“What’s this?” she asked, squinting at the pages, which were written in English.

“It’s from the Australian woman who brought me those photos in the summer.” Stepan glanced around at Peter, who was bent over a newspaper, spectacles perched on his nose. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Maria began to read and cried out when she came to the second paragraph. Val wrote that her father, Anatoly Bolotov, had been in love with Maria and believed his affections had been reciprocated.

She stared at Stepan, openmouthed. How could he? Was it true, or a story he had concocted in retrospect to excuse his actions? Could he possibly have mistaken her friendly politeness in the house for romantic encouragement?

“Are you all right, dear?” Peter asked.

She shook her head in disbelief. “Do you remember Anatoly Bolotov, that guard at the Ipatiev House? This letter is from his daughter. Stepan met her in the summer. She seems to think Bolotov was in love with me.”

Peter put down his newspaper and smiled. “We were all in love with you.”

Maria’s flesh crawled. Had Bolotov believed when he raped her that she was a willing participant? She hadn’t struggled or screamed, but that was because of her fear of someone hearing them. She felt sick to think of it, even now.

She turned back to the letter and read the next paragraph before reporting its contents to Peter. “It says that each man in the execution squad was allocated one member of the family to kill, and that Bolotov volunteered to shoot at me. But when the order was given, he deliberately missed. He hoped he could rescue me but others stepped in and shot and stabbed me instead.”

“Perhaps you owe him your life,” Peter suggested. “If he had shot you at close range, he would have killed you.”

Maria glanced at Stepan, whose face reflected his conflicting emotions. He had always loathed the man who fathered him and seemed reluctant to revise that opinion.

She read on, then told Peter, “Bolotov was watching when you lifted me off the truck. He was on horseback and could easily have caught us, but instead he shouted to the rest of the men that we had fled in the opposite direction. He did it to save us.”

“Did he now?” Peter gave a low whistle. “I always thought it odd they didn’t catch us. I didn’t even spot any signs of pursuit. We owe him a debt of gratitude.”

Stepan walked over to gaze out the window, so Maria couldn’t see his expression anymore.

“It says he hunted for us for years and spent the rest of his life pining for me.” Maria wrinkled her nose. According to the letter, he’d even bought wedding rings for the two of them. “That’s ridiculous. He only knew me for what—a week?”