

69 Keeney Avenue

By Coolidge Templeton

Copyright 2011 Coolidge Templeton

Smashwords Edition

# CHAPTER ONE

I could feel the coldness of the house as I slowly advanced across the front lawn. It was smaller than I had imagined it would be, a chocolate-brown cape with forbidding shutters protecting its claustrophobic windows. There was a small flower garden to my left, its tiny rose buds bravely fighting for life in the chilly spring air. A shadow, cast from the pointy-shaped building enveloped the bloom in darkness. A shiver ran up and down my spine, but I only hesitated a moment before approaching the creepy house.

"Do you like the flower garden?" a young girl's voice startled me. I hadn't noticed her before. She stood next to the hunter-green bushes, picking petals from a daisy. Her skin was pale, almost as milky-white as her sweater. I had never seen a dress like the one she was wearing, save for old grainy black and white films. Her hair was blonde, almost ivory in its lightness.

"The soil reminds me of Chernozum," I replied.

"Cher... what is that?" she inquired. She wore a puzzled expression on her pale features.

"It is black soil, like tar of earth," I replied. "It is very common in Ukraine, near my native Russia."

"Oh, you must be that new Russian girl who is supposed to cook for the brothers Pavlovich," she said excitedly, her eyes brightening as she smiled. What is your name, Miss...?"

"Godunov. Sonia Godunov is being name," I introduced myself by sticking out my hand with a straight arm to shake her own. She shook it limply, using the tips of her tiny fingers. "And you are being...?"

"Oh, I'm Becky," she replied quietly. "I'm not supposed to be over here. My mommy thinks there is something odd about this place," she laughed suddenly. "But I don't care! I come to protect the roses. They used to be something in the days of old lady Pavlovich, but it seems like these brothers can't be bothered."

Becky appeared to be about eight years old. She confounded me, seemingly shy one minute, outgoing the next. She wordlessly plucked the remaining petals from the stem, and then carelessly threw it into the dark bush.

"I am staying here at 69 Keeney Avenue. You are always welcome to come and have cookies with me," I smiled warmly.

She returned my smile, but her eyes weren't smiling. They were sad; something about them reminded me of my older brother Sasha, who had died in the Chechnya War.

I looked up at the front porch. It was no bigger than an old-fashioned telephone booth. It was enclosed, with small glass panes on the rectangular wooden doors. I wondered if its doors were locked. The wind howled as it shook the feeble walls of the porch. I turned back to say goodbye to Becky; she was gone. She seemed to have vanished into the morning mist. Doubtless, she was a next-door neighbor who had found 69 Keeney Avenue to be something more interesting than her own home. I felt certain that I would meet this mysterious girl again.

I was about to reach for the porch door when it abruptly swung open; an angry, red-faced woman greeted me with a sneer. Her hair was blondish-gray, her eyeglasses old fashioned with oval lenses. Her large frame filled the doorway, giving her the appearance of some ogre from a Grimm's fairy tale.

"What do you want?" she demanded, her voice having a trace of a European accent. "Are you another one of Jehovah's Witnesses, looking to save our souls? Well, forget it! We're past saving," she said sarcastically as she sized me up with a challenging stare. "Or maybe you're selling face cream. Are you insinuating that I have wrinkles?"

As she smiled, her face seemed to wear a thousand wrinkles. I couldn't say for sure, but the woman seemed to be about sixty years old. I was too intimidated to speak, yet too embarrassed not to at least try to communicate. I stammered, "I...I'm Sonia. I'm new cook from Russia, please," I managed to say.

Now the large woman looked positively enraged. "So, now I see. You are peasant girl that Nicholas found in the back of a cheap magazine. Yes...now I see who is replacing me," she said, more in sadness than in anger, though I still didn't care for her stare. "My cooking was fine for last twenty years, but now comes the upgrade. Out with old, in with new," she remarked.

