Once they were inside the monastery of Solnechny Strana, the gate locked behind them, Aarne intoned, “Deo gratias—benedicite.” When Hugo looked apprehensive, Aarne shrugged. It was levity, he explained. The Cistercians used those words to greet travelers. They would drink with them, then force them to pray. Aarne said. “I will deny you, monsieur, the embarrassment of the latter, for I no longer believe in God.”

They were in a deep cobblestone courtyard. Their steps echoed, a lonely sound made eerie under the rising light of the moon. Hugo relaxed slightly upon seeing his first cross—it indicated that at least part of the story wasn’t a lie—this was a monastery. The cross was a fat, bullying stone-and-mortar Russian Orthodox type, outside a stable sandwiched between a dormitory and a chapel.

“I apologize for not believing in God. If you need to cross yourself, I understand.”

It seemed unlikely that a monastery so large would have actually avoided discovery. Aarne took him quickly past the abandoned smithie’s, then a dormitory for the novices and lay brothers (empty, boarded up), the cloisters, the calefactory, all of their façades lifeless. The whole construction was like fairy-tale kingdom, its citizens evacuated from a giant, a dragon, a curse.

Because he needed to speak, Hugo said, “The monastery is large.”

Aarne looked at him as if he was quite stupid. “Oui.”

There was one especially large building at the end of a long pathway flanked by enormous, jutting, oil-filled flambeaux which were not lit. Its many windows were lined with thick curtains. Hugo imagined that the women were real and were in that house, roasting partridges, peeking through the keyhole, whispering to one another about him.

“What’s that place?”

“The abbot’s house,” Aarne said.

“Are they in the abbot’s house?”

“Who?”

“The women.”

“They’re in a secret place. Very secure. Don’t worry about the women.”

“I’m asking because—”

Aarne smacked his palms together. “A soldier with a gun and bullets is asking where are the women?” He shook his head. “You are better than that.”

Hugo looked toward his battered boots. He could hardly admit he’d been hoping the women were beautiful.

“The tower,” Aarne said. “There is a balistraria up there.” Then he stopped. “But I’m not a soldier. I shouldn’t tell you how to do your job.” He explained what he knew of the coming attack: the Bolsheviks would come up the main path, because it was the only approach. They walked along an arcade, pausing before a huge metal door. Aarne slipped a key into the lock. On hinges the size of fists, the door creaked open. There was a low stone archway, then blackness.

Hugo swallowed.

“Up those stairs,” Aarne said.

“Let’s go.”

“I’m going to hide.”

“You aren’t coming with me?”