Page 55

“You seem to know a lot about it.” I hold my glass out as he pours.

“I deal in antiques, Mr. Stevanovsky.” He sits back, looking mildly amused. “It’s my job to know about such things. But in this case, I have a rather more personal interest, since one of the pieces said to have been smuggled out of Russia back then belonged to my great-grandmother, Mariya Stenyavina. An extremely valuable piece. In fact, according to family legend, the piece was almost priceless: one of the few Fabergé eggs made for the imperial family, and given to my great-grandmother in gratitude for loyal service by Tsar Nicholas himself.” He tilts his head and blows out a stream of smoke, eyeing me lazily through the cloud. “But that is just family legend, of course.”

“Of course.”

I really am enjoying this.

“My great-grandmother did not fare well after the revolution,” he continues. “Sadly, she was unable to escape Russia as so many did. But having once been mistress to a very powerful man at court, and extremely beautiful, so I’m told, she did manage to escape death or imprisonment by becoming mistress to another very powerful man. Their son, Leon Stenyavina, though illegitimate, managed to distinguish himself during the Second World War and was even granted a decent inheritance when his father died. By the time Leon married and my mother, Irina, was born, he was a decorated army veteran with considerable means. As a result, my mother married extremely well—to another military man, Karl Volkov.”

He leans forward and crushes out his cigarette. “Mymother was an only child, as was her own father. She spoke sometimes about the Fabergé egg that had once been in my great-grandmother Mariya’s possession. She’d grown up hearing the stories about it. My father thought it was a fanciful story, of course, and would become very impatient when she mentioned it. And anyway, such treasures rarely survived the revolution—even if those entrusted to Prince Naryshkin for safekeeping had a remarkable tendency to turn up in crates of vodka decades later.” His eyes gleam with a sardonic humor so exactly matching my own mood that I almost want to laugh. “But I imagine,” he says politely, “that I’m beginning to bore you with family history.”

I crush out my own cigarette. “I think we both know this is anything but boring, Mr. Volkov. And I believe you’ve answered the question I came here to ask, which is whether or not Mariya Stenyavina may have had any other living descendants.”

“But then,” says Leon, waving a careless hand, “I would say that there were no other descendants, wouldn’t I? Especially if there was any chance such a treasure might have survived.”

“You could certainly say it.” I grin. “But although your own history might have been scrubbed whiter than the Russian snow, Volkov, the internet is a remarkable tool. And in this case, your story matches our research. I wouldn’t be here with this”—I pat the wooden box—“if it didn’t.”

“Then I have to ask, Mr. Stevanovsky.” His eyes narrow curiously. “Why the questions? If you already know who I am, why dance around the topic?”

I lift my shoulder. “Because some things are too precious to simply be given away, Mr. Volkov. And when it comes to this particular piece, I happen to think it deserves better than to be handed over to some philistine with no regard for its true value.”

He sits back in his chair, regarding me with even moreinterest. “Does that mean you might have chosen not to return it at all?”

I give him another grin. “I guess you’ll never know, will you?”

He inclines his head, smiling. “That’s true enough. Allow me to say that from the perspective of one who prizes art for more than its monetary value, your diligence is pleasantly surprising.”

I push the box across the coffee table. “Open it, if you like.”

He makes no move to touch it. “Shall I tell you what is inside it, Mr. Stevanovsky?”

I accept another cigarette as he pours more vodka. “Go on, then.”

“The imperial eggs were all rather larger than the others Fabergé made.” His eyes rest on the box, almost caressing it as he speaks. “The one inside that box is quite extraordinary and very distinctive. It is gold and created to look like the feathers of a peacock, with sapphires and emeralds coloring the end of each gold leaf. The egg splits into two parts, fitted together with an ingenious lock that has a hidden catch. Inside the egg is a diamond mountain. Atop it sits a small jeweled peacock, complete with a luxurious tail of gold leaf. The imperial peacock egg is considered no more than myth by most people, although Fabergé did make another, smaller one for commercial sale.”

His expression has changed throughout his description. There’s something almost sad in his eyes as he finishes speaking.

“You really do know this piece.” I sip my vodka, watching him.

“Da.”His slip into Russian seems unconscious. “There was a time,” he says softly, “when I dreamed of finding it. Back then, I thought it could solve all my problems.” He touches the box briefly, then takes his hand away and gives me a ruefulsmile. “But we are all fools when we are young and in love, are we not, Dimitry?”

“Fools.” My laugh is harsher than I mean it to be. “You’re right there, Mr. Volkov.”

Six months I’ve been a fool.

Discreetly, I check my phone.

It’s midnight in Australia.

It’s pathetic that I know the time difference between London and Western Australia better than I do the one between London and Miami. Tragic that it’s the first thing I check, wherever I am.

Abby isn’t coming back.

I know it, and yet no matter how many times I say it, aloud or in my head, it still doesn’t seem true. And that makes me worse than a fool.

It makes me a pathetic idiot.

“Please, call me Leon.” I realize Volkov has been watching me when he gives me a small smile. “Mr. Volkov will always sound like my father.”