She pointed to his chest. His shirt was buttoned up tight against the cold, but he knew what she meant. He reached inside and fished it out, pulling the chain off over his head.
‘This?’ he asked.
Tamara nodded. Aleksei cradled it in his hand. The fine silver chain hung down. He could see the knot where he had once hastily repaired it, a long time ago. The icon itself was oval; the face of the Saviour looked back at him.
‘Do you want it?’ he asked. Tamara nodded again. He held the chain wide open with his fingers, slipping it over her red curls and sliding it down to her neck. Then he pulled at her hair so the chain disappeared under it. She picked the icon up off her chest, tilting her head in one direction and the image in the other so that she could see it the right way up.
Then she dropped it and flung her arms around Aleksei’s neck, squeezing tightly.
‘Thank you, Papa,’ she said. Aleksei hugged her back, feeling her heartbeat against his, and the tiny strength of her arms that was everything she had to offer. At last he let go and stood up. Her arms tried to hold him a little longer, but could not. He bent down one final time and kissed her. Then he picked up his bag and went to the door. Domnikiia followed him.
‘Did you have to give her that?’ she asked, once they were alone in the hallway.
Aleksei had guessed she might not be happy. Originally the icon had been a gift to him from Marfa. He touched Domnikiia’s arm.
‘It may have been my wife who gave me it, but it was you who insisted I wear it.’
‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘It was never much protection, anyway.’
‘There’re no vampires where I’m going,’ he said.
‘She’s there, though.’
Aleksei avoided the issue. ‘I was originally intending to give it to Dmitry, because of Dmitry Fetyukovich.’ The image came clearly to his mind; him breaking open the frozen, dead fingers of Dmitry’s hand to get hold of the icon he had once given him as a sign of their friendship.
‘No,’ she said, firmly. ‘It’s best you give it to Toma.’ She raised her hand to her cheek and thoughtfully rubbed the corner of her mouth. ‘Won’t Marfa expect you to stay with her for Christmas?’
‘I’ll make up some excuse.’ Marfa would need little persuading, he was sure. It would give her more time to spend with Vasiliy. He had almost forgotten about his wife’s lover. If the man’s very existence could slip from his mind so easily, how could he claim truly to care?
He held Domnikiia close to him. She did not put her arms around him; they were trapped between them, pressed against her bosom and his chest. He kissed her, closing his eyes and leaning against her, as if falling into her beautiful, sweet mouth. Eventually, she was forced to step back rather than lose balance. She giggled and slapped him lightly on the arm, then pushed him towards the door.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you soon. Christmas, remember? You promised.’
He let her herd him towards the stairs, then turned and kissed her once more, briefly, on the lips.
‘Christmas,’ he said.
Every day, Tamara knew, she got a little taller, and that meant that, every day, it was a little easier for her to look out of the window and on to the street below, pulling against the window-ledge with her fingers to raise herself up and see over it. It was already starting to get dark, and the snow in the street looked grey. She looked as straight downwards as she could and saw the top of Papa’s head – or at least the hat on it. He was standing just outside the front door, not going anywhere.
Then he moved, reacting to something. Tamara looked and saw another man, walking over to her father, who patted him on the shoulder. They walked off down the street together. That was very strange. Why should Papa be so friendly with the man who had hit Mama? Did he know what the man had done? Did Mama know that they were friends? Should she tell Mama what she had seen?
Her father didn’t turn and wave like he usually did when he left, particularly if he was going a long way away. Tamara wished he had. But he would be back at Christmas. And he’d given her the picture of Jesus.
She ran over to the bed and lay down on it, holding the icon so that she could look at the picture. Jesus looked like a very kind man, though a little stern. If He hadn’t had a beard, perhaps He would have looked a bit like Papa. She would ask her father to grow a beard when he came back; then she’d know. In the meantime, she had the icon, and she could look at it whenever she needed to be reminded of him.
CHAPTER XXXIII
FOURU DAYS LATER, DMITRY AND HIS FATHER WERE IN PETERSBURG. Dmitry’s first instinct was to go to the house and let his mother know that they were home, but Aleksei felt that political matters were more pressing. He was afraid to look into his wife’s face, Dmitry suspected – though he had not been hindered by any sense of guilt in the past. Neither man had raised the subject of Aleksei’s infidelity on the journey north.
Once in the city, they made straight for Prince Obolensky’s house, but he was not there. The butler recognized Aleksei and told them to try Ryleev’s home. There they found Ryleev, Obolensky and a number of others.
‘Colonel Danilov,’ said Ryleev enthusiastically as they entered, coming over and shaking him warmly by the hand.
‘Kondraty Fyodorovich,’ responded Aleksei. ‘This is my son, Dmitry Alekseevich.’
‘We’ve met already,’ said Ryleev, shaking Dmitry’s hand. There was general greeting all round.
‘We’ve just today returned from Moscow,’ explained Aleksei.
‘What’s the mood like there?’ asked Ryleev.
Aleksei looked to Dmitry, who realized that – since his father had only been in Moscow for about a week – he was in a better position to explain.
‘There’s a great deal of expectation,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard that Mihail Pavlovich has refused to swear allegiance to his brother, and also that Konstantin Pavlovich is still in Warsaw – perhaps a prisoner. Is Nikolai really trying to take command?’
‘We’re not sure,’ said Ryleev, ‘but that’s the way we’re going to tell it. Restoration of the rightful order of things will be a lot easier to sell to the masses.’
‘The slogan will be “Konstantin and Constitution”,’ added Obolensky.
‘And after a little while, we drop the “Konstantin”,’ said the man who had just been introduced to Dmitry as Kakhovsky.
‘But what if it turns out that Nikolai isn’t trying to take over?’ asked Aleksei, ever cautious.
‘It will be too late by then,’ said Ryleev. ‘If not, no one will blame us for trying to support the rightful tsar, even if it was based on a misunderstanding. Carry on with the news from Moscow, though.’
‘All those who are friendly to our cause are ready to rise up,’ continued Dmitry, ‘but they await a signal from you – or an event that will force them to act.’
‘The latter is unlikely in Moscow, I think,’ said Ryleev. ‘And what of the ordinary people?’
‘They mourn Aleksandr and accept Konstantin.’
‘So they suspect nothing of Nikolai’s actions?’
‘Not when we left. Many have already sworn allegiance to Konstantin, so they may be on our side when they hear.’
‘Good,’ said Ryleev.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Aleksei.
‘We wait.’
‘More waiting?’ Dmitry was horrified. Aleksei raised a hand, indicating that he should listen.
‘Wait until Nikolai declares himself tsar,’ continued Ryleev. ‘It will be a few days, at most.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Aleksei, quite prepared now to speak rather than listen.
‘Trust me, we are certain. We already have agitators in the streets and in the barracks. Once the news of Nikolai’s announcement spreads – even if we have to spread it ourselves – then the focal point will be the Winter Palace. We’ll demand the proper reinstatement of Konstantin and a formal constitution to stop such an outrage from ever happening again.’