I felt embarrassed as I stood there, bearing the brunt of her fury and frustration. I began to pull on my earlobe. I don't know why I do this, but my brother Sasha used to kid me about it, back home in Russia. He joked that one day one of my ears would drag on the ground, and that I would then learn all the gossip in the village.

"Well, don't just stand there girl, come in, come in," the tall woman abruptly said, as she opened the door wider. I slid past her with some hesitation. The porch had a dank, musty odor, like an old shed. There were old, unused tennis rackets leaning up against decaying baseball gloves. A small, black mailbox rested on the wall to the immediate right of the front entrance. Thin flakes of brown paint fell to the floor as I brushed my arm against the wall. The heat was incredible; I was soaked with sweat in a matter of seconds. And there was no welcome mat on the cold, stone floor.

The large woman pushed the front door open. It creaked at its hinges, as if it hadn't been oiled in years. Immediately, the sound of a loud barking dog rang in my ears. I looked around the room. There was no sign of a living animal here. There was a small fireplace located in the center of the room, with black stones forming a frame around the hearth. A pair of black iron dogs held the short-cut logs that fed a smoldering fire. A long white wooden shelf crowned the top of the fireplace. Various old books rested upon it; they were held in place by two black wooden book marks shaped like dogs.

But what caught my attention were the bells. These were no ordinary knick-knacks; they lay upon the mantle like an army marching into battle. They were all sorts of shapes and styles: some traditional, others more unique. I had never had any kind of fascination for bells, but somehow these were different. Something strange and hypnotic called out to me, imploring me to ring every one.

My host turned to me and smiled. "So, you are liking living room? It is furnished rudely, and I am ruder still for not introducing self," she said with a half-grin. "I am Harriet Blom," she stated as she stiffly shook my hand. Her smile seemed false; I couldn't help thinking that I had offended her in some way. I didn't understand American manners; perhaps something I had said or done had displeased the lady.

I was interrupted from my thoughts by the sound of men arguing in the next room. There seemed to be two voices: One loud, angry and commanding, like a lion's roar; one silky and cunning, like a leopard's purr. The first voice boomed like a cannon, the sound echoing off of the white plastered walls, vibrating in my ears. I wondered what kind of beast could possess such language?

"You are killing time, Nicholas!" The louder man shouted. "Mine, yours... There should be prisons for people like you, who waste valuable time!"

"But you're mistaken, Ivan," the second man replied, his voice softer, almost a whisper. "I can't kill time, but the hands on the clock will certainly strangle me some day," the silky voice replied.

"You're a fool...two good eyes and you can't see the world as it really is!" bellowed the first man.

There was a pause, as if the second man was carefully choosing his words. Finally, he responded. "Perhaps this is true. But as our beloved Rasputin well knew, the third eye is in the mind," he purred.

"I have no more patience for your daydreaming, Nicholas," the first man declared. "Consider my offer for this old shack, and remember, I'm doing you a favor. Again," he added with meaning.

The loud man almost ran me over as he abruptly burst into the living room. For a split-second his viper-like eyes gleamed with malice, but he quickly recovered his composure and smiled at both of us.

"Well, who do we have here?" he inquired, smiling warmly. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure. And it is a pleasure to meet such a pretty young lady," He took my hand, kissing the back of it in some old-world manner. I blushed in spite of myself.

"This is Sonia, our new cook from Russia," Harriet introduced me. "I'm remembering now what Nicholas told me. She is from small village called Gogol. It's being one piece of real estate you don't own yet," she added, a hard edge in her voice.

"Oh, give me time, Harriet, he replied jovially. "Everything has a price. Property, people, souls...it's just a matter of negotiation," he paused. He and Harriet exchanged a quick look. "Since my aunt has neglected basic civility," he admonished her. "I will introduce myself. I'm Ivan Pavlovich, Realtor and local businessman," he said with a charming smile.

Ivan was a hulking, large man, broad-shouldered and tall. He had a red goatee, an enormous bald head and a huge, prominent nose. He seemed confident, almost arrogant; I was captivated by his manners, yet I found him to be a bit intimidating.

