‘My name is Maksimilian,’ I said. There was no reply. ‘Maksimilian Ivanovich,’ I tried again, remembering to use my patronymic. ‘Anastasia’s son.’

Anastasia’s son. They were words I had not spoken since she died. I straightened up and rolled my shoulders and prayed for the old lady inside to let me in. Blood dripped from my fingers, spotting the white blanket that carpeted the porch. My clothes were filthy – covered in salt and dirt. I looked over my shoulder again. There was nothing behind me but darkness.

‘Who?’

‘Anastasia,’ I said, shouting at the still-shut door. ‘Olga Milova’s daughter.’

There was a long pause, and then the scraping of wood on wood. The snib sprang loose and the door inched open, throwing a wedge of light on to the snow. The woman looked as if she was in her eighties – at least: a jumble of bones and leathery skin and fine white hair that fell down to her shoulders. Her eyes were brilliant, though. Blue and piercing, searching mine like Doc’s had less than a fortnight before. An eddy of snow blew into the old cabin. She drew a black shawl around her shoulders and thrust her face towards mine.

‘Olga Milova doesn’t live here,’ she said. ‘She’s dead.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I …’

‘This is my house. Polina Yurievna’s house. Not hers.’ She paused, and then added: ‘Or yours.’

‘I know, that’s not … Polina Yurievna, may I come inside?’ She looked at me, at my fouled jacket, squinted at the red snow by my feet. The temperature was dropping further. My mouth still tasted of iron – tongue, teeth still bleeding from the impact in the taxi. ‘Please.’

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Are you in trouble, Maksimilian Ivanovich?’

‘No,’ I lied.

A wry, unexpected smile spread across her face.

‘Rubbish,’ she cackled. ‘I’ve never known anyone from your family that wasn’t.’

She pulled the door open further and stepped aside, and for the first time ever I walked into my mother’s house, cupping my left hand with my right so as not to spoil the floor with blood. Once I was inside, the old woman gazed at me intently, looking, perhaps, for proof – some trace of my mother in my face, eyes.

‘These are strange times,’ she said. ‘One day to the next you don’t know whom you’ll meet. And always,’ she said, leading me deeper into her home, ‘without warning. Everyone always wants something.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t …’

‘How did you get here?’ she interrupted – though whether from impatience or deafness I couldn’t tell. ‘The roads are blocked. It’s been snowing all week.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They are blocked. But only once you leave the highway. A farmer out clearing snow gave me a lift on his tractor from Koptevo.’