Aleksei stood, holding the French-English dictionary open in his hands. He slammed it shut just beneath Valentin’s nose. The loud clap of air silenced him, and a gust of wind blew his fringe out of place.
‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving,’ said Aleksei. He turned back to the desk and closed the notebook, wrapping it up in the paper in which it had first been delivered. He then tucked both it and the dictionary under his arm and headed for the door. Before leaving, he turned to Valentin Valentinovich. ‘But I still have friends in this town – from the highest and lowest echelons – and if I hear from anyone that your daughter and her nanny aren’t living in exactly the comfort which they would expect, then I think you know what the consequences will be.’
Valentin looked over at Domnikiia. She appeared confident but not defiant, and Valentin seemed to calm. He turned back and spoke to Aleksei.
‘You don’t need to say that. Whatever disagreements we may have, they will always have a home here. I gave you my word on that years ago.’
Aleksei felt momentarily embarrassed. He knew he took advantage of Valentin, but knew also it was out of an unnecessary fear – a fear born of his own guilt. Valentin would do as he had promised.
Aleksei gave a curt nod, which he felt conveyed a sense of understanding between them. ‘I’ll be gone by tomorrow,’ he said, turning and walking down the hallway.
Valentin took a few steps towards him and called after him. ‘But where are you going?’
‘To Taganrog,’ Aleksei shouted back.
The mood in the club was sombre, as it had been for the last three days. Dmitry played softly on the piano, sticking mostly with folk songs that were neither too solemn nor too cheery. No one had explicitly reproached him or his father for the death of Obukhov, but the enthusiasm that had greeted him a few days before, when he had first asked if anyone would be interested in a small military venture around Theatre Square, was now replaced by a weary half-acknowledgement. Today, no one had stood by the piano to ask him to perform a favourite tune they could sing along to.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up from the keyboard to see Lieutenant Batenkov heading away from him across the room. In the doorway stood Aleksei. Dmitry reached them just as Batenkov began talking to his father.
‘You’re not to blame, Colonel,’ he was saying in a quiet tone. ‘You warned Obukhov.’
‘I shouldn’t have picked him in the first place,’ replied Aleksei.
‘You didn’t pick him,’ interrupted Dmitry. ‘I did.’
‘I was in charge,’ insisted Aleksei.
‘He was a soldier,’ said Batenkov. ‘Soldiers die, even in peacetime.’ He cast his eyes around the room. ‘Everyone knows that – whatever they may say.’
Aleksei patted him on the arm and the lieutenant turned away with a brief smile. Dmitry followed his father to a quiet corner, where they sat down to talk.
‘I’m leaving Moscow,’ announced Aleksei.
‘Why?’ asked Dmitry.
‘I can’t say.’
‘Is it because of the book?’
Aleksei considered for a fraction of a second, then nodded briefly.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Dmitry.
‘No, it’s best not.’
‘But I could help!’
‘You’d be court-martialled for desertion.’
Dmitry considered what his father had said. ‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘I have a freer rein. And I know what I’m dealing with.’ Aleksei spoke with a whisper that was almost a hiss, avoiding the word voordalak. Nevertheless, his meaning was quite clear.
‘You know how dangerous they can be,’ Dmitry responded.
‘Not in this case, I don’t think. Kyesha could have killed us both if he’d wanted to. Besides, there are other matters of greater concern – to everyone. I need you here – in the north.’ Dmitry looked at his father, his face asking what it was he wanted him to do. ‘You know what’s going to happen here,’ said Aleksei, his eyes flicking around the room and reminding Dmitry of the common cause for which they all fought, ‘when the time comes.’
Dmitry let out a gasp. ‘Will it be soon?’ Aleksei said nothing. ‘Is it to do with the book?’
‘No. The book – Kyesha – all of it’s a distraction from what’s really going on. That’s why I’ll deal with it alone.’
‘When are you going?’
‘First thing tomorrow.’
‘How long will you be?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can I see you off?’
‘It would be easier if you didn’t. I’ll try to write. If you return to Petersburg, let your mother know I’m all right.’
Dmitry felt the urge to ask if he should do the same favour for Domnikiia Semyonovna, but he resisted. He could also guess that it was she who would be seeing Aleksei off tomorrow.
He embraced his father, and felt his quick, tight squeeze returned. Then Aleksei left without another word.
Dmitry walked back over to the piano. It was good news on all counts. That Aleksei was out of Moscow would mean that he was away from that woman. Perhaps absence would make him forget her. But what was more exciting was the suggestion that soon the national transformation they had all so long hoped for was close at hand. The moment Dmitry had discovered that his father was a member of the Northern Society, he had forgiven him much. There were still vast distances between them, concerning many subjects, but those could be bridged, with time. Whatever Aleksei had said, the fact that he was at that very moment embarking on a journey in pursuit of a vampire could not be unconnected to the future of Russia itself, though Dmitry could not begin to imagine how. It did not matter. What did was that now, at last, the game was afoot.
The heads of many soldiers in the club looked up and over to the piano in surprise, as Dmitry struck up a jollier tune than he had in many days.
Tamara grinned broadly. She looked from side to side. Two faces smiled back at her: on her right, her mother; to the left, her father.
‘And you promise to look after your mother while I’m away?’ said Aleksei.
Tamara frowned and then nodded. Her father was usually away. It was only a few days ago that he’d come back. Had he forgotten?
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘To a place called Taganrog,’ he said.
‘Where’s that?’
‘On the Sea of Azov.’
Tamara didn’t like to ask another question. Her father clearly thought she knew what he was talking about. Mama helped out.
‘You remember when we looked at the Black Sea in the Atlas?’ she asked. Tamara nodded. ‘It’s near there.’
‘Is that where the Golden Fleece was?’ asked Tamara.
‘Not far,’ said Papa with a smile. It was he who had told her the story of Jason, last time he visited. Mama had shown her some of the places on the map afterwards. But Taganrog and Azov were new to her.
‘Taganrog,’ she said, listening to the sound of her own voice. ‘Who are you going to see there?’
‘Papa’s going to talk to the tsar,’ said her mother. Tamara grinned again. She knew when Mama was making up stories.
‘He’s not,’ she said.
‘I’m going to see an Englishman called Mr Cain,’ said Papa. Tamara considered. This sounded a little more likely.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Go to sleep now, Toma,’ said Mama. She leaned over and kissed Tamara on the forehead, then stood up and walked towards the door.
Papa held her hand in his. His two funny fingers felt strange against her palm. He bent forward to kiss her and she felt something cold and a little heavy on her chest. She reached for it. There were two of them, both metal, hanging from chains around Papa’s neck. One was plain and silver, but the other had a face on it. It was a man with a beard – younger than Papa. He had kind eyes.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked.
‘That’s Jesus.’