that they were real (though she had debated whether Zmey Gorynych might have had a child and called him Zmyeevich).
When he had gone to school, the other children had laughed at him for his beliefs. Mihail had felt humiliated and realized in an instant that everything his mother told him had been make-believe. She was mad, and whatever the cause, she had moulded her son to believe in her madness. He had ranted and screamed at her, but she had held her ground, though for years after she scarcely spoke of vampires, or of Iuda, or even of Aleksei. Then she had shown him something that had convinced him, the evidence of his own eyes proving that at least part of what she had told him was true and, by inference, that the whole of it was true. She had scolded him for that last leap of misplaced logic.
But even then, there was nothing she could do to prove to him the identity of his father. She had told him how she, when young, had suspected that her real father was a prince, and not just any prince – specifically Prince Pyetr Mihailovich Volkonsky – but Mihail’s supposed father was of a higher rank even than that. He was, Tamara insisted, a grand duke – Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich Romanov, the tsar’s eldest brother. It was preposterous, and yet no one denied there were Romanov bastards scattered across the country. There was no certainty that Mihail was not one of them, but it seemed unlikely. Tamara had told him to go and see his father, and how to prove their kinship, but Mihail had always been afraid, afraid of his own humiliation, but afraid most of seeing his mother’s dreams exposed as rambling self-delusion.
But now he had to go, for the first time in his life, to Petersburg. Petersburg was where, as far as he knew, Luka still lived. And both Dmitry and Iuda knew of Luka and so to find him might be to find them. Perhaps it would be a good time too to attempt to make himself known to Konstantin and discover whether his mother’s claims could be anything close to the truth. Now of all times, there was least to lose if they proved a lie. Now of all times, Mihail needed a father.
He read again the words of the letter he had begun writing in hospital:
My dearest Mama,
I have seen him, face to face. He was just as you described him. I will not waste your time by recounting my feelings, but must tell you immediately: I failed. I failed in the sole task that you have raised me to accomplish. He escaped me, but he is not free, and I shall soon hunt him down again.
Let me tell you from the beginning …
At that point Mihail had put down his pen to think, and soon after the letter to him had arrived, and there was no need to write any more.
The letter was from Saratov, from Nadia Karlovna Lukina, the matriarch of the family whose surname Mihail had adopted. Tamara had gone to Saratov with Mihail still in her womb and sought out the family, knowing – praying – that they would help her, out of their respect for Aleksei. In the Patriotic War, Aleksei had fought alongside Maksim Sergeivich Lukin. It had not ended well for Maks, but the two men had been firm friends, and that friendship extended to his family. On her arrival at their house, four and a half decades later in 1857, the pregnant Tamara had only needed to mention Aleksei’s name to be taken in and cared for.
Nadia’s letter brought the news that Mihail had expected and feared. The item inside, which he had felt through the paper of the envelope and immediately recognized, was an icon – a small oval icon showing the face of Christ – hanging from a silver chain. It was old now; at some point the chain had snapped and been hurriedly tied in a fine knot. Tamara had not known when – it had happened before the icon was given to her. She had always worn it around her neck, ever since Mihail could remember, and always promised that Mihail would have it when she died.
And now Mihail did have it. It hung around his neck and nestled against his chest, beneath his shirt. Tamara had been only four when her father had given it to her – it was one of