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I stand. The chair remains where it is, I go to the window. Outside, London moves as it always does, oblivious. I rest a hand against the cold glass.

“I will only ask him to find a person,” I say, staring at the street. “Nothing more. Ya obeshchayu tebe. I promise you.”

Lucien huffs. “Oh, truly?”

“Brother,” I continue, without turning, “if they knew, they would want to handle it themselves.”

I tighten my fingers slightly. “Djadja Ilya would not let this pass.”

I let out the breath I was holding.

“And neither would Oskar.”

The glass reflects my face and, for a moment, the room folds back sixteen years.

Uncle Ilya slams his fist onto the table, paper and inkwells tremble and fall, the wood creaking under the blow. His eyes burn with fury, the swollen veins on his neck pulsing.

“How could you not tell me anything, ublyudok?”

Grandfather watches him, motionless, hands interlaced upon the wood, his face a mask of stone.

“My son is also dead.”

“I care nothing for that idiot Theodore! My sister! My blood! Moyà Elizaveta!”

I stand on the threshold, hands behind my back, shoulders steady.

My uncle’s rage brushes past me, but it does not strike. Every word, every gesture, is imprinted on my eyes.

Oskar is beside me, already as tall as I am though three years younger; his pale blue eyes follow every movement. He does not speak, does not blink. He merely observes.

“Your father is angry,” I say in a low voice.

“So are you.”

Djadja Ilya has seized Grandfather’s collar, his fingers digging into the fabric with a strength that seems intent on crushing his chest.

Oskar, beside me, tilts his head slightly.

“Shouldn’t you stop him?”

“Does anyone exist who can stop your father’s will?”

“Perhaps you do not want him to stop.”

I feel an irritation coursing through my hands, I clench them around the cord-pull fixed to the wall and yank it with resolve. The metallic cry summons the servants.

Oskar points at Grandfather, keeping his eyes fixed on me.

“Do you want him to die?”

“No.”

“Pàpa wants to take you with us, to Moscow.”

“He will never allow it.”

“You said it yourself, nothing can stop Count Ilya Vasiliev.”