Ivan glanced at his watch. He gave me a quick nod of the head, and then began to walk away. However, he suddenly stopped at a picture hanging on the living room wall, just to the left of the mirror. He stared at it for some time, examining it closely, as if he were viewing it for the very first time.

"My father hung this painting here when I was just a child," he remarked. "It had some relevance...I'm not certain. All I see is a river going nowhere and an old, decrepit bridge," he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders.

Ivan advanced to the front door, but then paused for a moment. "It was quite nice meeting you, Sonia. I hope to sample some of your Russian cuisine in the near-future," he said in an agreeable fashion.

"Da, Mr. Pavlovich," I replied. "I will be happy making you special Charlotte Russe cake."

Ivan smiled in response, but his eyes weren't smiling. "That would be excellent, Sonia," he said in a softer tone of voice. "I am a bachelor, and don't do much cooking on my own. Though I do dabble in mixed-drinks and such potions," he added. He abruptly turned to the door, slamming it hard as he exited the house.

Harriet's face grimaced with displeasure. I tried to smile sympathetically; I then turned to look at the picture on the wall that had riveted Ivan's attention. It was a river; there was an old wooden bridge spanning it. But there seemed to be more to it than that. Hidden in the rushing waters was something...a face. That was it, it was some kind of face. But it didn't look human. It was more like...

"A ghost?" a soft masculine voice from behind me startled me. I whirled around, coming face-to-face with the second man from the next room. He was of medium build, somewhat flabby, with lazy hunched shoulders and poor posture. He wore eyeglasses that were both dirty and ill-fitting on his round, moon-like face. He had a long skinny nose that tilted to one side, as if it had once been broken and never properly set. Though he was smiling, his eyes were empty of emotion. They were gray and watery, like some dead fish. His hair was thinning; he was slightly bald on top, what remained was badly-cut. His hair was walnut-brown, graying a bit at the temples. Altogether, he cut a rather slovenly, unimposing figure.

"I'm sorry," I said, flustered. "I don't..."

"Know who I am?" The pudgy man finished my sentence. "But you should, you see, for I am the one who sent for you. I'm Nicholas Pavlovich," he introduced himself, gently shaking my hand. His handshake was rather limp; it actually felt cold to the touch.

I managed a smile. "Being pleased to meet you, Mr. Pavlovich. I hope you will find my cooking satisfactory," I said hesitantly.

Nicholas Pavlovich smiled back. His dead eyes focused on me wearily. "Oh, I know it will be," he replied, crossing his flabby arms. "You certainly wouldn't want to wind up like our last cook. She burned our supper, and then disappeared into that painting," he said mischievously.

I crossed myself. As cold fear gripped my body, I managed to take another look at the picture. The ghost I had imagined before seemed to be floating right out of the painting, reaching out to steal my soul. I fought the urge to run screaming out the front door.

"That is quite enough, Nicholas," Harriet declared impatiently. "The poor girl doesn't get your strange behavior. Few of us do," she added, her forehead wrinkling with disapproval.

Nicholas shook his head sympathetically, clucking his tongue in his mouth as he did so. He smiled again, this time with surprising warmth and feeling. His eyes, too, seemed to come to sudden life.

"I am sorry," Nicholas said, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. "Harriet is quite right. Well, I do have to have my little jokes, don't I?" He paused looking into my eye. "You do understand I was only joking, Sonia? It is Sonia, isn't it?"

I breathed a little easier. Once more, I managed to smile. "Yes, being Sonia Godunov," I replied. "I received your kind letter in Russia, I here hoping to learn the better English, become chef someday. I do best here, promise," I declared. I looked down at the floor in embarrassment at my poor English.

Nicholas slowly nodded his head approvingly. "Our best...well, we all promise that, don't we?" he said dully. He regarded the clock that hung on the white stucco wall in the hallway. "It's getting rather late," he declared. "I have some papers that I need to correct. Harriet can show you to your room," he said, dismissing me. He turned to leave, then hesitated a moment. He suddenly walked around me in a circle, nodding his head enigmatically.

