. Raisa stood there, wrapped in a light overcoat, her hair hidden by her hat, a small valise in her hand. She looked utterly demure quite unlike the woman whose body he had caressed not twenty minutes before. He rushed up the stairs to take her case from her, but his ankle still slowed him. She was halfway down when they met, and brushed aside his offers of a.s.sistance.

She went to Tamara first, kissing her on both cheeks and then taking her hand. 'Goodbye, Toma,' she said. 'I hope you'll be able to carry on here without me.'

'You'll be hard to replace,' said Tamara.

Then Raisa turned to Dmitry. She said nothing, but merely raised her eyes up to his. He threw his arms around her and squeezed her as tightly as he could, as if it would keep her from going. She didn't even breathe but stood quite still, her face buried in his neck, until he finally let go of her. She gave him the most knowing of smiles, which told him everything about her. His own broad smile caused hers to widen. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. Then they separated.

Tamara turned the key in the door and drew back the two large bolts, then opened it and stepped outside. Between them Dmitry and Yudin picked up Raisa's large trunk, which had been packed and brought down the night before, and carried it outside. They strapped it on to the barouche that waited there. By the time they were done, Raisa had already climbed aboard. Dmitry heard her cough again.

The coachman's seat, behind the two black horses that would pull the carriage, was empty. Yudin clambered up and took the reins. He grinned down at Dmitry.

'No need to let anyone else in on this, I don't think,' he said.

Tamara and Dmitry stepped back towards the house. In the early morning darkness, Raisa was scarcely visible, sitting back beneath the half-hood. Dressed all in black, Yudin perched above her and in front, leaning out over the two horses like the expert driver that Dmitry knew him to be. He flicked them with his whip and the two beasts began to move. Raisa was out of sight in a moment, hidden by the black canopy, but Yudin remained visible until the carriage turned the corner. He gave a cheery wave as he disappeared from view.

Dmitry felt Tamara's comforting hand on his back. He felt an almost overwhelming urge to embrace her, but for it to have made any sense she would have had to know she was his sister, and now, more than ever, that knowledge could only bring her danger.

'Are you coming back in?' she asked.

'No,' he said. 'I'll head off.'

She smiled briefly and stepped back inside. Dmitry waited until he heard the bolts drawn shut, and then walked away, wondering when he would ever see Raisa again.

CHAPTER XX.

5 July 1856 My dear little Mityenka, It seems so long since I was last in your arms, and yet it was only this morning when we said goodbye. Everything went as you and Vasiliy Innokyentievich told me it would. We made good time out of Moscow and were soon on the chaussee. As dawn broke, I made him stop the coach and looked back on the city in the morning sunlight. It was quite the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, but it saddened me to think that somewhere among those gleaming church domes and cl.u.s.ters of buildings you were there, alone, and probably already back to sleep, knowing you.

We reached Khimki in plenty of time, and Vasiliy suggested that we should take a walk around the famous gardens, but I demurred. I cannot see this journey as any kind of a holiday, but perhaps one day soon we will be able to walk through those gardens together. We sat at the station and waited for the train, which duly pulled in a little before noon. I was surprised how many people got off when it arrived, but Vasiliy explained they would have come for the gardens, or to take lunch, or to listen to the orchestra that sometimes plays here. I'm sure you would adore it, though I don't imagine they play anything like as well as you do. He also said that some people come just because they enjoy riding on the train, and that this was the shortest journey they could take, but that seems quite silly to me.

There were only two others apart from myself who boarded the train at Khimki, though both I and Vasiliy Innokyentievich verified that neither was Tyeplov or Mihailov, at least as far as you described him. How could they be? How could they know of our plans, and even if they did, how could they stand there on the platform, with the summer sun at its highest?

Vasiliy Innokyentievich had arranged a seat in a first-cla.s.s carriage for me, and he waited on the platform until the train pulled away. There was only one more stop before we got to Klin, and we crossed a very large bridge, at which I dared not look out for fear of seeing just how far the drop was down to the river. The journey took a little over four hours altogether and when we arrived I looked out of the window to see a kindly lady standing on the platform who I just knew was Mme Zhiglova. We took a little open wagon to her house, which overlooks the river Sestra. She is a widow who lost her husband when the French first attacked Sevastopol, back in 1854. I told her I have a friend who was in the city throughout the entire siege (I didn't dare mention to her exactly what type of friend). I'm afraid I may have made rather more of your wounds than is strictly correct, but I know you love to do that too. I told her I would ask if you ever encountered Captain Zhiglov of the Tarutino Regiment. She has a daughter, Sofia Bogdanovna, who lives with her. She is fourteen years old and quite delightful. Her two sons, Ivan Bogdanovich and Lyov Bogdanovich, are both serving in the Caucasus.

Mme Zhiglova showed me straight to my room, from which I can just see the river, and as soon as the maid had unpacked and helped me change my clothes I sat down to write this letter to you. Mme Zhiglova has already brought me some tea, and now she has called me down to sit with her on the veranda and share some vatrushki, which she is keen to tell me she makes with apples from her own orchard, so I must say goodbye.

