“Ointments?” It’s that young woman, Valeria, again, stopping the conversation because she’s got a personal interest. Many times she’s thought, as she’s mopping the floors, Madame (as they called Anna Karenina) probably tangled legs (that’s her husband’s expression—“Come on, sweetheart, let’s tangle legs” or “He’s already tangling legs” with someone or other) many times with Count Vronsky, not just once but a lot, yet she had only one child in three years…. And with Karenin she conceived just one boy in who knows how long…. To her, it’s obvious that madame didn’t have more children because she didn’t want them.

“She wasn’t using anything, for God’s sake, stop talking about these evil ointments! She was a lady!”

“Then why didn’t she have more children?” Valeria asks.

“I don’t know. But Kapitonich didn’t work for her over there, he’s always worked in this house.”

“She was such a good woman.”

“Yes, she was.”

“What are we talking about?” the cook asks. “Aren’t we all here because Aleksandra left? We have no idea what’s happened to her. Let’s hope she doesn’t fall into the hands of the tsar’s secret police….”

“The Okhrana? That’s ridiculous!” Valeria says, laughing aloud, both innocent and ignorant.

“It’s not ridiculous when you think about what her brother Vladimir was up to….”

Magically, when she speaks his name, Vladimir appears. He hasn’t checked to see whether the kitchen is empty because he assumed no one would be awake at this hour. It’s not the first time he’s arrived in the middle of the night, opening the door to the street with his picklock.

Knowing he can’t turn around and leave, he smiles and looks over this impromptu gathering, asking in a faux-shy, squeaky voice, “And Aleksandra?”

“She went to find you!” the cook says.

“Where? Where would she go to find me? I’m here!”

“Wherever Father Gapon is, where else?”

Vladimir has been killing time, pacing the freezing streets. He didn’t want to stay in the workshop where Clementine was once employed because it was true what she’d said: if someone heard the failed explosion and recognized her and made the connection, they’d come looking for her.

His curiosity spurs him into motion. Carefully, he makes sure no one is following him; he walks up and down the street several times before leaving. He ambles aimlessly, until, a few blocks later, he heads toward the tram station where the rails cross the frozen Neva River. He sees it from a distance, marooned next to the jetty like a forgotten toy. He thinks, Unscathed! It’s unscathed!