Both little ones adored their babushka and loved snuggling on her lap to listen to stories. She gave them the wooden toys Peter had carved for his own children and liked to watch them play—although it was bittersweet because Peter had never known the joy grandchildren brought, and their auntie Katya was still missing. None of Maria’s letters had yielded any clues as to where she was, but she still wrote to the few children’s homes that had not yet replied, sending pencil sketches of Katya and stamped envelopes. One day someone must recognize her.

Maria had given up her factory job but on the rare occasions when she went back to town, she invited her old colleagues around for tea and cakes at the apartment. She didn’t miss work. At fifty-three, she was feeling her age. Her lower back ached on cold mornings, and if she crouched to pick up the children’s toys she had to grab hold of a piece of furniture to pull herself up again.

When Anna was two and Alexei one, Ludmilla decided to go back to work and Maria became a full-time carer for the little ones. Every day when the weather permitted she took them for walks in the park around the Peterhof palace—she could never learn to call it by the Soviet name of Petrodvorets. She showed them the secret fountains that were designed to soak the unwary, the pretty flower beds, and the different types of bird that alighted there. Always she took a sketchbook because the children clamored for her drawings.

“Draw a giraffe, Babushka,” Anna would demand. “And a monkey! Together!”

Sometimes they went inside the palace to visit their mama and papa at work, but Maria felt uncomfortable there, amid the decor dripping with gold. It reminded her of the blinkered child she had once been who took all that Romanov wealth for granted.

* * *

One morning Stepan told her that he was going on a trip to source some marble and would not be back until late.

“Eat the evening meal without me,” he said.

“Take your warm hat,” Maria fussed, running after him, and he accepted it from her without a murmur although it was only October and the weather was mild.

She had already gone to bed that night when she heard the sound of Stepan returning home. She glanced at the clock: ten after midnight. It sounded as if Ludmilla was still up, because she could hear the murmur of voices in the kitchen. The children would wake her around six a.m., so she should go back to sleep, but she wanted to hear about Stepan’s trip. She hesitated, then decided that since she was awake anyway, she might as well say goodnight.

The kitchen door was closed as she padded down the corridor, but when she drew near, she heard Ludmilla’s voice asking, “Is there absolutely no doubt it was her?”