"Yes...you will do, Sonia Godunov," he declared. "You have the dark eyes of the Black Goddess. Yes, I am very glad that you've come here," he stated. Nicholas turned without warning, vanishing into the shadow of the unlit kitchen.

"I am being sorry, Sonia," Harriet apologized. "My nephew Nicholas is really a sweet dear. After his mother died, I'm being mother to him," she confided. Harriet paused for a moment, as if she were choosing her words with care. "You'll like him too, thinking I to myself," she declared.

I wasn't so sure myself, but I kept silent. I suddenly realized that I was nervously pulling on my earlobe again. I stopped self-consciously, and began to examine the white stucco walls of the side hallway. They were like white frosting that had been thickly spread upon a half-baked cake. The sound of Harriet's sharp voice tore me from my observations.

"Are you being hungry?" she inquired gruffly. "I have cooked family dinner already. Can I make you sandwich or something?" It wouldn't be fancy Russian dish, mind you, but still tasting fine," she said tartly, a strange look of jealousy in her expression as she regarded me.

I smiled, attempting to ease the sudden tension. "No, I had late lunch on plane," I said. "But thanking you all same."

We were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a figure descending the long, narrow stairwell. It was that of a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. He had jet-black hair, like the color of midnight, and a pale face. His eyes were large, somber, yet brimming with intelligence. He was tall, with a slight build, and wore a loose plaid shirt which he hadn't bothered to tuck in at the waist. The young man wore blue jeans, black sneakers and a large silver cross around his neck. He also wore gloominess about him; he certainly was not a person who smiled easily.

Harriet addressed the tall, lanky figure. "So, Mr. Alexander is making special appearance from room. What is special reason? Did Internet run out of things for you to surf?" she asked caustically.

Alexander shook his head, a look of profound irritation visible upon his features. He ignored Harriet, focusing his attention on me. "Who the hell are you?" he abruptly demanded.

I was taken aback by his apparent hostility. These Americans were not as friendly as I had imagined them to be. "Please Mr. Alexander," I said hesitantly. "I am being Sonia Godunov, the new cook. Your brother placed advertisement in newspaper, and so I come," I explained.

"The newspaper?" he asked, laughing in a somewhat cruel fashion. "That is funny. Hey Sonia, the year 1899 just sent a message by smoke signals; it wants its technology back," he smirked tauntingly. "Ever hear of something people call a computer?"

I frowned. It was so frustrating, talking to this young man. I couldn't understand why he was acting so unfriendly to me. "Please," I began. "I am not having either computer or Internet at home in Russia. There no need for you to be Cossack," I informed him.

At this point, Harriet interrupted our conversation. "Alexander, your mother would be ashamed, your being so rude to guest," she admonished him. "Sonia is staying here, and you need to treat her respectfully," she informed him, poking him in the chest with her finger for special emphasis. "Sonia, this being Alexander Pavlovich, youngest of my three nephews. And he is something of Cossack," she remarked.

Alexander ignored his aunt's cutting remark. "Funny you should mention Cossacks," he said. My grandfather Vladimir and his sister were chased out of their town in Russia by those murderous bastards. My great-aunt was blinded in one eye by a saber cut to the face," he informed me with a look of accusation. "They were Jews, you see," he added.

I felt terrible. I had heard of horrible atrocities committed against Jews by Russians in the past. My family had no connection to the Cossacks; however, my father had been extremely prejudiced against Jews and other foreigners. I suddenly felt a deep sense of shame.

"I am being sorry," I declared. "I did not know you were being Jews. There has been much evil in my country in past. Now though, we are free and trying to do better," I said hopefully.

Alexander stared at me in silence for a moment. I felt that he was peering into my soul. And it made me feel vulnerable and self-conscious. Then he spoke. "I wouldn't blame you for what your ancestors did," he said gently, his eyes softening for just a moment. "After all, you're just a country girl from a small village, aren't you?"

