by L.K. Hill
***
The Englishman left Nikolai Petrov’s rooms minutes after going in.
The man watching him from around the corner had servants who could spy for him, but this intrigue he need to give personal attention to. He’d donned the cloak of a stable hand, pulling up the cowl to hide his face. It smelled of manure, and the burlap itched against his perfumed skin. It was an unfortunate necessity. No one would notice a dirty, stinking servant skulking in one of the palace’s many passages.
They’d found the old woman’s body. The man frowned. Nikolai and the Englishman conferred for far too short a time. It hadn’t taken them long to come to whatever conclusion they did. They would have to be watched.
After the Englishman asked the tsar in open court whether he could investigate, the man made several well-placed threats and thought the matter would be closed. He didn’t think anyone who knew what happened back then would admit to it, but that didn’t mean the Englishman couldn’t stir up trouble.
He didn't worry about Nikolai Petrov. Non-confrontational, and more concerned with his own safety than anything else, Nikolai could be bullied. This Taras was another matter. That was the problem with foreigners: they weren’t Russian. It made them unpredictable. The English, in particular, were known to be independent, strong-willed, and stubborn as mules.
His frown deepening under the filthy cowl, he turned and plodded back toward his own apartments, feeling a sudden and desperate need for a hot bath.
