Father Methodius smiled. “They’re lepeshki. It’s a Russian recipe, made with sour cream.” He took one himself and held it inches from his mouth without taking a bite, as if enjoying the anticipation. “Now, what can I tell you about your father? You probably know that he worked as a guard at the last house where the Romanov family were held?”

Val nodded, her mouth full of lepeshki.

“You mustn’t judge him for taking the job.” The priest put his cookie back on the plate, as if he had decided against eating it. “He had a difficult childhood, growing up in a children’s home after his parents died when he was very young. At the age of sixteen, he was sent to work in a factory, where he boarded with other workers in some rather squalid-sounding lodgings. Then one day a man came asking for volunteers for what he described as a very sensitive job. Your father was interviewed about his political beliefs, and although he was not interested in politics, he told the interviewer what he thought he wanted to hear. It was only after he got the job that he learned he was to guard the Romanovs. Imagine how exciting that was for a young man of nineteen who thought he had no prospects!”

“He discussed all this with you?” Val was astonished. Her father had gone to elaborate lengths to cover up his past even from her mother, yet he had confided in this priest.

Father Methodius nodded. “I took his confession over the years and would never breach any confidences from there; but we were friends too, and I think his daughter should know what he did not have a chance to tell you in life. I hope it will help you to look upon him more charitably.”

Somehow Val doubted that, and her skepticism must have shown on her face.

“Reserve your judgment, please,” the priest continued. His voice was rich, with an accent that seemed neither Australian nor Russian but international. “Let’s go back to that young man arriving in a house where the wealthiest people in the world were being held prisoner. The girls were all beautiful, and one of them, Maria, was friendly toward him. He told me that he fell in love with her on the spot.”

“In love!” Val echoed.

“I always argued that love at first sight was not true love, but he claimed it was, and he vowed she loved him too.”

“Now, that I don’t believe,” Val retorted. Her father had had neither looks nor charm to recommend him. There was no way a Romanov grand duchess would have fallen for him.

“I also found it hard to believe, but your father told me that certain”—Father Methodius hesitated over the word—“intimacies occurred between them. That’s how he knew she felt the same way.”