'So you've learned from his mistakes?' I said lightly.

'Too right. But my customers tend to pay pretty quickly anyway. No one wants his wife to come across an unpaid bill from me at the end of the month.'

'So what went wrong?'

'Who says anything went wrong?' she said, surprised. 'I'm here, now, with you, aren't I?'

'You could have got here by an easier route.'

'Could I? The only other route into your trousers would be to become some stuck-up society girl in Petersburg, and that was never an option.'

I stiffened. It wasn't an accurate description of Marfa in any way, but from the deliberate little I had told Domnikiia about her, it was to be expected.

'I'm sorry,' continued Domnikiia. 'That wasn't fair.'

'That's all right. So what did happen?'

'I was swept off my feet by a customer. One of my father's customers, I mean – at least at first. He used to come into the shop and buy his wife the most lovely hats. Then he bought me a lovely hat. And then he got what he'd expected in return. Soon he would just give me money. But then his wife found out, and she told her friends, and suddenly husbands weren't allowed to come to us for their wives' hats.

'My father knew what had caused it. We had an argument and he hit me, so I left. I rented a room and got by the only way I knew how. Only now the men I saw weren't the sort who tended to buy hats for their wives, even if they could have afforded them. Before long, one of them hit me, so I went back home.'

'I see,' I said.

'Except that there was no home. The shop had closed down and my family had gone. I guess I'd spoiled his reputation. And so I went back to work, and more men hit me, but most men paid, so I survived. Then I met Pyetr Pyetrovich. And he knew how to get the men to pay more, even though I was paid less. But I have a roof and a bed and a… home.'

'Didn't you ever look for your family?' I asked.

'I will do,' she replied, 'but not just yet. It's not been long enough yet.'

The way she told the story made it sound as if it had all happened a long, long time ago, but she was still too young for anything to have happened to her so very long ago.

'How long has it been?' I asked.

'Three years – since I left home.'

'You've been lucky, I suppose.'

'Luckier than most,' she said. 'I'm pretty. Men like that.'

'And you're smart. Men like that too.'

'No, Lyosha,' she said condescendingly, 'that's just you.' We walked in silence for a little. 'So, are you going to tell me all the secrets of your past?' she asked eventually.

'Best not, I think. Besides, it shouldn't make any difference.'

'How do you mean?'

'It's the same as the reason I never asked you about yours; I know you,' I said. 'You don't need explaining.' I might once have said the same thing about Maks.

'Life must be very dull for you, Aleksei Ivanovich,' she replied haughtily, 'knowing so much. Perhaps one day I shall surprise you.'

She never stopped.

Towards the end of September, Dmitry was sufficiently recovered to be moved from the hospital to a regular barracks. The risk of his burns becoming diseased was past, the doctors said, and it was now simply a question of waiting until his skin grew back fully.

'Does this mean you'll be going back to Moscow?' asked Domnikiia when I told her. It wasn't until I had been sitting on that wagon with Dmitry laid on the back, riding away from the city, that I had realized how truly terrified I had been in Moscow.

The discovery that the Oprichniki were vampires had been one that I had first reacted to with immediate action. But as the need for action had abated, my fears had found room to float to the surface. I had seen how the Oprichniki killed – seen their strength and seen their savagery. I knew that I did not want to die like that, and that knowledge made me realize that I did not want to die at all. I wanted to live and enjoy life. I wanted my wife and my son and my mistress and to have more children and, damn it, more mistresses. I wanted to read books and drink wine and play cards and die when I was very, very old.

'Not yet,' I replied. 'The word is that Bonaparte will have to leave soon, whatever happens. He's wasted too much time. He could have gone for a final victory in Petersburg, but he went on thinking that Moscow was the key – that it would break Russia's heart to see her captured. Most of us thought the same, but we all turned out to be wrong. The tsar has made no peace, and the French will have to winter in a safer city than Moscow. The longer they leave it, the more they risk getting cut off when winter comes.'

'So we didn't need you to save Moscow after all?' I had no answer. 'Oh, Lyosha, I'm sure you helped a little.' Her tone was supremely patronizing. 'Is your friend Iuda still in Moscow, sorting out the French?'

'No, he's dead.'

'You don't seem too sorry. What happened to him?'

Again, I should have spoken; again, I didn't.

'The same fire that Dmitry got injured in – Iuda wasn't so lucky.'

Dmitry leaving the hospital meant that I too could look for better accommodation. I was lucky enough to find myself a fair-sized room at a reasonable price and so, once again, I had the privacy I desired.

Domnikiia the mistress was a very different lover from Dominique the prostitute. Which I preferred is hard to say, because the difference between the two came in the absence of deceit. To be told as a willing listener by a convincing actress that one is the world's greatest lover is a very pleasurable experience. But once the actress's mask has been dropped it can never be credibly raised again. Knowing the truth, that one's lovemaking could be improved upon, is not as pleasant as the delusion of perfection, but it is more pleasant than the exploded delusion. And there is always the pleasure of knowing that regular practice leads to improvement.

As I realized that there would soon be no avoiding my return to Moscow, I realized too that one day I would probably have to face the five remaining Oprichniki: Pyetr, Andrei, Iakov Zevedayinich, Filipp and Foma. I knew that they could be killed by fire. At least, I believed it; I had no solid evidence that Iuda and Ioann were dead. I knew for certain that they could be killed by a wooden stake through the heart, and that was the method that I could better control. I began to whittle for myself a stout wooden dagger – almost a small sword – that I could wield with the same skill as I did a sabre and thus, with a swift lunge, despatch a vampire in much the same way as I could a man.

One afternoon, while I was sitting on my bed, working on my new weapon, Domnikiia came into my room.

After we had greeted each other, she asked about the sword. 'Is that for your son?' It was very like a wooden sword that I had made for Dmitry Alekseevich a couple of years before, the one I had seen at his side in my dream, but this had a much more deadly purpose. I knew then, as I had always known, that it was my duty to tell Domnikiia what I had discovered. Her connection with me might bring her into danger and she at least deserved to be aware of the nature of that danger.

'No, it's not,' I replied. I put the sword to one side and lay back on the bed. She lay beside me with her head upon my chest. I stared up at the small window above us as I told her, trying to hide the terror in my heart as I spoke.

'You remember the Oprichniki?'

'Of course,' she said. 'I met Iuda, remember.'

I nodded, pausing to give myself time to think how I could best convey what I knew. Directness was the only course I could take. 'You know what a voordalak is?' I asked.

She looked at me. Her expression showed mild surprise at the turn the conversation had taken. Then she looked at the wooden sword, and back to me. Her face transformed. She understood – but she didn't believe.