The travelers clustered together in a corner of the Tsar's parlor car that first afternoon. A week of unceasing travel through Russia lay ahead. They would pass from Europe into the depths of Asia, beyond the Ural Mountains.
Brad and Romelle sat together on a silk-covered banquette facing the length of the car. Chavadzy had drawn up an armchair to face them over a round oak table. The four Cossacks stood behind him while he marked out and explained the route ahead.
"Tonight we reach Moscow," he said. "If the Tsar were with us, we would continue all the way on his private train. The exterior of every carriage is identical to prevent the public from knowing which ones are occupied by him and his family. This is a ruse to prevent assassination attempts. His father, Tsar Alexander, who was my patient, died from lingering wounds received several years earlier when a bomb derailed his coach."
Romelle shuddered, remembering Alexis' reference to the murder of the royal family by Jenghiz Khan. "It makes me happy to know that we're transferring to a public train. I've already had enough adventure!"
Brad nodded his head in grim agreement.
Chavadzy put his red pencil to the map and traced a line. "Tonight, we transfer to the Trans-Siberian. Tomorrow, we pass through Viatka, two days after that through Omsk. Then, on the sixth day, we come to Irkutsk, which some call the 'Paris of Siberia.' It may be of interest to you. On the seventh day we reach the frozen waters of Lake Baikal. It is the largest freshwater lake in Eurasia, and the deepest in the world.
"From the other side, we shall proceed by sledge and horse-drawn tarantass to the border between Russia and Outer Mongolia. Our Cossacks abandon us there, for they are not permitted into the country by order of the Manchus."
Romelle shuddered again, this time at mention of the Manchus. Her experience of them had left a residue of horror.
Feeling her shiver, Brad touched her hand protectively. "Don't worry, Romy, I'll be there. You have a right to be afraid, but they can't all be murderers and assassins."
"Not by any means," Chavadzy assured her, Nicholas's admonition echoing in his ears. "The Tsar...reflected...to me...only yesterday that not all of the Manchus are our enemies. He stressed that the Mongols, and the Chinese, are our friends. The Manchus, as a political unit, may be oppressors, but most are simply bureaucratic officials interested in the private pursuits of life. Still, we shall be met at the frontier by an escort of Mongolian lamas, whose religious calling commands the respect of the Manchus. They are monks and priests....."
"Of the Lamaist faith," interjected Romelle, recalling Alexis' story of the night before, "whose founding prophet was born of a flower fertilized by a ruby ray emitted from Heaven....."
She paused. Alexis had not defined the ray as "ruby," but as "red." The word had leapt out of her subconscious into the spoken observation. Behind it came a thought she dared not voice.
The ruby belongs to a goddess, is what Aunt Alix said. I know that goddess to be Tara. It is the eye through which Tara's love shines into the world. Dear God, what is this stone, really? What has come into my hands?
"I assume the lamas will be there," Chavadzy was going on, unmindful of Romelle's sudden pallor. "I wired in code to the Living Buddha to alert them from the Sacred City."
Brad's mouth fell agape. "The Living Buddha? The Sacred City? Chavadzy, what is all that?"
Romelle was equally overwhelmed. The ruby, the eye of a goddess, red rays from Heaven, and now Buddha lives, and a city...Alexis' Golden City? What city? Sacred to whom? Oh, Philo, look down on me. Give me answers!
Noting the confused expression on Romelle's face, Chavadzy leaned back in his chair. "Please forgive me, my friends. I am telling you too much at one time. We have an entire week of luxury before us. Let us relax and prepare for the transfer tonight. From tomorrow, Madame should rest. The Tsaritsa insists on this. Lieutenant, perhaps you and I could have a few chats along the way. I shall tell you many things you need to know, which Madame can hear later."
"I think you're right, Chavadzy," Brad agreed. "She has borne more in this past week than others endure in a lifetime. Come, Romy, we'll take an English biscuit and a cup of tea and then, you're going to nap. Those are the Tsaritsa's orders. 'Tea and biscuits, sleep, more sleep, and biscuits and tea for my Romy, young man, or off with your head!' That's just what she said."
Romelle smiled wanly. "You've got your orders, I guess. Lead me on."
The youngest of the Cossacks, an extremely handsome, dark-eyed man about Brad's age, sprang forward to help her to her feet. His eyes shone with adoration, yet she remained impervious to his worshipful gaze, wearily allowing him to escort her to the tea table and seat her there. He bowed impressively and hurried away to an adjoining car to bring in refreshments.
