With Uncle Vasilii and Matvei looking expectantly at him, in complete silence, Besson had no choice but to resume his tale.

People crowded into the courtyard. Besson hadn't seen a gathering this large since he'd left Moscow. At first, men and women mostly kept their distance from Dmitrii's body and milled, shocked by what they saw.

Besson was hardly different. The bloody scene burned on his cornea. A dark place was what he needed, a cellar or a well, to shut down his troublesome eyesight for a while and come to his senses, to think. When he rubbed his eyes, pressing down, in hopes to displace the vision, it surprised him to see that hot moisture dripping out was tears, not blood.

He stumbled half-blind, even though some of the gathered servants pushed him back. Then, someone shoved him instead of pushing.

Osip, who tried to go to his mother, cried out, as rough arms grabbed him to keep him in place. Besson stifled a cry: confusion was turning to anger, and he was too afraid to attract attention to himself. Bitiagovskii was braver. He yelled, "Unhand him! He's not a murderer!"

Then Maria Nagaya's keening pierced the air. Shouts echoed, rising like the storm. The loudest echo came from a bell that tolled from the nearby belfry. It tolled like it would for a Tatar raid. Rise, citizens, rise! Trouble at the gates!

The other bell joined in, further down, then so many more picked up the thrilling, ancient beat, it was impossible to tell which bell rang from what church. Birds sprung into the sky in their multitudes and zigzagged through it, alone and in flocks, terrified out of their tiny brains. The shouts in the courtyard weaved into one non-stop howl.

To Besson's right, a scuffle broke out. Huge Bitiagovskii pummeled the guards, crushing his way toward the gates of kremlin, screaming, "Let us go! We're innocent!" Osip yelled that an unholy spirit killed Dmitrii over Bitiagovskii's bass again and again until his high-pitched cries edged with hoarseness.

If Besson fought through the throng to Bitiagovskii and Osip, if they held together, maybe they could have protected one another until someone listened to their tale. But Besson's gut pushed him in another direction. As a page at Moscow's court, he had seen how cruel men can be in a moment of anger.

I didn't call him a coward or anything, but Besson's memories flooded me, one more grotesque than the next.

Flailed men, wriggling on the spikes like red worms on fishing hooks; bleeding breasts of the wives force-fed to husbands until they choked; and the dogs... there always were snarling dogs, savoring human flesh. Self-righteous laughter howled and barked with the dogs.

This was Ivan the Terrible's justice, and Ivan had died seven years ago, and Besson was currently eighteen... This math made me gag. Enough! I snapped at him, missing the body parts to clench.

Besson shrunk into himself.

Sorry! I wasn't angry with him. I even agreed with him. The town while a child-prince lay dead, the bells were tolling; and the mother wept over the body wouldn't have justice on the forefront of their minds. I felt pissed because I maxed out on being helpless to do anything about everything. It sucked.

Not on the forefront of their minds... Besson smiled wanly at me. Aye, you said it right.

"Murderer! The hellion killed my son!" Maria shrieked.

Besson couldn't see who she was pointing at, but it wasn't him, because the chests, shoulders and elbows, previously in his way, turned a little. Mindlessly, he nudged his way through, barely even realizing that the aggression turned on Osip and Bitiagovskii, until Osip screamed. Besson glanced.

Through the half-transparent vision of Dmitrii's dead face, he saw Osip without a hat, blood darkening his curly hair. Osip breached the crowd, as if he grew a meter taller, then got yanked under, hidden behind rippling backs and pumping elbows. His hoarse screams died down.

Besson ran, whining like a mutt, nuzzling into gaps between the assorted storage buildings that plastered the kremlin's east wall. It was near where they had looked for Osip's witch... Osip was dead.

The guards thundered by Besson toward the courtyard, to look at their dead prince and shake their fists in impotent rage. Their backwater laxity saved him. In Moscow, every hound knew to keep his nose to the ground, no matter how many wild geese flew overhead. But even in Uglich, Besson's luck wouldn't hold for long. He trembled after every close call... he had to hide.

Alas, where the guards had failed, the smiths succeeded. As the toll of the bells rattled teeth in Besson's mouth, his shaking hands rattled the metal pretzels of the padlocks—in vain. His fingers trembled so badly, they no longer did what he expected of them. When he caught a black stripe in his peripheral vision, his first thought was that it was the encroaching darkness of a swoon. Far from it!

It was his salvation.

The black was a wider crack between the door and its frame. There was no lock on the bracket. Besson didn't have time to ponder why he had missed it earlier. He dashed to the door and pulled on its rag-wrapped handle. As heavy as the door was, it opened without a screech. A musty smell of a crypt hit him.

He hesitated by the threshold, then cursed himself for being a fool. Crypt! This pantry had a cellar. He wanted to rest his eyes in a cellar. At any moment, an alert guard could show up. Besson hesitated no more, but slid right in, pulling the door almost shut behind his back.

It was completely quiet inside and the crack didn't let in much light, but Besson never needed much light. There was someone inside already.

