Cover

Dedication

To my oldest friend, my aunt Anne,

who remains inspirational in her nineties;

and my youngest friends, Hope (aged nine) and Marshall (six),

who are incredibly brave and very good at making me laugh

The Lost Daughter

* * *

She packed a bag of items she did not want to be without: her photo album, her sketch pad and pencils, a couple of favorite icons, and the gold Fabergé box, then she put her camera beside it.

She pulled on the undergarments and skirt into which she had sewn jewels, and saw her sisters doing the same.

She pulled on her boots and laced them, then picked up her camera and her travel bag. When they were all ready, they walked out to the drawing room.

As they passed the stuffed black bear at the top of the stairs, her mother crossed herself.

* * *

Prologue

Ekaterinburg, July 16, 1918

YUROVSKY SURVEYED THE GUNS SPREAD ACROSS THE table: six pistols and eight revolvers. They seemed out of place in this gentleman’s study, with its expensive purple wallpaper decorated with gold palm leaves, lavish silver chandelier, stained-glass art nouveau lamps, and wooden gramophone. Two rooms away, the Romanov family was eating dinner along with its four retainers. Omelette; there was a surfeit of eggs that day.

The office door opened and the men sloped in, glancing first at the guns and then at him, before shuffling into a semicircle. Ermakov stood directly beneath a stag’s head mounted on the wall, his dark hair unruly and his face shiny with perspiration. Yurovsky wasn’t close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath but knew it was there, although it was only eight in the evening and still light outside.

“Tonight,” he began, “the Presidium of the Ural Regional Soviet has been charged with a great mission: to rid our country of the enemies of Bolshevism.” His stomach knotted; there had still been no telegram from Moscow confirming it, yet all the same it was clear what was required of him. This was his moment; his place in the history books beckoned.

He continued in a businesslike tone: “I want eleven men, one for each of the party, so the deaths are simultaneous. You will be allocated a target and I will give the order to fire. Shoot to kill, so they do not have the unnecessary suffering of seeing each other die.”

As he spoke, he looked from face to face, watching for signs of hesitation, or fear, or nerves. He needed steady men, who would obey without question. This bunch were militants from the Verkh-Isetsk metallurgy plant, probably less intelligent than average. That was good; he didn’t want any questions about the whys and wherefores, just mute obedience. Most had not met the family yet, so there had been no chance to form attachments. They were young, though, the youngest only seventeen. Would they stay calm when the firing started?