She shook her head. It was impossible to swallow now. She knew she didn’t have long. But there was one last thing she must do before she died. She must tell Stepan that they were Romanovs, because otherwise the truth about their heritage and an important part of Russian history would be lost forever. He was a sensible soul who would not take the risk of telling others. But where to begin?

“I was born Maria Romanova,” she said, her voice faint and husky. “I grew up at the Alexander Palace in Tsarskoe Selo. My father was Tsar Nicholas, my mother Tsarina Alexandra. I had three sisters, Olga, Tatiana, and Anastasia, and a little brother, Alexei.” The words flowed once she had started, and he listened carefully, narrowing his eyes in concentration. What if he did not believe her? He must.

When she reached the part about their house arrest and then the brutal execution in the basement, tears filled his eyes. Good. That meant he believed her.

“I opened my eyes where I lay in the back of a truck, facing a fate worse than death at the hands of the men who swarmed all around, and there was your father. Peter.” She choked up at the memory. “I asked him to help me and he picked me up and ran into the forest. For three days he ran with me on his back, stopping only to tend my wounds and rest a few hours. He saved my life.”

“That’s where the jewels came from,” Stepan whispered, his eyes glistening in the lamplight. “I understand now.”

There was more she had to tell him. “You need to know that Tatiana did not die in the basement. She had gone to meet her lover, Dmitri Malama, to plan our rescue. I have tried to find her since then but with no luck.”

“You have often murmured her name during your illness,” Stepan said.

“My aunt Olga lives outside Copenhagen. We have written to each other but it proved impossible to visit. When I die, you must get word to her somehow.” She closed her eyes, sad to think she would not see Olga again.

“Mama, you will not die,” Stepan insisted. “Stay with us. Please.”

She reached for his hand, squeezed it tightly. “I’m trying.” She racked her brain. There was something else he had to know. “Your father’s real name was Vasnetsov. He had a mother and sister in Ekaterinburg. We have written to them but have not been able to tell them where we are . . .” She paused, too weak to think clearly. Hopefully he would understand.

“Did you know Papa before he rescued you?” Stepan sounded overcome with emotion.

“He was a guard at the house. One of the good ones.” She remembered him there: so shy and tongue-tied.

“Were you lovers?” Stepan whispered, stroking her hand.