Write as soon as you receive this.

Your loving Rasha 6 July 1856 My dearest Rasha, Vasiliy Innokyentievich has already told me your story up to the moment you left Khimki, though I must confess his telling of it was far less enchanting to hear than yours was to read, though somewhat more succinct. You'll be pleased to know he made it safely back to Moscow and I dined with him yesterday evening. If I had known, I would have eaten only vatrushki and thought of you. Even without them I thought of you.

My day has been as tedious as ever, reading reports from officers who have never been into battle and who believe the best way for a soldier to defeat his enemy is to dazzle them with his over-polished b.u.t.tons. Tiresome though it is, I am beginning to feel a certain pride at the spectacle we shall see at His Imperial Majesty's coronation, and I feel sure that my small contribution towards organizing the parades of the cavalry will help to ensure they do not go unnoticed. It would be wonderful if we could find a way for you to be back in Moscow by then. I'm sure I could secure you the perfect spot from which to see all those mounted officers pa.s.sing by (though I flatter myself to hope you would have eyes only for one).

On that front, Vasiliy and I have been discussing how we can finally be shot of the creatures that threaten you and thus allow your safe return. We disagree on precisely what their next move will be. Vasiliy suspects that they will abandon all plans to imperil you and will turn their attention once again to me. My belief is that they will attempt to make a further move on you at Degtyarny Lane. Thankfully we can combine our defences against both eventualities. If they do come for me, I am well armed, and Vasya has used his influence to ensure that two covert officers, similarly armed and ready to protect me, will be close by whenever I am out during the hours of darkness. Thus I will be watching Degtyarny Lane from without, while Tamara Valentinovna watches from within. If they come in search of you, or in search of me, the result will be the same.

I know you will hate the thought of my putting myself in danger, but in truth the danger is already there and if we don't act to precipitate events, then it will remain with us for the rest of our lives.

I'm afraid that I never encountered Captain Zhiglov, though I do have some friends in the Tarutino, so I will ask them when I see them. I'm sure he died bravely. The tragedy of the war has been that the same could be said of so many.

I count the hours before your next letter arrives.

I am yours, Mitka HE HATED TO lie to her, especially in a letter. It was only over a small matter, but not so small that he chose to tell her the truth.

Yudin had indeed suggested the idea of providing officers to protect Dmitry, and Dmitry had initially agreed, but then his mind had gone back to 1825 and the plan he had hatched with Aleksei to kill the vampire Kyesha. They had recruited half a dozen good soldiers, but had understood that they would be laughed at if the word voordalak was ever mentioned in connection with their purpose. They had been careful to tell the men merely to follow Kyesha, never to approach him, but one of them had decided to show his bravery why shouldn't he? and had died for it.

He and Yudin had discussed whether they could conceivably tell the men what they would be dealing with, tried to find ways to make it sound less preposterous, but in the end they had agreed that it would be impossible to tell the truth. Yudin had still been prepared to take the risk and let the men protect Dmitry even though they were unaware of the danger, but Dmitry had refused to allow it.

In the end, he had only Yudin to protect him and Tamara, though she was under strict orders to consider primarily her own safety. Each of the other two had furnished themselves with a cane, much like Dmitry's. He had shown them how to sharpen its tip to a point and then cover it with an extra length of wood. The three of them had laughed as they stood there, canes in hand, like desperate followers of some new fashion trend. But it made a good disguise for a good weapon. Aleksei had managed with only a wooden dagger, modelled on the one he had made Dmitry as a boy. What, Dmitry wondered, had he made for Tamara when she was a child?

They also carried pistols. Dmitry had told Yudin how effective such a weapon had proved, however accidentally, in Sevastopol. It could not kill a vampire, but it could incapacitate for long enough for a weapon more familiar to folklore to do its work the ancient augmented by the modern. Yudin, as ever, had gone one better than Dmitry and presented them each with American revolvers Colt Dragoons capable of firing off six shots before needing to be reloaded. Yudin would not say where he had got them, but all agreed that the vampires wouldn't stand a chance.

And then, they waited. Each evening, Dmitry had loitered around Degtyarny Lane, making himself obvious in the hope of attracting Tyeplov or Mihailov's attention, or in the hope of catching them trying to break in. Sometimes he noticed Yudin shadowing him, sometimes not, which proved that Yudin was doing his job well. Occasionally he would catch Tamara's eye through the window or as she opened the door, but they rarely spoke.

He and Raisa exchanged letters every day. She would write in the evening and her letter would be carried by the train from Petersburg the next morning, travelling with it for the last few versts of its journey into Moscow. The letter would be in Dmitry's hands by evening. He would write a reply that would go out with the morning train and be with Raisa in the afternoon often as she sat down for lunch.

July pa.s.sed into August, and neither of them once missed writing a letter. The warm days of August ran by and the coronation approached. Moscow prepared for the celebrations and Dmitry's work on the committee headed towards its conclusion.

And of neither Tyeplov nor Mihailov was there the slightest sign.