"Please," he whispered to the washerwoman who crouched between the shelves of preserves, cradling a basket full of laundry.

She lifted a glance of her black eyes from the floor to study him—he barely suppressed a cry.

I can see why. She is...

Aye, Besson agreed, she resembles that woman in Novgorod a little.

A little? And you call yourself a tetrachromat? He didn't, but I was in the mood. How about a spitting image?

It's not her. She's too young.

He was right. The girl was our age, maybe even younger. I also noticed that Besson didn't mention her youth or good looks to his uncle and Matvei. He just said there was something odd about her. Interesting...

Maybe Besson thought something was off, because she didn't ask what he needed. Maybe it was because when he opened the door, light briefly dressed her into a glittering robe in the darkness of the windowless shed. The effect was similar to an icon's precious casing and disappeared so fast, Besson didn't mention it either.

Behind the girl, a hatch led down to the cellar.

He edged around her toward the hatch, but she pushed her basket under his feet. It was full of dirty laundry, loosely covered up by a brown head-shawl. The girl mumbled like a mute, rooted through the contents, throwing the garments at Besson—a shawl, a dress, and another shawl—all made of rough, undyed wool or cloth.

Besson ignored the clothes, lifted the hatch and peered down the cellar. Alas, like the pantry, the cold room downstairs was chock-full of tinctures, pickles and preserves to keep the Nagoy family through the barren days of winter. He sighed. His choices were stark: risk going outside again and look for a better hiding place, or follow the girl's impromptu plan.

He glanced at the clothes strewn on the floor, sighed again and started peeling his fancy boots off. "Th-thank you, my good woman," he whispered.

The girl giggled behind her hand, turning her face away from him. No wonder! He sounded like some knight errant from the sagas, while he was about to drop his boots into a vat with pickles. Heat crept into his cheeks.

Or, maybe, she was averting her gaze in anticipation of him undressing further and sending the rest of his clothes into the marinade.

If so, her precautions were in vain. Besson pulled wenches' clothes right over his shirt and breeches. It was probably a better fit anyway, given how slim he was. His new attire stunk of mold and was so ratty, that Besson reconsidered his savior's business. The girl was likely collecting servants' cast-offs for the town's poor, not doing the palace laundry.

He forgot he resolved not to speak to the girl any more. "Whose—"

The girl pressed a finger to his lips. A mischievous smile made her eyes twinkle, put dimples in her cheeks... made him forget dirt that smeared them. Her skin didn't smell unwashed either. She smelled more like a gardener, of clover and sunshine, and... it wasn't important.

Besson surrendered to the girl's deft fingers, as she completed his transformation.

I bet it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Besson shot me a dirty look, or the closest substitute one can do through a telepathic connection.

Hey, don't shoot the messenger.

He was too downcast to call me a demon, plus the gap in his narrative to Uncle Vasilii and Matvei stretched out long enough. Do go on, I sniggered.

The girl tugged at the breast of Besson's new dress, making him lean forward, so she could throw the shawl over his head. It didn't just hide his short hair; it covered his forehead and cheeks, even a part of his chin thanks to a huge knot. She put the second shawl over Besson's upper body, criss-crossed it at his back, then tied around the waist. This was the fashion for those who didn't have fur-trimmed vests.

The dress-up took only a few moments, but the girl wasn't done. She turned Besson around on one spot like a top, clicked her tongue and stuffed another rag into the shawl at his chest level.

She must have been mocking poor Besson, because that bump didn't help his disguise. Even Barbie would look shapeless packed up like that, which probably was the whole point. Being accused of tempting men was not a compliment in the sixteenth century.

The girl looked around her. "Let's see if there're any beets. We sure can use some."

"Beets?" Besson gaped at the shelves. "There are no beets. But why?"

She giggled again. "To rouge your cheeks, silly!"

"Please, stop tormenting me. I'm already dressed like a godless skomorokh; just need a goat-head and a dancing bear—and I'm ready to cavort in the streets..." tears stung his eyes again. He had no idea if he felt more grateful or ashamed at this point.

"Why, I'd love to see you dance with a bear!" the girl teased. Her eyes glittered in the almost-darkness like beads.

I'm afraid, I shared in the girl's amusement—Besson's constipated look was hilarious, if pitiful.

When she stopped mid-chuckle, it wasn't because she felt sorry for him, though.

Running footfalls came out of nowhere and thundered closer and closer. It sounded like at least a dozen men were coming their way. Doors rattled, as they tried the locks, the way Besson had done earlier. They also kicked a few, judging by crushing blows.

"Keep quiet," the girl commanded, as if Besson was singing opera.

He froze, terrified out of his wits. The girl wasn't satisfied. She pulled on his...

"Lord forgive me," Besson said three times, crossing himself after each repetition.

The girl pulled on his skirts.

Startled out of his stupor, Besson knelt next to the girl. She patted down her messed-up basket, then glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Saintly Mother of God!" she hissed and slapped his back with a firm hand. "Cower before the men, or you'll condemn us both."

