When Besson brought his so-called corrected report to uncle Vasilii, his gaze was still sweeping the floor. Hence, he hadn't noticed Father Nikifor until the monk spoke to him. "I'm glad you're here, Besson. I've found the book your miraculous vision brought to my mind."

"Oh."

And speaking of visions... I stirred, but Besson was ahead of me. "Holy Father, I had another vision," he said.

Father Nikifor didn't hide his excitement, so after a grudging nod from his uncle, Besson described the scene we had witnessed in Constantinople.

"Truly marvelous!" Father Nikifor exclaimed.

It was clear by the bite Uncle Vasilii took out of a loaf of coarse, dark bread that he disagreed with the monk. "My nephew is skittish and has fasted—it did his soul good, mind you!—but he's fasted for days. I'm wary of putting trust into his ramblings."

"Hear me out, Prince Shuiskii, I beg you. Not only do I believe that Besson's visions are true, I think this man he sees is notorious." Father Nikifor lowered his voice. "Have you ever heard of the Ghost of Novgorod?"

Uncle Vasilii's ruddy cheeks deepened to the color of brick. The sixteenth century monks probably didn't mention ghosts outside the Holy Trinity. When he spoke, he tested each word like a rock for stability before stepping on it. "The Ghost of Novgorod, you say? Are you talking of a man or a restless spirit?"

"I shall let you judge it for yourself, Prince." Father Nikifor produced a leather-bound folio from the folds of his habit. "This is the chronicle I went to look for in our library because of the Greek cross. Its presence next to Dmitrii, reminded me that Tsar Ivan had sent archdeacon Gennadii to the Greek Church in exile."

"The cross that only Besson had seen."

If uncle Vasilii expected a bracing argument, he was to be sorely disappointed. Father Nikifor's lips twitched into an indulging smile. He wiggled his fingers as if to say, of course, of course you are right, my Prince. "But if it was there, I wondered if someone from this mission brought it to Russia from Egypt. If it, perhaps, held some significance to them... I can even guess what it was."

His low, almost seductive voice invited all three of us to think of the elephant in the room. Laetentur Caeli, the symbol of the unification for the Orthodox splinter with the Catholic churches.

Uncle Vasilii slashed the air with his hand. "The tale of the Embassy is fanciful. I remember how much I loved it as a young man. I wager it didn't lose its appeal to the boys dreaming of adventures."

"Does your nephew strike you as an adventurer?"

How did Father Nikifor stand firm and be evasive at the same time? Well, however he did it, it worked. Uncle Vasilii nodded to concede the point. "Even so, he could have read it and his imagination would have fashioned the cross and the visions to match it," he said.

"Surely, not the Laetentur Caeli accords! And I doubt he's so interested in the ecclesiastical matters as to know of the recent declaration of the orthodox bishops in the Ruthenian lands either."

Uncle Vasilii's cheeks reddened. "That Polish heresy!"

"The timing, my Prince, the timing! Is it so hard to imagine that there are bishops here, who are in favor of entering the jurisdiction of the Holy See in Rome instead of keeping with the captive church in Constantinople?"

Uncle Vasilii lowered his square head and expelled a long, loud sigh. "If so, they had already lost their case. The Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople has raised the see of Moscow to the patriarchy ahead of their little synod."

"What is done by one tsar could be undone by another," Father Nikifor said. Silence thickened after this remark.

A tsar who doesn't have Ivan the Terrible's wild blood, nor his hubris, Besson finished Father Nikifor's thought. Such as merciful Fedor... childless... then, someone of a proven character. Someone elected, like they elect Kings in the foreign lands.

Wait a minute, would the priests murder a kid? It sounded pretty horrible, but if the matter on the line was Russian Eastern Orthodoxy returning to the fold, not measuring proverbial dicks with all the other sects, they had a motive. Plus, Dmitrii was born out of the church-approved union. Did it make him disposable?

Besson's shoulders slumped. I... I don't know.

Uncle Vasilii's body language wasn't as telling as his nephew's, but I felt doubt stirring in him nonetheless. He thought for a long time.

"I doubt you've read about this Ghost of Novgorod in Pozniakov's report about his travels to the Land of Egypt," he said at last. "Have you more evidence, Holy Father?"

Father Nikifor's warm eyes turned even warmer when he brushed the page of his opened book.

"Tsar Ivan was eager to have every book in Moskovia printed as soon as possible, so most people read the printed book. This one is a hand-written copy, kept under lock and key, and it's more complete."

"I see." Uncle Vasilii rubbed his forehead. "So, what do you want me to see?"

"A full list of those who went with Archdeacon."

"I am looking." He leaned over the book. Despite berating Besson, the man knew his letters.

"Here, at the end, there is a novice, Andrei Otrepiev. The young man in your nephew's vision had the same name, Andrei."

My uncle chewed his lips. "Is that all? Andrei is common enough."

