BACK IN THEIR HOTEL ROOM, ONCE NICOLE WAS asleep, Val lay on her bed writing in her notebook about all she had seen and heard during the day. She was upset that Stepan had turned so hostile when he found out who her father was, but guessed that he felt a strong sense of loyalty to the erstwhile royal family. She was still reeling at the news that her father had been one of the Romanovs’ killers at the age of just nineteen. No wonder her mother found him crying in a park. And no wonder he became such an angry, bitter man in his later years.
There were two single beds in the room and Nicole was tucked up on a folding camp bed. It didn’t look particularly comfortable but she had always been able to sleep anywhere.
Bill came out of the bathroom, a speck of toothpaste in the corner of his mouth. “What were you and the curator talking about today?” he asked. “You were in his office for ages.”
“First he showed me how the Fabergé box worked.” Val had demonstrated it over their meal in the hotel dining room and Nicole had been enchanted, begging to be allowed to take it to school to show her friends when they got home. “And then we chatted about the Romanovs,” she continued. “He was surprisingly open about them, saying that if one or more had survived they would probably lie low, even after all this time, because of the assassination risk.”
Bill gestured urgently toward the light bulb on the ceiling and she remembered he had told her hotel rooms were often bugged. He beckoned for her to follow him into the bathroom, where he turned the taps on full.
“I warned you not to mention the Romanovs,” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the noise of gushing water.
“Don’t worry. He was very frank and I knew I could trust him.” She was surprised by the horrified expression on Bill’s face.
“Did you tell him about us going to Sverdlovsk?”
“No, but I gave him the photographs from my father’s camera.” Bill gasped and shook his head. She couldn’t understand why he was reacting so strongly. “I don’t see any harm in it. I’ve already sent copies to your colleague in New York, so it seemed natural to give them to Stepan. He’s going to show them to a Romanov expert here.”
“What else did you tell him?” His tone was curt.
“I haven’t done anything wrong, Bill. In fact, I had some pretty shattering news and I was hoping for your sympathy.” He didn’t say anything, so Val continued. “He told me that Anatoly Bolotov was one of the men who killed the Romanovs. Seemingly Yurovsky left a testimony naming him.” There was no response, so she stretched out her arms to give him a hug, saying, “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
“You just didn’t think,” Bill snapped, pulling away. “You don’t know this country, but I thought you would respect that I knew what I was talking about when I warned you not to bring those photographs and not to discuss the Romanovs. Did you think I was saying it for fun?”
“No, but I—”
“You didn’t give a single thought to how your revelations might affect my parents. My father will be in a whole heap of trouble if it emerges that he bought us train tickets to a closed city. They’ve spent their life savings moving here, and because of you they could be arrested, lose their apartment, even go to jail.”
“No! Surely not!” Val blushed crimson. “How would anyone find out?”
“Once your curator reports us, inquiries will be made and any investigation will mean Mom and Dad being hauled in for questioning.”
“Honestly, I’m sure Stepan won’t report us,” Val insisted. “He wasn’t like that.”
“And you reckon you’re such a good judge of character, do you? Is that why you married a man who broke your wrist?”
Val was shocked. She had never seen this side of Bill before. Where was all his anger coming from? “That’s a bit low,” she remarked.
“But true. Now tell me exactly what was said. I need to decide whether I have to warn Mom and Dad.” He was running his fingers through his hair, looking incredibly stressed.
Val relayed the conversation as best she could, and Bill kept shaking his head. When she had finished, he asked, “How could you be such an idiot?”
“If it was such a big deal,” she protested, “why did you let your father buy us the tickets?”
“Because I knew how much it meant to you.”
He looked miserable, and Val decided the only thing for it was a full apology. “You’re right. It was thoughtless of me to talk to the curator. If there’s anything I can do to make things better, just say.”
She wished he would give her a hug at least, even if he couldn’t forgive her straightaway. Instead he mumbled, “I’m going to bed. We’ll see if the guide mentions anything in the morning. That would be a sure sign it’s been reported.”
There was no goodnight kiss, no invitation to join him in his single bed for some silent lovemaking. Val lay in her own bed feeling bereft. It was the first time they’d argued and she hated the way he had withdrawn from her.
What he’d said in the bathroom was true. She was a poor judge of character. How could she ever hope to have a healthy relationship?
Her misery deepened as she lay awake listening to his regular breathing. She had fallen in love with this man and couldn’t bear to lose him. If only there was something she could do to make things better; but for the life of her she couldn’t think what.