Every evening, Princess Ostrepova locked up the cafe carefully; one could never be too careful. First the Yale lock at the top, afterwards the mortice, and finally the cast-iron Wilka she had imported specially from Germany.
She hated carrying all these keys, hated locking up. In the old days, Lubyev, her father’s butler, would do it all for the family, his nightly ritual going round the palace.
As a young girl she remembered following him around one evening. He had two immensely polished bunches of keys; each sparkled in the candlelight as he took them out of his pocket.
‘This bunch is for the house, Little Princess.’
The keys were big and battered and worn. They rang against each other as he searched through them, looking for the right one. Such a wonderful sound, like the music her piano teacher insisted she play.
Lubyev always treated her with kindness. Even when he was busy preparing for the arrival of guests or the Easter feast, he always had time to explain what he was doing and ask her opinion.
‘See, Little Princess, it’s this one.’ He held out a long silver key with a cross at one end and inserted it in the lock. With two turns and a push, the door swung open, creaking on its hinges. ‘I never oil this door, Little Princess, in case anyone breaks in. I can always hear it being opened.’
A soft glow issued from the room, wavering in the breeze from the door.
‘You must never come in here, Little Princess, it’s not a good place for little girls.’
He pushed her away gently, forcing her back across the threshold, closing the door behind him.
Of course, his words were like finding a painted egg at Easter for her: a challenge not to be ignored. One day, when he was serving tea to her mother and Princess Orlov on the lawn, she stole the keys from his desk. They were heavy, so heavy.
She found the one she wanted, the long silver one with the cross at the end, and inserted it in the lock. She tried to turn it but it wouldn’t move.
It was the right key. She was sure it was the right key.
She twisted harder, forcing it with all her might.
With a loud click, it turned once and stopped. She massaged her fingers and took hold of the cross again, twisting it once more. For a second it stuck at the top, before clicking over into place.
She pushed against the door. It opened with a loud squeal from the hinges.
The same flickering light as before glowed inside the room. She took one step across the threshold, leaning forward, craning her neck.
It was dark and brown inside. The room smelt of burnt candles, thousands of burnt candles whose wax had dripped and flowed for years.
As her eyes adjusted to the flickering brown light, she saw the room was small, not more than twelve feet square. Covering all of the walls were icons of Mary and Jesus and the lamb. In front of each icon, a small stained-glass bowl held the flickering light.
She took a step inside. Opposite the door, a large table covered in a white cloth and three more candles in gold holders dominated one wall. But these candles were new and unlit and unloved.
Above the table were three panels of a picture. In the centre, Christ on his cross, ribs leeching out of his chest, blood pouring from the wound in his side, the Crown of Thorns stabbing into his forehead. And then she saw the face. She had never seen such pain on a face before. The pain of every sin in the world etched into every line and every pore.
A face of suffering and agony.
Hands gripped her shoulders.
‘I told you never to come in here, Princess.’ She was spun round to see the angry eyes of Lubyev staring at her. Lubyev, who had always been so kind, so friendly. ‘Now get out, before I tell your mother.’
He shoved her out of the room. How dare he treat her like a common servant? The door slammed behind her, trembling on its hinges.
A few moments later, Lubyev came out, locking the door behind him. ‘You must never go in there again, Little Princess.’ His voice was softer now. ‘Promise me?’
She nodded.
Of course, she broke her promise many times. The Icon Room became her place of refuge, away from the madding crowds of her relatives and the maddening demands of her mother.
Lubyev was killed in the Revolution, of course. She heard he died defending the Icon Room when a mob of her father’s peasants broke in to smash the pictures on the walls.
Stupid Lubyev. They were only pictures.
And stupid her. Because rather than luxuriating in the balls and glitter and gold of Russia, she was here in a city on the other side of the world, running her cafe, looking after her girls, selling her opium, making her money.
How the gods played jokes on mere mortals.
A hand appeared on her shoulder. For a moment she thought it was Lubyev, about to scold her again for going into the Icon Room.
Instead, she heard a voice speaking English, such an ugly language.
‘It’s your time, Princess.’
Lubyev didn’t speak those words. He would never be so cruel. She snapped out of her dream, turning to face the person who had spoken. But another hand encircled her mouth. This hand had a wet pad on it.
No.
No.
No.
Lubyev, save me.
Lubyev, please save me.
And then it went dark.
The candles no longer flickered in their stained-glass holders.