No bed had been supplied for Maria, so she lay on a pile of coats in the corner of her parents’ room, thinking about Konstantin and Peter as she waited for sleep. They were both nice men, although she supposed they must be Bolsheviks. She was glad she would have some company until her sisters arrived, but decided it would be wise to steer their conversations away from politics.

Chapter 2

NEXT MORNING, PETER VASNETSOV WAS ONCE AGAIN guarding the top of the second staircase and Maria greeted him as she passed on her way to bathe.

“Have you been there all night? I do hope they let you sleep sometimes.”

He gave a shy smile. “I was off duty from midnight till eight, but now I will be here till two.”

“Oh, good. After breakfast, might I come and take your photograph? It is a particular hobby of mine. I love to collect portraits and you have a strong face.”

His cheeks colored. “I don’t know about that.”

“You don’t know that you have a strong face? Or are you worried that it’s not allowed? Personally, I can’t see any harm.”

He bit his lip before answering. “What would I have to do?”

She almost laughed, but stopped herself. He had clearly never had his photograph taken before. “Just what you are doing anyway: stand still. I’ll come back in an hour and explain more.”

In fact, it was slightly longer than an hour because her father read to them from the scriptures after breakfast, but when Maria skipped out to the hallway carrying her leather photograph album and her precious Kodak Autographic, Peter was there, standing very erect.

“Do you want to look through my pictures while I set up the camera?” she asked.

He glanced at his hands before accepting the book, and she guessed he was checking that they were clean. He flicked to the first page. “Is this your little brother?” he asked.

She nodded. “Alexei, yes. He was the most adorable baby. We all doted on him. Mama and Papa had long given up hope of an heir, so they were beside themselves with joy.” She didn’t tell him how disappointed her father had been when she was born. One daughter was delightful, two was still acceptable—and Tatiana quickly became his favorite—but he did not attempt to hide his despair when a third turned up. As a child, Maria had noticed it in the way he avoided looking at her and seldom made any personal comment to her. By the time Anastasia arrived, he seemed resigned to only siring girls.

Peter turned the page. “And these are your sisters?”

“We call ourselves OTMA,” she explained. “From our names: Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia.”

“You must miss them.”