When she had drifted off to sleep, her chest rising and falling rhythmically and without apparent discomfort, he allowed himself to relax a little.

Ruzsky stood and glanced around the room, from the potted plant in the corner, to the theatrical posters and Parisian street scenes that adorned the walls. The richness of the decor had somehow become gloomy.

He made his way slowly to the window, glancing over his shoulder to be certain she was still asleep.

Outside, a cold wind whipped at the snowflakes and wind rattled the windows in their frames. Ruzsky wiped the condensation from the glass. Down below, the street was deserted.

He walked to the dresser, opened the front of it, and took out the bottle of bourbon, pouring himself a large measure, which he drank in one gulp. He tipped his head back in pleasure and relief. The desire to get blind drunk, so familiar from his time in Tobolsk, was overpowering. He poured himself another glass and drank that, too.

Maria lay still, her head tilted to one side.

Ruzsky thought about the boy at the factory, and wondered what had happened to his body.

Ruzsky moved to Maria’s desk and stood before a bundle of letters, an inkwell, two or three fountain pens, and a blotting pad.

Ruzsky glanced across at her once more, then untied the gold ribbon around the letters.

He began to sift through them. Most were notes and instructions from the Mariinskiy, some from Fokine, others from the theater’s administration department, formally offering her roles and discussing her salary. Ruzsky was surprised to see how little she was paid.

He reassembled the pile in the same order and retied the ribbon.

There were three drawers at the back of the desk and he opened each carefully in turn, his eyes upon Maria to be certain she did not wake.

They were all empty. It was as if they had been recently cleared out.

Ruzsky straightened again. He listened to the sound of the clock.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest.

He leaned forward to touch her face. She did not stir.

He sat down beside her.

Ruzsky allowed himself to drift back to Petrovo and the hours when he had prayed for the dawn to be delayed. He reached forward to take her pulse.

She slept deeply.

Ruzsky watched her, lost in thought.

Eventually, he stood and moved quietly down the corridor to her bedroom. He eyed the brass double bed and turned away from it, reaching over to switch on the light.

The room was bare. There was nothing on top of the chest of drawers or beside her bed, no photographs, hair brushes, or ointments.

Ruzsky began to pull open drawers. There were a few clothes in some, but no underwear, nor dresses hanging in the wardrobe.

He caught sight of two suitcases beneath her bed. He pulled them out and heaved them onto the mattress.

Inside were clothes and possessions packed for a hasty departure, including a battered photograph album and several bundles of letters. Ruzsky looked at the album first, but he knew before he opened it what it was going to contain.

Maria’s mother had looked strikingly like her. In fact, the facial and physical similarity between all three girls was remarkable. Her father was a big man, with a huge beard.

There were several pictures taken in front of a white house, smaller but not dissimilar in style to the royal palace at Livadia, a string of palm trees in the background. Maria and her sister were dressed in white, a young boy-their brother, perhaps-sandwiched between them.

Ruzsky was not aware that she had a brother. He wondered what had become of the boy.

He put the album down and untied the thickest bundle of letters. They were so dog-eared that some had almost fallen apart, and he laid each one carefully on the bed.

Most were in one hand-her mother’s-and full of the kind of expressions of endearment that he could not recall having received in any communication from his own parents. Even the few from her father displayed an easy and warm affection. They had been written when her parents had been away, mostly locally-places like Odessa and Sevastopol-but once from Moscow and twice St. Petersburg.

Ruzsky folded the letters away and retied them. With a heavier heart, he sifted through the rest of the suitcase. Hidden in the bottom, he found an envelope filled with rubles and a red leather jewelry case.

The case was crammed full of everything of value she possessed. Amongst the pieces, he noticed a diamond necklace that had once belonged to his mother. Dmitri must have given it to her.

Ruzsky closed the suitcase, switched off the light, and sat on the bed in darkness.

Maria drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time she awoke, her eyes fixed upon his, but she did not speak.

Ruzsky began to smoke. He listened to the clock and watched the minutes tick past.

There was a bookcase against the far wall and Ruzsky decided to look for something to keep himself awake. The selection was not extensive, but contained most of the Russian classics. He ran his finger along the leather-bound volumes. He took out and glanced through a collection of Pushkin’s poetry, before replacing it carefully.

A volume on the top shelf caught his eye and he reached up and took it down. It was a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was the only book in English she possessed.

It was an odd choice.

Ruzsky turned it over in his hand, then scanned the shelf once more to see if there was another work in English. There wasn’t.

He thought of the claim he had made to Pavel that the marks on the ruble notes amounted to a secret message in code.

The reference book had to have been in English for the benefit of the American. Isn’t that what he and Maretsky had agreed? Major works of English fiction, so that the American could get the work out of a library in Chicago, or Baltimore or Boston.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin was perfect. An American novel that was popular in Russia.

The book was well thumbed and Ruzsky began to leaf through it.

He reached into his pocket, removed the roll of rubles, and returned to Maria’s desk. He sat down and took out a sheet of paper. As he had done in the office, he assembled the notes in order of the numbers written inside the double-headed eagle.

He examined the figures underlined in each serial number. The sequence on the first note was 4692.

Ruzsky looked at it for a moment. It could refer to page four, line sixty-nine, and letter two. Or page four, line six, letters nine and two. Or page forty-six, line nine, letter two. Or page four, line six, word nine, letter two.

He worked through the novel. On page four, there was no line sixty-nine, so he ruled out that possibility. For the other combinations, he made neat notes on the page ahead of him.

By a process of elimination, he whittled down the possibilities until there was only one that made sense.

If the first numbers-4692-meant page forty-six, line nine, letter two, then what he found was “K.” If he applied the same process to the numbers on the first seven notes, what he got was:

Kresty. If he went on in the same vein for the second seven, he got Crossing.

Kresty Crossing. He had never heard of it.

Ruzsky closed the book. If she had packed for a departure and this was the code book-as seemed certain-why had she not planned to take it with her?

He turned to face her. The Kresty Crossing. It sounded like a railway junction, or bridge.

He watched the firelight flicker across her beautiful, peaceful face, her chest rising and falling evenly.

“What have you begun?” he whispered.

“It’s late,” she said.