For a brief second, I saw someone that I liked under his gruff exterior. Lightly touching his arm, I said, "Perhaps there is something you are liking to eat, I cook tomorrow?"

Alexander pulled his arm away abruptly, a look of embarrassment visible on his face. He rubbed the cross that hung from his neck vigorously, then turned without another word and ascended the stairs, disappearing into the blackness of the second floor of the house.

"Did I offend?" I inquired of Harriet. "Am sorry, not intention," I apologized.

Harriet stood with her arms crossed, shaking her head with disapproval. "Alexander's not offended," she declared. "You have to learn, Americans not standing close together like we Europeans," she informed me.

There was so much for me to learn. I wondered if I shouldn't just get back into a taxi and return home. But then, I thought of something. "I am not understanding," I said, perplexed. "If you are Jews, then why Mr. Alexander wearing cross around neck?"

Harriet rolled her eyes. "It is fashion statement," she answered. "And now interrogation being over. I will show you to your room, Sonia Godunov," she said with authority.

Harried walked very quickly. I could barely keep up with her, despite my youth. I retrieved the small suitcase that I had left in the hallway and raced to follow the tall lady. We turned a corner, arriving at a secluded part of the house. Harriet forced open a badly-painted door, and we entered into a dark room. She switched on a light, and I had an opportunity to examine my new home.

I briefly regarded the little room. There was a brass bed, covered with heavy purple blankets with gold embroidery, on the side of the room that faced the front of the house. An enormous wooden box stood to the left of the bed. A white shelf, similar to the one in the living room, was attached to the wall. Various Russian dolls, ones we call Matryoshks in my country, stood fiercely at attention on the pale shelf. There were dozens of them, their dark eyes following my every movement.

"So," Harriet said. "You are liking,no?" It was more of a command than a question.

"I'm not taking your room, huh?" I asked nervously.

Harriet laughed heartily. "First job, then room, eh? You Russians are being good, occupying territory not own. But no," she said with a friendly smile. "This was Elizabeth's room. She was wife to Grandfather Vladimir," she explained. "Elizabeth lived here some months before she died. She was from Ukraine, very quiet and soulful they say," Harriet remarked, almost softly.

The room was cold; a chill was quickly creeping up my spine. It smelled musty, like it hadn't been cleaned or dusted for some time. I pulled on my earlobe, so hard that it felt as if it would come right off in my hand. I looked imploringly at Harriet for some sympathy, silently begging her not to leave me in this dark cage. But there was no sympathy in her large brown eyes; only impatience.

"You being fine, my young pretty friend," she said impassively. "In morning I will show you kitchen and new responsibilities. You have suitcase?" she demanded. I nodded, lifting my little red valise so that she could see it. Harriet nodded approvingly.

"Well, good night Sonia," she said solemnly. "There is a bathroom with toilet and shower, being next door to your room," Harriet paused at the door. "You have lock on door. Use it," she said unsmilingly. She quickly departed, perhaps to the comfort and safety of her own room.

I took Harriet's advice, locking the door then placing my few belongings in the cherry-finished dresser. I put on my nightdress and quickly hopped into the bed, pulling the thick purple covers over me and tucking them in tightly. I noticed a small lamp resting on the nightstand next to my bed, and I reached over to switch it off. It took two or three tries; the lamp was old and spooky-looking, just like everything else in the house. As I lay in the quiet, frigid dark, I began to tremble with fear and uncertainty. This was not how I had expected America to be. I felt apprehensive about my future as I considered the events of the evening. Suddenly, a piercing cry shattered the still, night air. It was the howling of the mysterious dog that I had heard earlier. I pulled the heavy covers uncomfortably over my head, singing Russian folk songs to myself until I finally fell asleep.

# CHAPTER TWO

I awoke to the gentle sound of birds chirping outside my window. It was early morning; the golden rays of the sun tenderly stroked my face. I pulled back the covers and went to the window to take a peek outside. A yellow butterfly caught my eye; I followed its fluttering path with my eyes, watching it softly land on a flower. It was a red rose; there were several actually, growing alongside a wooden trellis that adhered to the side of the house. They were beautiful; I didn't know why I hadn't noticed them the previous day.