In Moscow that night, they discovered, as the Tsar had promised, that the Trans-Siberian Express was indeed the apotheosis of luxury.
Reserved for their exclusive use was a carriage with four coupés, each with water closet and bath. Romelle occupied one coupé alone, which converted from a spacious sitting room by day to a cozy bedroom at night. The four Cossacks were assigned the coupés at either end, and Brad shared the remaining one with Chavadzy.
The carriage also featured a drawing room and a smoking room where they could relax outside their coupés. The entire carriage was expensively furnished and lavishly appointed in Louis-Sixteenth, a classic French style with which Romelle felt very much at home. It was agreed that the drawing room was to be given over to her use so she could sketch or simply watch the landscape roll by. The men would use the smoking room for card- playing or conversation.
The Cossacks, who served, in essence, as the Tsar's police, were four in number to accommodate rotating shifts on guard at the entry leading from the coaches behind. This carriage abutted the tender. Ahead was the locomotive. There would be no foot traffic from other passengers on the train, although Romelle's party had access to all facilities.
The first evening aboard, Romelle took dinner in her coupé, which the men quite expected her to do. She continued this practice with all her meals, eating hardly at all. She responded so poorly to Brad's cajoling, that he gave up on the fourth day. He continued to spend most of his time talking with Chavadzy in their coupé.
Still, he often paced past her, peering through the glass with worry written on his face. She would take pity on him, attempt a pleasant look and, sometimes, a wave, but it was painfully apparent that she preferred to be left alone.
Rebel was the sole exception. He spent the hours with her, letting her stroke his chest or his ears. He left her only to take the air at stops along the way, a task for which the handsome Cossack most often volunteered.
The Cossack, whose name was Orlov, made a habit of parading Rebel along the platforms in full view of Romelle, never failing to bow grandly toward her when he first appeared and before boarding again. To his credit, on the fifth day he drew a charming smile from her.
It thrilled him. He lost heavily at cards in the smoking room that night, attentive only to remembrance of what he called, in Russian, "the brightest sun gray Siberia ever saw."
Not until early afternoon of the sixth day, approaching Irkutsk, did Romelle evince any interest in the world. Suddenly, she appeared at the smoking room door.
"I believe we are nearing the 'Paris of Siberia,'" she said. "I feel this is something I should see."
Elated that she had emerged from her self-imposed isolation, Bradley begged her to accompany him to the café car. "It's absolutely grand," he said. "They stock that superb French tea the Empress Eugénie serves at Villa Cyrnos, so fragrant I knew it at once when a waiter carried it by. It's...it's...oh, I can't remember, but I know you will. Ah! I remember. Cassis!"
He had piqued her interest. Mention of Eugénie brought a sense of home.
"Thé aromatisé au cassis," she murmured, "tea flavored with black currants! Yes!"
"And you should see the pastry cart, Romy," he pressed on, realizing he'd made headway.
"Napoleons?" she asked, thinking of Adrienne's elegant homemade pastries in the Place Dauphine. "Did you see a napoleon? Oh, yes, Brad, let's go! I'm starved!"
The café car was a rolling adaptation of the elegant Café de la Paix in the Place de l'Opera. A quartet of musicians played softly from a dais in the middle of the carriage.
"Brad, I feel almost alive again," she related over a cup of her beloved French tea and a creamy napoleon. "I think I know now what it is to die. There is nothing, Brad, nothing to see, nothing to think, nothing to feel. I know time has passed. I know I have rolled along in this train thousands of miles for days on end, but it was as if my soul had floated away and left only the shell of me here. I remember seeing you walk by my window. I wanted to invite you in, but I simply could not. I remember that Cossack with Rebel at the stations, but it was close to a dream. I am not even sure I have gone to bed at night. I must have. The steward comes to change towels and sheets, and to freshen things up every day. I just lift my feet and let him run the sweeper under them without bothering to leave the coupé. May I have another napoleon, please?"
Tears of joy moistened Brad's eyes. "Have this one, Romy. I took two. Have a dozen more. Oh, honey, how happy it makes me to see you eating! If the Tsaritsa were here, I'd ask her to dance! She would accept the offer, too. That's how happy she'd be to see you clean that plate."
"What have you been doing with yourself?" Romelle asked between bites and sips.
