We left the airport, weaving through busy streets, passing an array of buildings with onion domes and pillars shaped like Christmas ornaments, tented roofs, majestic churches, and bell towers.

“Wow, everything is so beautiful. I’ve never seen such vivid colors.”

“This part of city is rich in history,” Anatoly said. “It has remained the same for hundreds of years. Unlike Americans we do not destroy our old buildings to make new ones.”

I didn’t know what to say….Was he cutting on me for being an American or simply making a statement? I sat upright. Should I say something? Maybe not, he was my only ride. But still, it burned me.

We pulled up to a towering brick building. It must have been at least twelve stories high. Anatoly parked and we got out and climbed the gold steps inside. The floors were carpeted in a plush red and on the walls were massive impressionist paintings. People of Russia. Men and women working in fields, soldiers marching, fishermen casting their nets.

“You like artwork?” Anatoly asked.

“Yeah, I like to think of myself as a hobby artist. These are really good.”

“They belong to my uncle. He collects art. Come, I take you to him now.”

Anatoly showed me to an elevator that took us to the second floor. We walked to the end of a long hallway filled with more of the same kind of artwork and knocked on the last door.

A male voice answered in Russian. Anatoly opened the door and we entered. A bald man with iron brown eyes and a fringe of gray hair sat behind an imposing granite desk. He studied me with a cold, hard-pinched expression. Then stood, loosened his tie, and nodded in my direction. He turned his attention to Anatoly, speaking to him in low, hushed tones in Russian. I stood there feeling awkward. It made me uncomfortable the way they kept darting glances at me. What were they saying? I was about to say something when the man patted Anatoly’s shoulder. A smile broke out across Anatoly’s face and his eyes danced. It was the first time I saw him smile. But when he turned his attention back to me and his eyes met mine—the smile died. I wondered what his problem was. Did he hate having to drive me around? Or was it something else?

“I will wait outside.” Anatoly walked to the door and closed it quickly behind him.

“Come, sit.” The man motioned to a chair. “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Vodka?” His English, while good, was peppered with a Russian accent.

“No, thanks.”

“As you may know, I am attorney for your parents’ estate. You received letter?”

I nodded.

He slid a sheet of yellowed paper across the desk. “This is deed to house and farm in Okso.”

I picked up the paper and frowned. The deed was written in Russian and the only words I recognized was my name. On the bottom was a map which showed a wide river which ran through the back of the property.

“Look,” I said. “I want you to know—I’m not just here for the real estate. I want to find out about my parents. I want to know who they were. I’ve spent my whole life wondering. No one would tell me anything.” I paused, gathering my thoughts. “I want to know what happened…. Why my father….”

He reached for a file and removed two documents. He slid them across the desk to me. “Your parents’ death certificates.”

I stared at the sheets of crisp white paper, each with formal writing embossed across the top in words I couldn’t understand—hieroglyphics of a terrible past.

“Can you read Russian?”

I shook my head.

He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Your parents died same day. Over fifteen years ago. Your mother from gunshot. Your father drowned.”

“Do you know what happened? I mean, what the circumstances were?”

His gaze slid away from mine. He got up from his desk and turned his back on me while he dropped ice cubes into a glass and poured himself a drink.

He took a sip and sat down. “No one knows for sure. One of villagers found you. Heard your cries. That is all I know.”

“Do you know anything else about them? Personal information. I mean, you were their lawyer, right? You must have known something about them.”

“I knew your mother’s family. They are all dead now. It is her farm and land you are inheriting. Your parents were art historians. Together, they saved precious relics from destruction. Ancient art in churches, precious murals that would have been lost. Your mother was great artist. Her paintings were masterpieces.”

My heart leapt. My mother was an artist like me?

“No one has lived at your mother’s farm for over a decade. Not since the day they died. Now it is yours to do as you like.”

“Anatoly said it’s about 40 kilometers from here? Is that right?”

“Yes. Is in old village. A village nearly abandoned except for three remaining families, descendents of original landowners. They care and watch over village for fee paid by those who still have property there. Anatoly is one of caretakers. He is my nephew. You will stay with my sister’s family. When you are ready, he will take you to your mother’s farm.”

“I was hoping I could stay there—at my parents’ home. Is it livable?”

“As I said. No one has lived there in long time. It isn’t safe to stay. This country is very old. There are things you do not understand.”

