Bolotov closed the door so they were both inside and locked it with the hook.

“Please . . .” Maria begged. “Stop this.”

He leaned his face toward her and she pushed him away. She wanted to scream but the sound stuck in her throat, producing a strangled noise.

“I’ll look after you. I’ll rescue you from here and we can get married.” His eyes burned with an intensity that scared her.

Her throat had closed completely and all she managed was a little squeak of “No!”

“You kissed that other guard, so why not me? I can help you.”

Bolotov’s hand touched her breast and she froze. What should she do? If she cried out, Yurovsky would hear, her sisters and parents would hear, and they would say she had brought it on herself for being too familiar with the guards. She shoved his hand away and tried to wriggle free, but he planted his arm on the wall beside her so she couldn’t escape, then leaned in to kiss her. She gagged at the putrid odor of his breath and the lips that felt cold and rubbery. She couldn’t bear the scratch of his chin, the wet tongue that prodded inside her mouth, making her gag yet again.

He had his hands on her skirt now and she struggled harder but could barely move against the weight of him pinning her to the wall. Please let this be over quickly, she prayed. She screwed her eyes tight shut and tried to ignore the feeling of his rough finger touching her most private parts, where no one had touched her before. It was humiliating, awful, by far the worst thing that had ever happened to her. There was a sharp pain and she gasped in agony, the sound muffled by his lips, his tongue in her mouth. She began to murmur the Orthodox prayer to the Mother of God: “Pour the mercy of thy son and our God upon my impassionate soul, and with thine interventions set me unto good deeds, that I may pass the rest of my life without blemish . . .”

At last he stopped and unhooked the door, glancing outside to check the coast was clear before slipping back to his guard post. Maria straightened her skirts, noticing that her petticoat was torn, then looked in the mirror. Her hair was wild, her lips red and chafed around the edges. She splashed her face with cold water and dried it with a towel, rushing in case he decided to return. If only there were another way back to their room. She would have to walk past him again and couldn’t bear to see the expression on his face. He was an ugly, loathsome man.

She summoned her courage, opened the door, and ran down the corridor.

“Good night, sweet princess,” Bolotov called after her, and she heard mockery in his tone.