“Who does he think he is?” Alexandra remarked in English to Maria’s father, the former Tsar Nicholas.

“From now on, you will speak only Russian, the language of our great nation,” the commissar reprimanded, and her mother tutted loudly and muttered something under her breath.

Their servants were still hauling trunks up the hill from the station. Maria wanted to stay outside in the bright spring sunshine rather than step into the squat-looking house surrounded by a tall palisade fence. From where they stood, only the curved dormer windows set in a green metal roof could be seen above the fence posts. Avdeyev was beckoning them up the steps, and her heart filled with a gloom that matched the shadowy interior as she followed her parents.

Inside, a flight of stone stairs led up from the foyer. Avdeyev explained that they would spend their days on the upper floor, except when they were permitted out into the yard to exercise. On the landing there was a stuffed black bear with two cubs, and Maria winced; she had never liked taxidermy and it seemed a bad omen to have these dead creatures in their midst.

Her mind wandered as Avdeyev gave them a guided tour, his tone curt. He led them into a drawing room with carved oak furniture and a piano, then through an arch to a further sitting room with a writing desk and bookshelves, and a dining room with a dark, heavy table and chairs. The furnishings were clearly expensive but lacked comfort, as if designed for show rather than use. The bedroom was brighter, with pale yellow wallpaper, but Maria must share it with her parents, while their servants would camp in the living and dining rooms. There was electricity, a bathroom and a lavatory with toilet, and she supposed they should be grateful, but she yearned for the spacious elegance of their rooms in the Alexander Palace.

She walked to the bedroom window and watched an electric streetcar glide up the hill. Men and women strolled past, scarcely glancing at the house. They weren’t prisoners. They could do as they pleased. Maria wished she had been born an ordinary citizen rather than a daughter of the Tsar. She was only eighteen years old and wanted to have fun, but since the uprising in February the previous year, her family had been under house arrest. Almost fourteen months a prisoner. How wonderful it would be to wake in the morning, open the curtains, and decide to hike in the countryside, or drive to the coast to see the ocean—preferably with a handsome beau. Maria had not yet had a beau and she longed for one. Girls her age usually had beaus; some were married at eighteen, so why not her?