Ermakov was eager. “I’ll take a Mauser,” he said, reaching for one of the most powerful guns on the table.

Adolf Lepa, commander of this new set of guards, surprised Yurovsky. “I don’t think I could shoot the girls,” he mumbled, looking at his feet.

Yurovsky glared. Lepa had been at the meeting at the Hotel Amerika when the decision had been made that very afternoon. He knew they couldn’t risk the Romanovs falling into the hands of counterrevolutionaries who might even try to reinstate them on the throne, with the backing of foreign governments.

“Me neither,” said Verhas, a Hungarian man.

Yurovsky opened his mouth to chastise them, to reiterate the case for the execution, but realized there was no point. He had thought Lepa reliable at least, but you never knew how people would react when they were put on the spot. “Go back to the Popov House, both of you,” he ordered. “And don’t breathe a word of this. The rest of the guard will not be told till the last minute.”

He waited until they had shuffled out before addressing the others. “If there is a gun you prefer, choose now.”

They stepped forward, eyeing the remaining Mauser, the Colts, the Nagants, the Smith & Wesson, the Browning, picking them up to test the grip, the weight. One man’s hand was shaking so violently he almost knocked a Nagant to the floor. Another smelled strongly of homemade vodka, his breath foul with it, and Yurovsky winced.

“You two.” He motioned at them, then pointed to the door. “You are relieved.”

That left ten, including him. One man would have to shoot two people. He glanced at Ermakov, nursing the Mauser, his eyes sparkling with revolutionary fervor.

“I’ll take two,” the wild man volunteered, preempting him.

Ermakov had murdered before; he’d spent six years in a prison camp for decapitating the nightwatchman at a factory he was raiding, but had been released after the Revolution. Now he was a Cheka officer of great renown in the region. Yurovsky knew he would get the job done.

“That’s it, then,” he said, looking around the men one last time. “Nothing must go wrong. Our leaders have put great trust in us, and I am putting my trust in you. Take your weapons and await orders.”

One of them tripped over a rug as he left the room and his pistol fell to the floor with a clunk. Yurovsky sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter 1

Ekaterinburg, April 1918

CITIZEN ROMANOV, CITIZEN ROMANOVA. I AM COMMISSAR Avdeyev.” The man spoke in Russian and wore a Red Army uniform. He did not even remove his cap with its red badge as he addressed them.

Maria watched her mother bristle. Until March the previous year her title had been Tsarina Alexandra, Empress of All Russias, and she had not come to terms with the change in their circumstances.