“His wife never wanted us.”

“Is she alive?”

“Yes.”

“Will you go to see her?”

“No.”

“Where is your sister now?”

“In a sanatorium.”

“What happened to her?”

There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” Maria said. “I don’t know.”

Maria closed her eyes. He recognized the cold, brittle place within her all too well.

In the darkness, he could feel his love growing and deepening. He reached over and held her to him. For a moment, her fingers dug into his shoulders as she hugged him and then she let go.

“Did your-”

“Sandro. I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said. “Tell me about Petrovo. Tell me about the house there.”

“Why do you want to know about that?”

“Dmitri won’t talk about it. And yet it’s such an important part of you both.”

Ruzsky contemplated her request in silence. It was many years since he had consciously thought about Petrovo, and yet it was so intimately enmeshed in the fabric of his existence that he didn’t need to. The house, its atmosphere, its history-he carried it with him all the days of his life. “What do you want to know?”

“Paint me a picture.”

Ruzsky was silent again. What harm could it do, just to describe the house?

“It’s tall,” he said, “with a series of ornate pillars along its facade, but not too grand. Inside, it was a family home, with fireplaces as big as my father, and rugs, military portraits, and souvenirs gathered by the Ruzskys over the years, from campaigns in the Caucasus, the Far East, and Europe. There were sabers and lances and primitive, rusting muskets, and banners and giant silver plates. There was a shaded veranda all the way along the front of the house where we used to spend the summer evenings…”

Ruzsky stopped.

“Go on.”

“I-”

“Please go on, Sandro…”

Ruzsky twisted away from her. Recalling long-suppressed memories made him feel as vulnerable as he had as a child. “In the summer, my mother would sing. She had a lovely voice and we would join in, even my father; the sound carried across the valley. Sometimes, my father would go into the drawing room and play the piano. I would sit with my feet over the edge of the balcony, my toes brushing the top of the thick lilac bushes that surrounded the house.”

Ruzsky was silent for a minute, perhaps more.

“One year, when our time there usually came to an end, Father and Mother said we wouldn’t be returning to the house on Millionnaya Street until the end of the following summer. A whole year at Petrovo. I was about twelve, and for us boys, it brought unexpected joy. No school. Father hired a tutor, but it was still a magical time. Every day, after lunch, we would go out and play in the woods, in the snow. We made camps, staged battles, played on the ice, all the things that young boys do.”

Ruzsky ground to a halt. He had a vivid memory of them all skating on the lake, their breath billowing in the chill air as they chased each other around the island in the middle.

He could recall the sound of their laughter and the swish of the blades cutting across the ice.

“It’s as far as Dmitri gets.”

“What is?” Ruzsky asked.

“His story always stops in the same place. When Ilusha was still alive.”

Ruzsky closed his eyes. She caressed his brow and then placed a soft hand against his cheek. “It’s all right, Sandro,” she whispered. Then, “We should go back…”

“Go back where?”

“The house is one day’s ride from Mtsensk, isn’t that so? On the way to Yalta.”

Ruzsky swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, and sat there with his back to her.

“You cannot run away from it forever, Sandro.”

“I’m not running away from anything.”

“You both are.”

“And you’re the expert on the pair of us.”

Ruzsky immediately regretted the sharpness in his voice.

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“Why?”

“I told you.” Maria raised herself onto one elbow. “Because you need to go. And because I want to escape from the world. Just for a moment. It’s all changing, Sandro…” Maria lay back down. “You asked me why I’m going to Yalta. I want to see my sister. I want to make sure that she will be cared for, no matter what happens to me, or to Russia. But first, I want to escape.”

As he returned to the second-class section of the train, Ruzsky pulled the door shut and heard it being locked behind him. A soldier slouched in the corridor, his back to him, smoking a cigarette. As Ruzsky squeezed past, he saw that it was one of the men who had been in their compartment earlier. He hesitated for a moment, but the man quickly averted his eyes.

It took him a further twenty minutes to pick his way through the sleeping bodies that now lined the corridor. When he reached his own compartment, the blinds had been drawn against the moonlight.

Ruzsky waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He saw that one of the top bunks was empty and he put a foot on the ladder and swung himself up onto it.

He lay still. One of the men was snoring. He didn’t think it was Pavel.

Ruzsky turned on his side and tried to make out the shape of his friend.

“Where in hell have you been?” Pavel asked.

“I’m sorry.”

“These men haven’t seen a woman for months. I’ve been lucky to escape with my virtue intact.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Pavel grunted. “Some friend you are. After the revolution, I’m not sharing a cell with you.”

“Even revolutionaries need policemen, Pavel. You should remember that.”

Pavel grunted again.

“Are they asleep?” Ruzsky asked.

“You can hear them.”

“I think they’re still watching us.”

“Here on the train?”

“Yes.” Ruzsky turned over. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Ruzsky awoke late. By his watch, it was almost ten and there was no sign of Pavel in the compartment. His bunk had been folded away.

Only two of the soldiers were still there, smoking in silence with their legs resting on the seats. They didn’t acknowledge him.

Ruzsky swung around and stared out of the window. It was a poor day, snow driving across the wooded landscape reducing visibility to no more than twenty feet.

He rolled off his bed and landed with a thump by the door. He adjusted his coat, making a point of trying to establish eye contact with the soldiers. They both avoided it.

Ruzsky found Pavel at the far end of the carriage, looking out at the snow. There were fewer soldiers here now, so they had room to stand and converse in relative privacy.

“You should have woken me,” Ruzsky said.

“So that you could join me staring out of the window?”

Ruzsky pulled out his silver cigarette case. Pavel declined. Ruzsky took one and lit up.

“So, where did you get to?” Pavel asked.

Ruzsky sucked deeply on his cigarette, then blew the smoke against the glass. “Nothing interesting.”

“That’s for me to judge.”

“I saw someone getting onto the train,” Ruzsky said.

“Or knew she was going to be on it.”

Ruzsky raised an eyebrow.

“I could get quite insulted sometimes, by you treating me like a simpleton.”

Ruzsky looked at his friend apologetically. “Do you mind if I don’t tell you? Not yet, anyway?”

“I had a feeling this trip wasn’t entirely straightforward.”

“We’re going to Yalta because we need to.”

“A happy coincidence, then?”

Ruzsky didn’t answer. “There are two of them in our compartment.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Last night, I went right to the other end of the train and one of these goons followed me all the way. They’re not soldiers.”

Pavel’s eyes narrowed. “What did he think you were going to do, jump off the train?”

“Seriously.”

“They’re following us all the way to Yalta?”

“That’s what it’s beginning to look like.”