He picked up an envelope on his desk and emptied the contents into his hand. “This is key to house. Let me know what you plan to do. It could be sold—but I don’t know anyone who would buy it. People want to live in city for work.” He handed me the key.

“Thank you.” I got up and headed for the door.

“Wait. There is one more thing.” He crossed the room and gave me a small box. Inside rested a silver cross on a heavy chain. I stared at the oddly shaped necklace. It had three cross bars, one on the top, in the middle, and on the bottom. The very same cross Chuck had worn.

“This belonged to your mother. It is Russian Orthodox.” He paused. “She wanted you to have it.”

I stared at the cross cradled in soft cotton, examining every detail.

“Here,” Mr. Kardinovsky said. “You must wear it. Let me help you put it on.” I turned around and lifted my hair as he secured it around my neck. I loved the comforting feel of the cool metal pressed against my skin. At one time, it had rested against my mother’s chest. It was like sharing a heartbeat. I fingered the cross, thinking about Bambi and how she had made religion seem like such a joke. Now I understood how sacred it could be.

My thoughts turned to the farm and house. What would I find there? In my mind, it was a treasure chest of unanswered questions. Secrets locked inside. I needed to see where my life began and where my parents’ lives had ended so tragically. Would there be something left of my parents? Clues? Family pictures? Anything?

Anatoly and I traveled north in silence, leaving the city of Kostroma behind, passing through villages and areas spotted with farms. As we headed deeper into the countryside, the more isolated it became, separated by acres of forest.

Eventually, we turned onto a narrowed road traveling at a steady pace. The scenery transformed into emerald sprays of vegetation and lush forest floor with an occasional meadow or river. I could see why my mother chose to live here—a painter’s paradise for landscapes. But I couldn’t imagine being here in the winter. It seemed so remote. I was used to the streets of Seattle with a store on every corner. My stomach twisted. I thought about how dark it must be at night in the woods. Wolves and other forest creatures lurking behind every tree.

“So no one wanted to stay?” I asked. “Not even the farmers?”

“Lots of villages in Russia are abandoned. People go to city. Earn more money. Live better. Work less.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“People come back and check on house and land. Some farms have been in same family many years. No one stays long.”

“Why did you stay?”

“My father is from here. I was raised here. It is home. I do not mind drive to city.”

“It must be a big job watching over an entire village.”

“Not bad. People pay us well. There are three of us. We share work.”

We ducked into a wide clearing dotted with wooden houses with intricately carved eaves and window shutters. Some were very large and rambling, old elaborate wooden mansions, others were small with picket fences. Storefronts and ornate churches once grand and lavish now crumbed around the edges.

Anatoly turned right and we headed down a grassy drive and to a farmhouse or Dacha as they called it in Russian. I had read a lot about these country houses with their ornately carved windows. I studied the house, my gaze traveling over the fancy framework. The home had been well taken care of with a fresh coat of pretty blue paint and whitewashed steps that led to a cozy porch with swings.

Anatoly pulled into the driveway. “We stop here first, then we go to your parents' house.”

“How far is it from here?”

“It is five miles through forest. Road is rough.”

I got out of the car and stretched. The front door of the house swung open and a couple came out, a guy and girl about my age. The guy’s hair was so blond it was nearly platinum. He smiled with teasing blue eyes that turned up at the corners. The girl held his hand. Her hair was the color of dark mocha captured in a French knot at the nape of her neck. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. A classic beauty with lips a shade of red that perfectly set off her flawless skin tone.

She pulled her hand from the guy and raced down the steps to greet me. She was light on her feet, almost like a ballerina. “You must be Natasha,” she said. “Nice to make your acquaintance. I’m Mila.” Her speech was perfect, formal, weirdly old fashioned.

“Um, nice to meet you.” I shook her hand. Her skin was warm, her face friendly.

She laughed. “Sorry if I’ve overdone it a bit. People here are always taken aback by my accent. I grew up with a very stuffy family. My Mother comes from royalty—or so she claims. She sent me to school most of my life in England. Enough about me, though. Anatoly told us you were coming. Said you inherited your mother’s farm? How wonderful that you are home again!”

I nodded, not quite sure what to say. She touched my shoulder. “If you need any help—decorating or whatever—let me know.” She flashed a perfect white smile.

“Thanks.” There was something familiar about her. She reminded me of someone I couldn’t place. Someone I knew well—but who?

Anatoly grabbed my backpack from the car. “Would you like me to put bag inside for you?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’d rather keep it with me.”