Besson knelt and bent his neck, just in the nick of time.

The door flung open. Two guards squeezed inside, the rest congregated on the outside of the pantry, blocking the exit. Despite their sturdy shapes, the light blinded Besson.

Chills crawled down his spine. What was he thinking? He spent the last four years kicking around kremlin, so some stupid shawl stinking of rotten cabbage would not save him. They would rip his pitiful disguise off, pluck him out of it like a snail from its shell. They would condemn him as a cross-dresser, as well as a murderer. Any moment now—

"Pray tell, brave soldier..." the girl folded her arms into a humble and pleading gesture. "What evil is afoot in Uglich? My sister and I had been hiding here since the bells tolled."

Sisters? Please... The pair looked nothing alike, except their clothes. But the soldiers didn't look too closely.

"Our young prince had been viciously murdered," the guard said solemnly. "We're searching for one of his killers."

"Lord have mercy on us!" the girl exclaimed.

Besson crossed himself and lowered his face in imitation of her. He struggled to breathe.

"Have you seen a youth about eighteen years of age?" the guard asked. "The villain is scrawny; clean-shaven; sandy hair; eyes set close, green or gray; rather prominent ears."

Besson whimpered, pressing his face into his knees. She didn't know him from a horned toad! Her earlier compassion was for a fellow servant in trouble. She would surrender a murderer to the authorities! A murderer of a prince! Of a child! She had no way of knowing that Besson was innocent, and he couldn't defend himself.

"We saw nobody like that, brave soldier. We were picking laundry, and that's all. Forgive our stupidity!" the girl said.

Had his ears cheated him? Besson's tongue was too numb again to echo his 'sister'. This time it wasn't from fear. He was dumbfounded, because the girl protected him after she knew what he stood accused of.

If the guards unmasked Besson, Maria would torture and kill the girl as his cohort. Though, the Tsarina could swat the poor creature like a fly, even if she gave Besson up. She was harkening for blood. Ten, twenty, thousand-fold times more blood than had spurted out of Dmitrii's throat. She would make the Volga run red with it, if it was in her power.

Like the Volkhov in Novgorod. I shivered. Once you see a river run red with blood for real, it stops being a figure of speech.

The guards poked through the basket with the ends of their muskets, but with little zeal.

Then the commander tilted his head at the hatch. "Search the cellar."

The guard descended the ladder, disappearing from Besson's view step by step. A dull screech and a splashing sound came from below—he was pushing the vats with the pickles around.

Besson's heart barely slowed down, before it raced twice as hard as when he was running for his life—because two lives hang in balance this time, his and the girl's.

The spot between his shoulder blades itched so badly from pooling sweat, tears welled up from holding back on scratching it. If the guards found the boots, they were bound to take a better look at the barefooted girls. He curled his toes, trying to hide how large his feet were next to his 'sister's.

The guard's head and shoulders popped above the floor level. "Unless the rascal shapeshifted into a chanterelle, he's not in there."

"Let's move!" his officer shouted.

Besson and the girl climbed to their feet. On the way out, the guard brushed past Besson the way men brush past the serving wenches and slapped his rear. "Run along, vixen, don't distract busy men."

Besson didn't share this last tidbit with his uncle and Matvei. He told them that the guards left, and he collapsed face first into the dusty rushes on the floorboards. They stunk worse than he did in his dress, and he had no strength to lift his head up as the minutes dragged on. Lord saved him on the wild nights of Ivan's orgies, making men thirstier for the mead in the pitchers he carried rather than the cupbearer. He prayed and escaped, night after night, and only saw others martyred for their innocence... to be debased now.

The bells tolled for so long on that day in Uglich, that his ears rang even when there was silence. When the world finally stopped spinning, the girl with her basket was gone. Only the shawls she wounded around Besson testified that he didn't invent her. That it all had happened.

After freaking out a dozen times and fortifying his resolve with vicious self-insults, Besson rolled his sleeves up and retrieved his lightly pickled boots. He wiped the boots on his shawl—which changed the way he smelled for the better—stuffed them in the breast of his dress, crept out of the shed and out of the kremlin.

He needed a hiding hole to lie low till dusk. Though clean-shaven, in the bright light, the fluff on his upper lip or the width of his brow could betray him. He sneaked from shadow to shadow, crouching to disguise his height, until he wound his way into the streets not gripped with the fever of manhunt. There, he crawled under a leaning fence, into a thicket of stinging nettles and practiced pitching his voice higher.

It came out so phony; he settled on whispering. "I'm a shy wench," he breathed out. The girl from before would laugh at him. When he imagined her laughing, he shook with neurotic laughter as well. A godless skomorokh at a village fair, that was what he was, and he couldn't imagine anything more shameful.

At dusk, he pawned 'his brother's' boots to a boatman to cross the Volga and threw himself at the mercy of the monks at the Resurrection Monastery. He was finally safe, but it felt like a month had passed since Dmitrii's death, when it was only one day.