Pavel turned back to the window. “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing. I’m just telling you.”

Pavel glanced down the corridor. A group of soldiers was sitting on the floor, playing cards.

“I have a favor to ask you,” Ruzsky said quietly. “Beyond Moscow.”

“What is it?”

“My family home. Petrovo. It’s on the way-more or less.”

“I thought this was a murder investigation.” Pavel’s tone was not amused.

“It will take a day, that’s all.”

“Why now?”

Pavel looked at him and Ruzsky could see in his eyes that he knew the answer, just as Maria had understood his state of mind better than he had himself. Everyone was experiencing the unsettling effect of the winds of change. “I was thinking about Ella last night,” Pavel said.

Ruzsky didn’t reply.

“She didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“No one does.”

“You saw the grief in her mother’s face.”

“That’s why we’re going to Yalta.”

“Some of us in our own time.”

Ruzsky frowned.

“Who’s to say who will be next?” Pavel asked. “The man at the Lion Bridge… Are we any closer to understanding why these three people have been killed?”

Ruzsky looked away. He wrestled with himself as he recalled the image of Ella’s body on the slab in Sarlov’s laboratory. Pavel was right, but he knew it would not dissuade him.

“You can be very stubborn, Sandro.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t really need to apologize. It’s a virtue as well as a vice.”

“I’ll be a day behind you. Two at most.”

“I’ll come with you. I’d like-”

“No.” Ruzsky looked at his partner. “I need to go alone.”

Pavel was hurt. “How long will you really be?”

Ruzsky leaned back against the window. “It takes twenty-four hours in a troika, but I can make it in twelve with a good horse. I’ll be two days behind you, at the outside.”

Pavel’s expression softened. He placed a big hand on Ruzsky’s shoulder. “I understand. But be quick.”

“Will you be all right?”

“I’ll be fine. But I’m worried about you. What if there are bandits or deserters? You’re too weak to defend yourself without me.”

Ruzsky smiled. “I’ll just stay out of trouble.”

27

T he train pulled into Mtsensk just before dawn. Ruzsky lay on his bunk, not moving, listening to the hiss of steam and the subdued voices on the platform.

He checked his watch. It was just before six.

The blinds in their compartment had been drawn, but the station lights penetrated the interior sufficiently to allow Ruzsky to see Pavel’s face. The big detective was staring at him.

Ruzsky looked at his watch again. Most station halts lasted ten minutes. Rarely more, never less. They had been standing here for two, so far.

There was a shout from farther down the platform. Ruzsky wondered if Maria would change her mind.

He glanced at his watch once more, then turned, nodded at Pavel, and swung off the bunk. As he emerged into the corridor, Pavel was half a step behind him, as they’d agreed. Ruzsky walked into the toilet, looked back, and saw his partner leaning against the door to prevent anyone leaving. Pavel nodded at him once more.

Ruzsky closed the door and looked at himself in the mirror. Now that he had committed himself, he had second thoughts. He splashed water onto his face.

The soldiers had been swapped in Moscow and this group appeared to be less vigilant. Pavel was convinced they were from the Moscow Okhrana; Ruzsky thought they were a replacement team from Petersburg. Either way, they must have been told that the two of them were bound for the Crimea, and they appeared to be fast asleep.

Ruzsky heard the conductor’s low whistle and he opened the door of the toilet. Pavel was still there and he shrugged as Ruzsky turned the corner. He opened the door, stepped down onto the snow-covered platform, and then shut it again as quietly as he could. He walked swiftly through the drifting snow toward a darkened side entrance to the station.

As soon as he was out of sight, Ruzsky looked back. The train was pulling away and there was no sign of anyone scrambling to get off.

Once it had gone, he stepped out into the dim light. He watched the stationmaster disappearing back into the warmth, leaving the platform deserted. Ruzsky went to the waiting room, then the station entrance, but could see no sign of her. He returned to the center of the platform, glancing one way, then the other. He turned to face the drifting snow, letting it gather on his face.

She had changed her mind and the disappointment was crushing.

Ruzsky glanced around him once more. There was little doubt that he was the only passenger who had disembarked.

The stationmaster caught sight of him through the window. He replaced his hat and came back out into the cold.

“You got off the express?” the man asked. He was assessing Ruzsky carefully, trying to marry his demeanor, which would clearly indicate noble birth, with his tatty overcoat and boots, which did not.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you expecting someone, because there is no one here.”

“I’ll need a good horse.”

“You’re with the lady?”

Ruzsky turned around and saw her emerging from the shadows at the far end of the platform, carrying a single suitcase and shrouded in the swirling snow.

It was two hours before the horses arrived, but when they did, Ruzsky acknowledged that the stationmaster had been right; they were worth the wait.

The road was passable until they reached the start of the pinewoods about fifteen versts from the station. Here, they led their horses through a thick snowdrift as the sun peeked above the horizon amidst the tall, thin pine trees. It was no longer snowing, and the sky was now clear. Their breath hung on the still morning air.

Beyond the snowdrift, the road down to the river was clearer again and they cantered toward it. “It’s hard to believe,” Ruzsky shouted as he led his horse through what was now little more than a stream, “but this is sometimes difficult to pass in summer.”

Ruzsky recalled hanging off the back of the troika, by their luggage, alongside his brothers.

“I can believe it,” she said. Maria took off her hat and shook out her hair. She was smiling, her cheeks flushed. “You look as if you were born in the saddle. I thought you were a city boy.”

“I learned in these woods. Our stable boy taught us all bareback. At one point I wanted to run away and join the circus.”

The road on the far side of the river was steep and winding, but at the top there was a long stretch across some high ground, between peasant fields. Up here, the wind had blown the deep snow off the road and Ruzsky and Maria let the horses go, icy air cutting through their coats and whipping their cheeks, snow flying up into their eyes and mouths. The freedom was exhilarating, and by the time they reached the end they were both out of breath.

“There is an inn not far from here,” Ruzsky said. “We can stop for breakfast.”

“Let’s press on. The horses are fit. We can stop later.”

Ruzsky turned his mare so that they were alongside each other, then, without warning, and without letting go of his own reins, he jumped horses, landing behind her. Her mare started briefly, but Ruzsky had performed the maneuver so expertly that the shock was minimal. He curled one arm around Maria’s waist, his face against her neck, her hair against his cheek.

Maria laughed and leaned back against him.

Ruzsky wedged the reins beneath his knee and used his free hand to brush aside her hair so that he could kiss her. She reached back and laced her fingers in his.

They were moving with the rhythm of the mare’s progress, both at ease in the saddle. The rising sun was a bright orange disk that shimmered through the narrow pines.