There was more than self-indulgence in my desire to fill my mind with these thoughts – it was to keep other thoughts out. There was another possibility that Pyetr had mentioned – another side to the coin. Iuda was going to try to persuade Domnikiia to join him. It was a laughable concept, but it struck a cold terror in my heart. Domnikiia was a woman and a vain woman at that. She had already spoken of the delight she thought it would be to live for ever. How easy might it be for Iuda to persuade her that her sugar-coated vision of the life of a vampire was close to the truth? What lies would he conjure up to influence her – lies not only about him but about me as well?

But it could not happen. Although she might be romantic and fanciful, Domnikiia was a clever and a good woman. She would never choose such a path, no matter what worm-tongued falsehoods she was spun. And yet if she did, what would I then have to do? My vengeance upon Iuda would remain much the same, but what of my vengeance on Domnikiia? Vengeance it would be, for she would be beyond all hope of salvation. The moment she shared Iuda's blood, her soul would be condemned to hell. Whether it went there immediately or with the ultimate destruction of her mortal body, I knew not. I knew now many ways that a vampire might be killed. Which, I wondered, would I have to use on my dear, sweet Domnikiia?

I spurred my mount to a fast gallop, expelling from my mind all such thoughts and instead concentrating on riding across the slippery ground. The movement caused a sharp pain in my arm where the pitchfork had hit me. I had forgotten about it until then, and now I dared not look to see how serious it was, for fear that it would delay my journey. My arm was still strong enough for me to hold the reins – that was all I needed for the moment. We galloped on for several minutes through the chill winter air, my heart racing with the excitement of the ride. I cast my mind back to the more trouble-free days of my youth when I rode freely across the hills and fields around Petersburg, days when the name Bonaparte was rarely heard outside Corsica – never outside France. Could I really blame all of my present misfortunes on that one man? He had not transformed the Oprichniki into vampires, nor had he asked them to come to Moscow. The former was down to Satan and the latter to Dmitry, and with the willing agreement of the rest of us. And yet it had to be remembered that the Oprichniki, for all their ability to kill, were at heart scavengers, not predators. To flourish they had to exist in a matrix of death and fear. To be sure, at times of peace they might eke out an existence in Wallachia, killing just enough peasants to survive without drawing too much attention to themselves, but in war, where death was commonplace, they could indulge their most carnal of inclinations. War created an atmosphere in which all other evils could thrive, appearing trivial by comparison to the daily toll of death and carnage. A war is a fine place to hide any crime – another tree in the forest – and who could be so trite as to focus on perhaps a hundred deaths caused by the Oprichniki compared with the hundreds of thousands killed on both sides in the war? Bonaparte was not just responsible for those hundreds of thousands, but also for belittling every other death and every other tragedy that occurred in Russia, if not the whole of Europe throughout his era. When so many die as heroes, who remembers those who die frightened and alone?

I changed horses at Troitskoye. They did not have one shod and I had to wait almost half an hour before I could set out again. It was tempting to continue on my old horse, but he was tired and could barely manage a trot. Once I got going again, the delay was soon made up. Even so, the sun was already setting as I rode into the outskirts of Moscow. I continued across the city and tied up my horse just a little way from Degtyarny Lane, so as to approach on foot.

I banged impatiently on the door. It was Pyetr Pyetrovich who opened it. He ran his eyes up and down my bedraggled body, curling his lip with a degree of disdain that hardly befitted a man of his profession.

'Mademoiselle Dominique is not available tonight,' he told me before I had even uttered a word.

'Who is she with?' I asked.

'By "not available", I mean she is not here. You should try again tomorrow.'

'Where is she?'

'I have no idea. I should have thought you would be the man to know where she goes of an evening.' I could have forced my way past him and rushed into Domnikiia's room, but there was no reason to doubt that he was telling the truth. Whenever previously Domnikiia had been busy with a client, he had notified me outright, taking pleasure in the fact that I had to share.

'Is Margarita around?' I asked, hoping she might have some better idea of where Domnikiia had gone. Pyetr Pyetrovich's attitude changed slightly. I was no longer a possible threat to his livelihood – the single-minded suitor who might take away his star attraction – I was once more merely a customer like any other, prepared to accept in Margarita an alternative when my first choice was unavailable.

'Ah, I see sir has an eye for the brunette. But I'm afraid that Margarita too is unavailable. Raisa is free, but please, captain, do go and change your clothes first. And perhaps a wash as well? If not for the sake of Raisa, then at least for the other customers.'

I smiled a quiet, contemplative smile which I hoped gave the impression that I was about to break his nose, then turned and walked away. I had no idea of where I might start to look for Domnikiia. There was a slight chance that she had gone to find me at the inn, but she had no reason to expect me back in Moscow so soon, and even if she went there, she would not wait once she had discovered my absence. My best hope was to wait and watch the brothel. That was the one place that I could be sure Domnikiia would return, and also the place where Iuda would eventually show up. Given that Iuda could not travel by day and assuming that, when he did travel, his progress was at best at the same rate as mine, then I could expect him in about five hours, some time towards ten o'clock.

I glanced around the square for somewhere to wait, watch and hide. Several of the houses opposite the brothel appeared to have not yet been reoccupied. It was no effort at all to break into one – that had already been done weeks before by the pillaging French – and I went upstairs to get a better view over the square. As I climbed the staircase of the dark, abandoned house, I could not help but cast my mind back those few days to the house where I had found so many dishonoured corpses – Russian, French and others, Vadim among them – part eaten and then discarded like old chicken bones. But here there was no stench, no sound of rats. This was just an empty, looted house; one of the fortunate ones that had survived the fires.

In an upstairs front room, I was even lucky enough to find a little furniture. I sat on an old dining chair and watched the square below, in expectation of a long vigil.

I was taken by surprise. Scarcely had I sat down when across the square I saw a lamp come to light in Domnikiia's room. I took out my spyglass and focused it on the uncurtained window. Domnikiia and her client came into view. Evidently Pyetr Pyetrovich had lied to me. She was naked and had wrapped herself around the man. As he walked across the room towards the window, her arms held him tightly round the neck and her legs clasped him about the waist so that he could move freely as he held her whole weight. Her head swivelled from side to side, obscuring his face from view as she kissed his lips. Her shimmering, dark hair hung down over her neck and then disappeared over her shoulder, between their two bodies, leaving her elegant white back in plain view.