“It’s all right, my boy.”

“Where have you been?”

“I’ve been… working.”

Michael looked at him solemnly. “Mama said you didn’t want to see us.”

Ruzsky stared at his son in silence, then gathered him into his arms again. “You know that’s not true, don’t you?”

Michael nodded, but Ruzsky mourned the fact that the look of playful innocence he had radiated during the game with his aunt a few moments before had vanished from his face.

Ruzsky walked over to Ingrid. She adjusted her hair nervously. “I’m sorry, Sandro. I didn’t see you.”

“Why should you apologize?”

“It was just a game.”

“Of course. We can play on.” Ruzsky put Michael down, inclining his head toward the house. “Is…?”

Ingrid shook her head.

“Out all afternoon?” Ruzsky said.

“I don’t know,” Ingrid answered. “She never says.”

“Let battle commence,” Ruzsky said. He built himself a small wall, scrabbling around in the snow and glancing across to where Ingrid and Michael were preparing their ammunition. Once or twice, he caught the look of bewilderment in his son’s eyes, but sought to divert it by chasing him around the garden. They collapsed in the corner and Michael stuffed snow in his father’s shirt and over his hair and face as Ruzsky giggled and screamed for help. Ingrid stood above them, her face flushed and chest heaving. She was smiling and Ruzsky thought again that she was even more beautiful than he remembered.

He wrestled with Michael until he was cold and knew his son must be, too. He cried, “Enough,” and stood, tossing Michael over his shoulder and striding toward the house. Michael wriggled with delight, then lay still, his head pressed against his father’s, a small hand clutching the back of Ruzsky’s collar.

Outside the kitchen, Ruzsky unpeeled Michael’s overcoat, scarf, and boots. The boy watched him warily. As Ruzsky hung his son’s coat on the low hook by the kitchen door, his nostrils filled with the aroma of baking bread and he was overcome by a wave of nostalgia.

He took Michael’s hand and pushed open the kitchen door with his foot. Katya was bent over the oven. A young assistant he didn’t recognize eyed him nervously while Katya fussed over the baking tray. When she straightened and saw him, there was a hint of anxiety in her eyes too, but she quickly smothered it. “Sandro,” she said, beaming, as she bustled toward him and put her round, red face against his.

Before he had had a chance to respond, she had begun to fuss over Michael. “You’re freezing cold, young master,” she said. “Look at the state of you!”

Michael glanced at his father and rolled his eyes. Ruzsky smiled.

“You need a cup of hot milk,” Katya said as she returned to the stove and pulled across a pan. “Would you like some English tea, Master Sandro?” She glanced at Ingrid, who was standing behind them. “Madam?”

“Why not?” Ruzsky said, turning.

“Your father is here,” Ingrid blurted.

Katya bustled across the room. Ruzsky sighed quietly. How they all jumped to the old tyrant’s tune.

“Why is Grandpapa always angry with you?” Michael asked.

Ruzsky knelt down and lifted his son onto a side table. “It’s a long story.”

“Mama says that Grandpapa won’t let you into the house, but I asked Grandpapa about it and I told him it was unfair, because it is your house, too.”

Ruzsky forced himself to smile. “And what did he say?”

“He said he would think about it.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“I love Grandpapa. Some people, like the servants, say he is frightening, but he doesn’t frighten me.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

“He gave me a wooden train set and we play with it together.”

Ruzsky put his hands in his pockets and breathed in deeply, trying to hold on to his smile. Once, his father had liked nothing better than to join his eldest son after a day’s work, building a train track on the floor of his bedroom.

“You must like playing with Auntie Ingrid,” Ruzsky said.

“Yes, I do. Auntie Ingrid is kind. She always plays with me. Mama never does.”

Ingrid unselfconsciously stroked Michael’s hair. “That’s not true, Liebchen.”

“It is true.” Michael’s face had become sorrowful. “She is always busy.” He looked at his father. “Why don’t you live with us anymore, Papa?”

Ingrid looked embarrassed. “I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to.” Ruzsky took his son’s hand. “I’ll explain in a minute. We’ll go upstairs and play together. Would that be all right?”

“Yes!” Michael jumped off the table. “We can build a big train track!”

“In a minute. Have your milk first.”

Michael walked over to Katya’s side and the housekeeper hugged him to her as she had Sandro when he was a boy, his head resting upon her ample thigh while she finished warming the milk. She reached up and took down a large mug from the shelf. It had a familiar picture of Peter the Great on one side holding a hammer and the dates of the city’s bicentenary: 1703-1903.

“Is it true, what he says?” Ruzsky asked Ingrid.

“I honestly don’t know, Sandro.”

“She ignores him?” he whispered.

“He misses you.”

Ruzsky closed his eyes for a moment. Should he try and patch up some kind of relationship with Irina for Michael’s sake? Would she allow it? Could he bear it? He thought of their violent, bitter, loveless rows, of her screaming at him, teeth bared.

“I don’t know what one can do,” Ruzsky said. “Perhaps you should be grateful you don’t have children.”

“I would never be grateful for that,” Ingrid said, and Ruzsky saw the deep sadness in her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

She smiled. “There is no need to be sorry.”

“What will you do?”

Now she laughed, and although her laughter was brittle, it brought light and warmth to her face. “What can I do? A German in wartime Petrograd. I’m a prisoner.”

“It can’t be that bad, surely.”

“These last few months…” Ingrid shook her head. “My accent is still strong.”

They both watched Michael sitting at the table with Katya, drinking his milk.

“I am pleased that you are back,” she said, quietly. She spoke slowly and carefully, and Ruzsky felt his face reddening. “Will you live together again? With Irina?”

“We couldn’t afford to,” Ruzsky said. “Not in the style she would insist upon, anyway. Irina’s parents are embarrassed by me and will only entertain the idea of her without me. As for my own father, you know the situation well enough.”

“I’m sure Dmitri could-”

“No.” Ruzsky turned toward her and smiled. “It’s not possible anymore.”

Ingrid gazed at the floor. “Have you seen Dmitri?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Ingrid still did not look up. “Did…”

It was painful to watch her struggling with herself. “I’m sorry,” Ruzsky said, without thinking.

She raised her head. “Did he tell you?”

“No.”

“It is common gossip?”

Ruzsky wished he could ease the desolation he saw in her eyes. Had she not known of his brother’s reputation before? Was it only Maria that she was aware of? Her pain fueled his own. “I do not believe so,” he said kindly.

“Then how-”

“I guessed.”

She did not believe him. “Dmitri has been arguing with your father.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know. But it puts him in a foul temper.”

For a moment, they stared at each other, then Ruzsky walked over and bent down by his son. “Come on, my boy. Shall we build that train track now?”

As he left the room, Ruzsky turned and saw Ingrid with her head down, her hands over her eyes.

The house in Millionnaya Street was almost dark. Ruzsky led his son quietly past the door of his father’s study. Like their home at Petrovo, the walls here were filled with portraits and banners from the family’s martial past. The floors were covered with rich red rugs from central Asian campaigns, and the mantelpieces laden with strange and exotic artifacts-masks, daggers, even jewels.