The blond guy on the porch came to my side and bowed low in front of me. Mila looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “This is Nickoli, my boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you.” I said.

He reached out and took my hand in his, bowed low, and kissed it. I turned a million shades of red. His eyes danced. “It is pleasure.”

Mila laughed. “You have to ignore him, he loves to tease. Drives me crazy sometimes, but I guess I’ll keep him.”

Nickoli grinned and winked at her.

Anatoly disappeared into the house and returned carrying a flashlight. “We go now. It is almost dark.”

“Do you mind if we come?” Mila asked.

Anatoly glanced at me. “It is up to Natasha. Maybe she wants to go alone.”

“No, it’s cool,” I said. I didn’t really want a crowd, but maybe it would help to break the uncomfortable silence I shared with Anatoly. I wondered if he ever smiled. Ever joked around or laughed. He was so serious it was unnerving.

We drove down a narrow road overgrown with grass until we came to a wide graveled section. We had traveled for about four miles up a hill overlooking the village when a church came into view on the right. Four different-sized onion domes rose into the sky, topped off with golden crosses glinting in the sun. It looked like an Easter egg dipped in gold foil.

“Wow, what a beautiful old church. What denomination is it?”

“It is ancient sect, built hundreds of years ago. It is treasure of village.”

A few minutes later, Anatoly idled the car to a stop at a massive wooden gate. He switched off the engine. We all sat in silence for a few moments while I stared through the windshield at tall peeling letters painted across the boards in red.

“What does that say?”

Mila leaned forward from the backseat. “Novikoff farm, bless all who enter.”

We climbed out of the car and walked to the gate as the gravel crunched beneath our shoes. Anatoly pushed open the gate and slid a large rock against it to keep it open.

Nickoli took Mila’s arm, pulled her aside, and spoke very fast in Russian. All the light and laughter had left his eyes. He was frowning as he studied the landscape. His gaze swept over me, he took a step forward and opened his mouth like he wanted to tell me something, then quickly he looked away. There was a strange, nervous unease about him.

Mila latched onto his arm, whispering in his ear. He nodded, his shoulders relaxing. I swallowed hard. What was going on here?

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

Mila came to my side. “You need…to be careful,” she said.

I stared at her, searching her face for answers. “What do you mean?”

Mila’s eyes looked strange, faraway. “I mean with old houses. You need to be careful, the floors might not be stable—accidents happen.”

I wrapped my hands in front of my chest and rubbed my arms, feeling suddenly cold. I shook the feeling off. I didn’t care what condition the house was in, I couldn’t wait to see it. Explore it. It was a puzzle piece to my past that sat like an ancient tomb in my mind. Holding secrets I needed answered. There had to be something in the house that would tell me more about my parents, clues about my past. Maybe if I found the answers, the dreams would stop and I’d be able to sleep at night.

We hiked up the overgrown driveway just as dusk swept over the land. To my right, I spotted a barn with a peaked roof and decorative bell towers at each end. It looked sad. Lonesome. Like it had been waiting all this time for someone to return. The barn appeared old, maybe even ancient, built with an artistic eye. It was made of solid wood with dovetailing in the interlocking pieces of logs and intricate scroll work around the windows. For a moment I thought I saw people standing inside, staring out at us—but it was just a distorted reflection from the fading sun in the warped panes of glass.

The road pitched upward and we continued hiking until we reached the brow of the hill. A stock truck and a red compact car with a faded pink bumper sticker were parked to one side. Eyeing the car, I swallowed hard. It must have been my mother's. I tried the driver’s side door but it was locked. I wiped the dirt from a window and peered inside. Blank canvasses and an art easel cluttered the seat.

Clouds gathered overhead. “Come, while we still have light,” Anatoly said.

We climbed a hilly trail and a few minutes later we stopped before a tall, wide house that rose before us into the night, painted a peeling dingy brown. Shutterless windows stared down at us shining here and there in the emerging moonlight. There were weather streaks in the walls and it needed a coat of paint, but overall the house looked stable.

I stopped, clutching the key in my hand so tight it pinched into my skin. A cold, creeping uneasiness slid down my neck. There was nothing in the external appearance of the house to bear out the tales of horror I had seen, relived in my nightmares. The house looked similar to others in the village. The same wood construction, same wide steps leading up to the heavy black front door. The same width and angle of the eaves and fancy window frames and yet this house that seemed precisely similar to all the others was entirely different—horribly different.

My mother had taken her last breath here.