by L.K. Hill
Chapter 25
Moscow, June 1547
Nikolai answered his door and was relieved to find Yehvah standing in the doorway, though she didn’t look particularly pleased.
He opened the door wider. “Come in, please.”
She peered at him suspiciously, but obeyed. “I cannot stay long, Nikolai. I have work.”
“Yes, yes,” Nikolai waved her toward the fireplace. “It won’t take long. You know about the old woman who died a few days ago?”
Yehvah swallowed before nodding. “Of course.”
For the first time, it occurred to Nikolai that perhaps Yevhah and the old woman had been friends. “Did you know her well?” he asked.
Yehvah shook her head. “No. I never worked closely with her. But the way she died . . .” Yehvah shuddered. After a moment she gave herself a shake and turned toward him. “What about her?”
“I need to find her daughter and thought you might know her name.”
Yehvah’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want her daughter’s name?”
“I would like to tell her family what’s happened to her. It was quite tragic.” Not entirely true, but Nikolai didn't want to reveal too much of Taras’s investigation.
Yehvah stared at him for a long time until he dropped his gaze. She was the one woman he’d never been able to intimidate.
“That’s decent of you.”
Anger flared at her tone.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he spat. After all these years, the resentment still lingered.
“Not at all, my lord,” she replied, her voice becoming formal rather than soft. She spaced the last two words for emphasis. She furnished the name, then turned to stalk away, but stopped. “Why are you helping the Englishman, Nikolai? You’ve never been one to stick your neck out.”
Nikolai ground his teeth. Amazing, how much the truth still hurt. “Perhaps it’s time I did. I don’t know why, but I feel driven to help him.”
“You know what he suspects, don’t you?”
Nikolai sighed, suddenly tired. “I was truly unaware of any menace surrounding his mother’s death. When he showed up asking questions . . . I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner.”
“This is Russia, Nikolai. Heaven only knows how many people live and die unjustly in Moscovy’s mud. In most cases, no one knows or cares. What do you hope to accomplish by this . . . investigation?”
“Taras knows. He wants to find the truth. I can’t fault him for that. If a man is blessed to have parents such as Nicholas Demidov and his wife, he deserves justice, no matter the cost. Taras’s determination—it’s invigorating. Truly, I haven’t felt this alive in years.”
He didn’t know why he told her that. When he mentioned parents, her eyes took on a sad, empathetic look. It reminded him that she still knew him better than anyone in the Kremlin did. “Why does it matter to you?”
The sadness didn’t leave her eyes.
“It doesn’t.” She turned and walked away. He watched the door shut behind her, wishing he had not let his temper take over.