"Actually, I've been quite busy, listening a lot to Chavadzy, and playing cards with the Cossacks, teaching them some English," he replied. "Once you get past the arrogance, Chavadzy really isn't a bad sort. Oh, yes, there's a full gymnasium aboard where I've exercise every morning. The library car is magnificent. It's got ceiling frescoes they say are among the finest in the world, and books in every language you can think of. I've been reading up on Mongolia. Romy, it's a fascinating land. There's even a chapel carriage where I have stopped to say a little prayer each day."
"What have you prayed for?" she wanted to know.
"For you, Romy, for your peace of mind. If you can't find peace, that dooms me, too. I'm doomed to wander in darkness behind you forever. When you walk into the sunlight, Romy, I'll be at your heels, like Rebel."
Chavadzy entered the café car and hurried toward them. "We're coming to Irkutsk. Look out the windows, please."
A whiff of excitement wafted through the carriage. Several passengers crowded to one side of the car, whispering and straining to see.
They rounded a bend. A universal sigh of disappointment echoed through the coach.
The night before, a monumental snowstorm had whirled violently southward from the Arctic Circle. It blanketed the 'Paris of Siberia' to the eaves. As if in compensation, the sun shone brightly while the city dug itself out of the snow.
Chavadzy fell heavily into a chair. "I am so sorry. I had hoped Irkutsk would charm you."
"Oh, it does!" cried Romelle. "Regardez! Look, everyone! Look at the sleighs!"
The train had pulled into the station. Through the windows they could hear the merry rhythm of bells jangling from the harnesses of gaily beribboned horses pulling their sleighs to a nearby square. A dozen vehicles discharged brightly costumed passengers of both sexes into the snow.
The handsome Cossack rushed into the café car and went direct to Chavadzy. They whispered. The Cossack turned anxiously toward Romelle.
"Orlov regrets that he speaks only Russian, or he would tell you himself," the Okhrana chief reported. "It appears that we shall be pausing here for several hours while they finish clearing snow from the tracks ahead. He says that a festival of Transbaikal Cossacks, the Cossacks from this region, has just begun in the square. He begs to escort us. I have told him you are not interested in such common things in your present state of mind."
Romelle bristled imperceptibly, her annoyance hidden behind an impassive face. You decide nothing for me!
"To the contrary, Chavadzy, I should be delighted," she pronounced emphatically. "This young man has been kind to Rebel. The least we can do is express our gratitude in a tangible way."
She smiled generously at Orlov, and nodded. The Cossack flushed.
At the festival, Romelle even sampled some of the food served from the stalls, including piping hot borscht, steaming piroshki, and heavily sugared black tea. She took no more than a bite or a sip, passing orts to Rebel, who trotted patiently at her side.
 The brisk dancing and lively music were a tonic of gaiety to her wounded soul. They reminded her that, after all, there was resiliency in youth. The snow underfoot softened the footfalls to a hush, while the crisp, clear air heightened the music in pitch.
Comfortably seated, she watched the dancers partaking headily of life. I am being drawn back into the world. There is much to be lived, much to be done. I should not be so harsh in my judgment of Chavadzy. He has known my father and my mother. It was he who introduced my father to the Tsar. There are many things he can tell me that I must know. I shall begin to listen now, and accord him the respect he is due, as Brad has done. Philo, do I hear your voice in this? Are you telling me to be more like Brad, and like you?
Orlov's shining face smiled at her from beneath his black fur cap. Abruptly, he stripped off his greatcoat and flung it to the ground. His black boots soared as he plunged into the melée of dancers, whirling in his scarlet tunic to the center in a flash of movement and color dizzying to the eye. The others formed a circle, shouting and clapping their hands.
Orlov crouched down, his outstretched arms folded in front of his chest. The baggy trouser legs shot out from under him in alternate kicks as he bounced on his heels with boisterous yells.
After his fellow Coassacks joined him, he sprang to his feet in a final burst of energy, to bow panting before Romelle.
"Ya lyub-lyu," he cried, catapulting into a fiery oration.
When he finished, the crowd shouted.
"May I ask, Doctor Chavadzy, what has just taken place?" queried Romelle.
Taken aback by her noticeable cordiality, the Okhrana chief bowed, smiling warmly. "Orlov has just announced to the world that he loves you, Madame, the Cossacks love you, and Russia loves you, long live the Tsar! I fear our young Cossack has been drinking more than black tea, Madame."
"And so shall I," Romelle said. "Brad, that's not tea in your mug. Give it to me, please."
Dutifully, he handed her his vodka.
She lifted the mug and extended it toward the crowd. "Long live the Tsar!" she declaimed, and drank.
Chavadzy repeated the toast in Russian.
Everyone cheered.
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