Twelve

I could not let that happen. It took a single, swift, undebated thrust from my hand to rupture her dead heart with the wooden shaft of my dagger. How much easier it was for me to do that to Margarita than it ever could have been with Domnikiia.

Domnikiia stayed with me at the i

Instead, she was simply meek. She could have goaded me into chasing west after either the French or the two surviving Oprichniki, or she could have begged me to stay with her in Moscow. As it was, I stayed, but not because she begged – she hardly spoke at all. The excuse for staying was my wounded arm, but it was well on the mend and I had ridden into battle with worse injuries. The reason for staying was fear.

Margarita's funeral took place three days after her death. She proved to have many friends and acquaintances who had taken the time out of their lives to attend, though few spoke to one another – particularly the men. Of the nine uniformed officers who attended, I was surprised to see that four outranked me. What was truly remarkable was that Margarita should have a funeral at all. The fires in Moscow had not killed many, but subsequent starvation had eradicated thousands, both native and invader. Most were still to be hauled into mass graves. From what I could gather, it was Pyetr Pyetrovich who had paid for the ceremony. His diligence in looking after his property now proved to stretch beyond simple good business.

Most significantly, the funeral marked a turning point in Domnikiia's mood. Having bid a formal farewell to her friend and colleague, some hints of her former charm began to re-emerge. Even so, the memory of her at her lowest always haunted me.

A few days later, as we sat in my rooms at the i

'I'm going to get a job.'

'You have a job – or you will when Pyetr Pyetrovich reopens,' I told her. It sounded odd even as I spoke. Most men in my position would be delighted for their mistress to be giving up such a profession, but I had grown used to it.

'I can't go back there. What happened to Margarita… Well, even if it hadn't been Iuda, it could have been someone else. It could happen to me one day.'

'Will Pyetr Pyetrovich let you leave?' I was not trying to place obstacles in her way, but it must have come across as such.

'If he doesn't, he'll have you to answer to.'

I went over and kissed her cheek. 'He certainly will.' I sat down beside her. 'So what will you do?'

'I could work in a shop, or go into service.'

'I might know people who would take you on as a maid.'

'Here or in Petersburg?'

'Some here; mostly in Petersburg though.'

'I'd prefer Moscow,' she replied. I'd prefer you in Moscow too, I thought, but didn't say it.

'On the other hand,' she asked thoughtfully, 'wouldn't your wife like a new maid?'

A momentary image of the convenience of such an arrangement was quickly banished by the unending riskiness of its reality. A wife in one city and a mistress in another was a comfortable arrangement. To have both in the same city would add spice. To have both in the same household was the stuff of Molière. It could never be. I knew she would understand that in the long run, but in her present mood a blunt refusal could be damaging.

'Wouldn't you like that?' she went on. Still I could find no response to give to her. 'Prostak,' she murmured softly.

It was a word that one heard a lot in the army, especially among card-players; an insult that they applied to anyone who was an easy mark.

'I beg your pardon,' I said with mock offence.

'You heard,' she replied. I don't know whether she had been trying to trick me all along, or whether this was just to save us both embarrassment. Either way, it was a joy to hear her speak again with that easy impertinence. 'I'm not surprised Iuda found it so easy to fool you,' she added slyly.

Sometimes her humour could be less of a joy.

'Captain Danilov!'

I had just walked out the door of the i

I smiled broadly, recognizing the familiar face that emerged from a doorway across the street. It was Natalia.

She ran over to hug me. I held her tightly for a few moments, clinging to her as the only person in my world who had not become terrifyingly unfamiliar over the past days and weeks.

'And how are you, my dear Natasha?' I asked.

'I'm good. Well, better than when you last saw us. We have a roof over us. Father has work. What about you?'

'I'm well – a little war weary. I meant to come and see you.'

We walked along the street as we talked, as Muscovites habitually do in winter, avoiding the cold that would penetrate our bones if we stayed still.

'That's all right,' she said. 'Captain Petrenko said you'd be busy fighting the French.'

'You've seen Dmitry?' I asked, surprised that he had been in Moscow.

She nodded. 'He said he's going after them too.'

'After the French?'

'No, after the English,' she said with heavy sarcasm. And why not? She had no reason to suspect that Dmitry or I had any enemy other than Bonaparte.

'When did you see him?'

'Um… five days ago.'

'How was he?'

'Like you – exhausted, but he still carried on.' I wondered if this was meant as a jibe at me. 'I told him not to go – said the French would leave without his help. But he said he owed it to you. Did you make him go?'

'Not on purpose.'

'Are you going to go after him?'

I thought for a while, but with no conclusion. 'I don't know,' I told her.

'Then today, I got a letter from him,' she continued. I was taken aback by the fact that a girl of her status could even read, but the possibility of news from Dmitry was far more consuming.

'What did he say?' I asked urgently.

'That's between him and me,' she replied, with a proud smirk. 'But he did enclose this for you.' She handed me a small envelope. 'He said it was safer than sending it to you. Does that mean there are still French spies about?'