Maria shook her head. “No one would recognize me now.” Although only twenty-four years old, she had the red-veined cheeks of a countrywoman from the winter nights spent sleeping in barns, and a few tiny lines scored the corners of her eyes; her hands were cracked and calloused, and her hair was short and invariably worn beneath a headscarf. “My only worry is that if Tatiana does pass me in the street, she will no longer know me. I could no more pass for a grand duchess than . . .”

She paused, searching for an apt way to complete her simile. Peter grabbed her and gave her a lingering kiss on the lips. When he broke away, he said, “To me you are still the breathtakingly beautiful girl on the landing in Ekaterinburg whose eyes filled with tears when I told her my father had died in the war. I have never forgotten that moment, and for the rest of my life I never will.”

Chapter 25

Leningrad, 1925

FOR OVER FOUR YEARS MARIA HAD FOLLOWED SVETLANA’S advice on avoiding pregnancies, but as the time approached for Irina to start her education, with Stepan already attending the school nearby, she began to yearn for another baby. When she went for groceries, she couldn’t help gazing longingly at the tiny newborns strapped to their mothers’ chests, or the older ones beaming gummy grins from perambulators.

“Could we afford another baby?” she asked Peter one night. “Just one more . . .” She slid an arm over his chest and raised herself on an elbow to look him in the eye. “I know we are lucky to have a boy and a girl already, but I can’t stop thinking . . .”

He smiled indulgently. “Of course,” he said. “If you want another, of course we can.”

Katya was born in December, and came out of the womb so pretty that she took Maria’s breath away: the darkest blue eyes, golden curls, a pert nose, and elegant fingers that she curved in the air like a fine lady drinking tea from her best china.

“I can’t decide who she looks like,” Maria sighed. “Perhaps she has an air of Tatiana about her.”

“Perhaps,” Peter agreed, “but she is also the image of my sister.” He looked sad for a moment. “I will write to my mother to tell her of the newcomer to our family and ask one of our factory drivers to post it in Moscow. It is common knowledge that mail deliveries are more reliable from there, so I hope he will not question why.”

He could not risk giving a return address; even seven years after the execution of the royal family, it seemed likely that the Cheka would still be looking for the missing Romanov daughter.

* * *