All her life since she was tiny, she had dreamed of her wedding day and of the dashing man she would marry and raise children with. But in those dreams she had always imagined her husband-to-be asking her father’s permission for the betrothal, her mother helping to plan her trousseau, and the rest of the family celebrating the happy day. Now she had none of these—just Peter. He was all the family she had left.

Chapter 17

Outskirts of Perm, winter 1918–19

THE FIRST SNOW CAME IN NOVEMBER, AND LAY IN A powdery sprinkling on earth that was already hard as flint and glittering with frost. The days grew shorter, so it wasn’t light till eleven in the morning and was growing dark again by midafternoon. Soon the snow got heavier so the trees disappeared beneath thick winter coats. Svetlana lent Maria and Peter some blankets, and Peter made sure there was always a fire burning in the grate to keep their room cozy when wintry gales blasted outside.

As well as caring for the farm’s livestock, Peter rode into the woods to hunt elk, whose meat could be cured to last the winter months, and he caught fish through holes in the iced-over lake. The farmer and his wife were delighted with his prowess but Maria proved less useful: she never did get the hang of milking cows, though she learned to feed the chickens, to weave baskets from reeds, and to pickle chopped vegetables in Svetlana’s kitchen.

One day she borrowed a halma board and pieces from Svetlana, and that evening she taught Peter the rules of the game. It was relatively simple: you had to move all your pieces to the opposite corner by the fastest route possible, leaping over your opponent’s pieces on the way.

Peter followed her lead during the first game, but by the second he was winning hands down.

“How can you beat me when you have only just learned?” she asked, baffled.

“You have no strategy,” he laughed. “You move your pieces on a whim. I, on the other hand, am thinking several moves ahead. That’s the fun of the game.”

Maria smiled. “Would it not be more gentlemanly to let a fat pregnant lady win?” She patted her belly. By now the child was moving inside her, kicking out. Sometimes she could see the shape of a tiny foot under her skin.

“You would like me to play badly? Is that the grand duchess talking? Pray, forgive me for being so presumptuous as to beat you, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

She giggled and grabbed his hand to pull him over for a kiss, then placed his palm on her belly. “I think our son is going to be strong, like you,” she said.

He stroked her bump thoughtfully. “Yes, it certainly looks that way,” he said, a faraway expression in his eyes.

* * *