Father Nikifor waited out the other man's impatience before extricating more pages from his sleeve. Despite the solemnity of his outfit and face, this gave off a vibe of a stage magician.

"This is a prayer list that was distributed to all the monasteries across Russia after the massacre in Novgorod to pray for the souls of the dead on Tsar Ivan's request."

It was as if a sudden gust of icy wind blew through the guesthouse. Besson shivered.

I didn't have time to decide if Ivan was bipolar or a hypocrite, because Father Nikifor thumbed something in the text. "Here he is again, look!"

When Uncle Vasilii did, Besson also stretched out his neck to peek. It was even easier for me.

I have no idea how the scribe maintained such a firm, legible handwriting when recording something like 'a nameless girl-child'. My subconsciousness turned this line into a dead girl in Andrei's arms.

A nameless girl-child. That's cold. Colder than the river of ice and blood, now reduced to a double column of archaic script.

Maybe, this scribe saw his work as a God-pleasing labor, honoring the dead. Besson crossed himself and I felt a tug of envy. He turned from the dark to light with more ease than I did.

Meanwhile, Uncle Vasilii underlined 'Andrei Otrepiev, a monk in the service to the archbishop' with his nail.

This last name on the page, coasting before my sight for longer than a sound of it did in my hearing, made it harder for me to hide the flicker of recognition from Besson. A man called Otrepiev featured prominently in history that was just around the corner for my sixteenth century friend. And, well, this whole unification with the Catholic church motive... let's just say that glove would fit Otrepiev.

I did my best to keep this to myself, not just because I didn't want to mess with the temporal continuum, but because I felt pity for the poor sucker. He thought that with Ivan's death, the worst was behind him, when even darker days loomed ahead if my textbook didn't lie. Which, of course, wasn't an impossible thing.

"...in service to the archbishop of Novgorod..." Uncle Vasilii scratched his beard.

"Of Novgorod, yes," Father Nikifor echoed.

"Holy Father," uncle Vasilii said, "This only confirms that Besson's vision is a fancy, not a fact, for he's told us that Andrei traveled to Moscow on Genadii's orders, not Novgorod."

"That's true."

"But?" It seemed uncle Vasilii caught onto the monk's deflecting strategies.

A half-smile flickered on Father Nikifor's lips and was gone, making me suspect he was aware of his habit in an argument and it amused him. "But those were troubled times for the Church. Perhaps our Lord in his wisdom would grant another revelation to your nephew and it would explain this contradiction."

"Revelation!" Uncle Vasilii boomed before remembering his audience. He coughed to clear his throat. "Holy Father, this Andrei Otrepiev is twenty years dead. You hold the proof of it in your hands—"

After watching them dance around it for this long, I didn't expect Father Nikifor to interrupt, but he did. "There were whispers of a man who didn't die in the Volkhov River. They promised that by his hand the vilest of the evil-doers would be slain, including the perpetrator of injustice and tyranny. And this man was—"

"The Ghost of Novgorod." Uncle Vasilii glanced around the guesthouse, as if afraid someone might hide in the corners. "Take care when repeating the treasonous talk. Robes of a priest don't always offer protection."

"I only do so out of concern for our saintly Tsar. The Ghost of Novgorod has a grudge against the seed of Rurik and this grudge might have killed an innocent boy!"

"Even if this Andrei isn't dead, he's an old man!"

Both of them realized they were circling one another and shut up so suddenly, the silence rang in my ears.

Besson chewed off a nail from his thumb, but Father Nikifor's conviction that Tsar Fedor was in danger emboldened him. "It was him, Andrei Otrepiev. In... in my vision."

"Enough with the visions and ghosts! Would you have me run to the Tsar with Latin words, missing cross and old wives' tales?" Uncle Vasilii, whose chest still heaved with heavy breaths, slammed his fist into the table. The impact of the blow, the thud, momentarily pinched his features. Then they relaxed, relief clear in his face. He even shut his eyes for a minute. "If sorcery is involved, if a dead man rose to avenge those wrongfully slain, a sinful, weak man such as I is powerless to stop this evil."

It was like a completely different man was speaking, much more reasonable than Uncle Vasilii. "Pray for our souls, Holy Father, pray for our delivery, I beg of you."

"Lord's blessing be on you, Prince, for your goal is goodly," Father Nikifor murmured peaceably, but a speculative glance he flickered at Besson rose goosebumps on the latter's arms.

The visions would continue. If Uncle Vasilii refused to hear of it, it rested on Besson to warn Tsar Fedor.

Something easier said than done, eh?

Besson only sighed in response to my commiseration. Prince Dmitrii's throat gaped at him in his mind's eye. He hadn't known then that the Prince was in danger, so he ran away with the other boys.

You can't save everyone, I argued.

No, I can't. But how would I live if I don't warn the Tsar? How?