Jasper Kent - Twelve

I pulled away. 'You've seen Maks? When?'

She misunderstood my concern. 'I literally only saw him – well, and spoke to him – but nothing more. He didn't even stay with Margarita.'

I shook my head. 'I didn't mean that,' I said, kissing the palm of her hand. 'When was he here?'

'Two days ago. He looked exhausted – he'd been riding nonstop for days – but he left again almost straight away.'

'What did he say?'

'I can't remember exactly, but the important message for you was to meet him at Desna.'

Desna was one of our pre-planned meeting places.

'Did he say when?'

'He said he'd wait until you got there, but that only you should go. Margarita will remember more.'

She went over and knocked on the door which connected her room to Margarita's. After a moment's waiting for a reply, she opened it and peeped inside. From what I could hear, Margarita was evidently busy with a client. I saw Domnikiia beckon to her and then close the door.

'She'll just be a second,' said Domnikiia, and it was only moments later that Margarita slipped through the door, a sheet wrapped around her body like an ill-fitting toga.

'You remember Aleksei,' said Domnikiia. Margarita gave me the brief, polite smile of someone whose livelihood is being disrupted by trivial introductions. 'What did Maksim say when we saw him the other day?'

Margarita reeled off what she knew with a determined accuracy that reflected both an impressive memory and a desire not to have to repeat herself. 'He said to tell Aleksei to meet him at Desna, that he'd wait there as long as he could, that only Aleksei should go, that that was why he told us – so that only Aleksei would find out – and that we shouldn't trust Dmitry's friends. Oh, and that we shouldn't trust Dmitry either. Who's Dmitry? Don't tell me, I'll find out later.'

She made her way back to the connecting door, finding it increasingly difficult to walk as she trod down the front of her sheet. As she stepped through the doorway, she abandoned it altogether. I caught a glimpse of her naked back and heard the words 'Well, hello again, Colonel…' uttered in a bawdy tone before she closed the door behind her.

'Who's Dmitry?' asked Domnikiia. I didn't answer. Instead I kissed her, pushing her back on to the bed.

A more comradely man than I might have galloped straight off to Desna there and then, but it had been twelve days since I'd seen Domnikiia. It wasn't that I was desperate to make love to her, just that I was desperate to be with her, and making love was what we tended to do when we were together – the only thing we did when we were together. And, to be honest, I think the sight of Margarita's naked back had inflamed my passion, if only slightly.

'Who's Dmitry?' asked Domnikiia afterwards.

'You've been wondering about that all the time?'

'No,' she giggled, 'but when I ask a question I expect an answer – however long it takes.'

'Dmitry Fetyukovich – he's a fellow officer. Maksim and I both work with him. They're not the closest of friends, but they work well together. I trust him.'

'Who? Dmitry?'

'Yes.'

'And Maks?'

'I trust him too.'

'And whom do you trust more, my dear, trusting Lyosha?' she asked, curling her leg around me. It was a tricky question, so I said nothing.

'What did Maks mean by "Dmitry's friends"?' she asked.

Dmitry's friends – the Oprichniki – were what made it a tricky question. Until recently, if push had come to shove, I'd have had to trust Dmitry over Maks, but Dmitry seemed so close to those mysterious, frightening men that I couldn't now say for sure.

'They're just a group of soldiers that Dmitry fought with against the Turks. They've come up here to help us out. They're not regular soldiers – cavalry or infantry – they're more like Cossacks, but even less controllable. We call them Oprichniki.'

Whether or not she knew the original meaning of the term, she didn't ask about it.

'Are they good at what they do?'

I remembered the voice of that lonely French infantryman, shouting to his commanding officer and to his friends in the dark oblivion of the night. I remembered Iuda, Matfei and Foma wandering into a camp of a hundred men without a doubt in their minds that they would be victorious. Although I had not seen them since, there was no doubt in mine that they had been. I spared Domnikiia the details.

'Very good,' I replied.

I ran my hand across her thigh and she smiled at me, but her smile suddenly became a frown as she grabbed my hand and held it up to look at.

'When did this happen?' she asked in alarm.

'What?' I almost laughed, seeing no reason for her sudden anxiety.

She spent a moment searching for what to say. 'Your fingers! When did it happen?'

I'd long ago become accustomed to the absence of the last two fingers of my left hand, lost under torture after I had been captured by the Turks. It was almost surprising how little I had needed them. I wrote with my right hand. I held my sword in my right hand. My aim with a musket was a little less good for having to support the stock with only two fingers, but it had never been my weapon of choice.

'Three years ago,' I replied to Domnikiia's question. 'I'm surprised you hadn't noticed,' I added, pretending to sound hurt, but still genuinely surprised.

'I don't think I really noticed you at all until you left.'

She ran her finger up and down between my thumb and my index finger and middle finger and then over the stumps of the other two.

'Does it hurt?' she asked.

'Not any more.' I let her continue to feel the scarred remains of my fingers. Most people were oversensitive about my hand, either being constantly concerned about it or not mentioning it at all for fear they might upset me. Either way, it was better that they focused on the physical. Only one other person I knew shared Domnikiia's innocent fascination with the messy detail of what remained where my fingers had been, and that was my son, Dmitry. He liked to touch my hand in much the same way as Domnikiia was doing now and, closing my eyes, it was almost as if I was with him again. Marfa at first had told him not to, but it did me no harm, so it was allowed.

'I've never seen a picture of Empress Marie-Louise,' said Domnikiia, intertwining her four fingers with my two. I was glad she had changed the subject.

'Why do you say that?' I asked.

'Apparently you think I look like her.'

'Apparently?'

'Maksim told me.' She spoke as if it was a confession of a sin. But that she and Maks had spoken about me was not a concern to me any more.

'Well, you do look like her.'

'So am I just a cheap substitute because you can't afford yourself a French empress?' she asked lightly.

I laughed. 'She's not French, she's Austrian.'

'That's not an answer.'

'And you're not cheap.'

'Neither's that, though I know it must be a strain on your pocket to pay for a courtesan.' She paused before adding, 'And a wife.' She said the words with a look of petulant envy which I could only regard as a pretence. The idea that Domnikiia was in some way jealous of my marriage, whether the feeling was affected or not, was flattering to me, but I was also irritated that she should attempt to bring reality into our cosy, delusional world.

'Maks again, I suppose,' I said.

She nodded and then added, 'You don't wear a wedding ring.'

'Not a good idea for a spy,' I replied. I absent-mindedly rubbed the base of the ring finger of my right hand, where it should have been. My wedding ring sat, as ever, in a small mother-of-pearl box on Marfa's dressing table. I only ever wore it when I was at home in Petersburg. Marfa said that she understood my reasons.

'Oh, I see,' said Domnikiia. 'What's her name?'

'Whose?' I asked.