Three weeks later, in Moscow, Ella was still trying to come to terms with the appalling death toll on what was now spoken of as ‘Bloody Sunday’. According to Vladimir, it was the Preobrazhensky Guards who had opened fire on the marchers as they approached the Winter Palace, but they had not done so under his instructions. Some reports said hundreds had died; others that the death toll was more than a thousand. Whatever the truth of it, the blame lay heavily on Vladimir’s shoulders, as Governor-General of the city. However, where the country was concerned, the blame was entirely Nicky’s.

‘And he knew only that a peaceful march was intended,’ Vladimir said over the telephone, ‘and that, as he wasn’t in the city to receive the petition, it was a march that would be called off. He’s the most pacific person – far too pacific – that I know, and now the shouts on the streets are of “Nicholas the Bloody” and “Nicholas the Murderer”. Until now, revolution was only a possibility. Now, God help us all, we’re on the brink of it!’

Due to the strikes in Moscow, the atmosphere was electric with tension, as if a thunderstorm was about to break. Ella, packing for their move back to St Petersburg, lived in constant fear for Sergei’s safety. She had always known that her marriage was a mystery to both their mutual families and to the court, and that it was generally believed that Sergei was a harsh husband – and one who, it was suspected, had homosexual tendencies. The reality of their relationship was known only to them, but when she had insisted to Granny Queen that she was perfectly content with Sergei, it had been the truth. There was more than one kind of love, and if theirs was different from most people’s, what did it matter? All that mattered was the strength of the bond that existed between them.

The city was deep in snow and Sergei had just left the Kremlin for his government office. It would be his last visit there, for he had been relieved of his position as Governor-General twenty-four hours earlier and all that was left for him to do was a little tidying-up.

She was thinking what a comfort to Alicky it would be, when she and Sergei were again living in their palace in St Petersburg, when there was an explosion so deafening it was as if every mighty wall surrounding the Kremlin had been blasted into atoms.

She screamed, knowing instantly who the bomb had been meant for, and then she began to run.

Running down the wide stairs with her heart in her mouth, she left the palace and crossed the snow-covered courtyard. She was dimly aware that people were both racing after her and towards her, all of them trying to stop her; all of them trying to prevent her from seeing the horror that awaited.