Feeling refreshed and more confident, I quickly dressed, then unlocked my door. I stepped cautiously into the hallway; it was quiet, but in a peaceful way. I found the bathroom that Harriet had told me about, and went inside. I had always believed that American bathrooms were huge, fancy things; however, this one was no larger or fancier than a Russian one. The top section of the walls consisted of the same white stucco in the hallway; however, the lower section of the walls had black and white linoleum tiles attached to it. The sink was small and white, the faucet a contrasting black color. The toilet was shiny and ivory, the tub was milky-white. The windows were small, yet cheerful. They offered a view of the neighboring house, which was bordered by trees and a fence that separated it from the driveway of the Pavlovich family. I quickly bathed, then left the bathroom in search of the kitchen.

I soon found it by passing through a door from the hallway. The kitchen was medium-sized, with a laminated wooden floor and lemon-yellow walls. An immense, modern-looking refrigerator stood near a corner of the kitchen, next to a shiny black oven. A small butcher-block table was located on the opposite side of the room, next to the entrance. There was an extensive counter, white with black specks, and a cobalt-blue cabinet hanging over it. The narrow sink was located to the right of the counter, with two small windows behind and overhead the silver-colored faucets. A Byzantine painting of Jesus holding a Cyrillic cross hung on one wall, near the telephone. A vivid photograph of the Kremlin building in Moscow hung prominently over the stove. An old cuckoo clock was fixed to the left of this picture. The kitchen seemed warmer than the other parts of the house; I felt safer and more at home here than anywhere else in the house.

I listened for signs of life in the house, but heard none. Apparently, the Pavlovichs were not early risers. I peeked into cupboards, and found various cooking instruments; pots, pans, measurers, whisks, and countless other utensils. There seemed to be anything here that an aspiring cook could want. I then took a quick glance into the refrigerator. Eggs, milk, butter, were all available in abundance. It seemed that Harriet Blom was not lax in her shopping habits.

I decided to try and get off to the right start. I cracked some eggs and melted some butter. I then proceeded to make some Bliny pancakes. I found some teabags and brewed some hot tea. Crying with delight when I happened upon some yeast, baking powder and flour, I baked some Russian black bread, the strong odor filling every corner of the kitchen. I made a Russian Peasant Omelet, using eggs, potatoes, an onion, milk, and some salt and pepper. I cut the potatoes into cubes, frying them in vegetable oil under the lid for about ten minutes. I then chopped the onion and tomato, adding them to the potatoes and cooking for another five minutes. I beat the egg with milk, pouring it over the potatoes, and then cooking it all for a few more minutes. It smelled so good; it made me homesick for my Mama's kitchen back in Russia.

I found the dining room and started to set the table. It was a dark walnut color, rectangular in shape and very attractive to the eye. I found a red tablecloth, and threw it over the top of the table, placing plates and silverware upon it that I retrieved from the kitchen cabinets. I noticed an old walnut liquor cabinet, with bottles of vodka and gin laid upon its shelf. There were several pictures adorning the walls; there was one of an Indian riding a horse on the plains while he hunted buffaloes, another of a gondola in a canal in Venice. An enormous chandelier hung down from the ceiling, directly above the dining table. It was not a large room.

"So," a voice from behind startled me. I hadn't heard anyone enter the dining room. I quickly turned around, only to discover the imposing figure of Harriet Blom, with her hands on her hips and a strange smile upon her face.

"So," she repeated. "You have been busy little Russian bee, haven't you?" she said. Harriet looked at the table, regarding the meal with a critical eye.

"I am being sorry," I quickly said, my face hot with embarrassment. "I should have asked permission before taking liberties with kitchen."

Harriet walked around the walnut dining table, carefully examining the breakfast that I had just prepared. She was scowling, and for a bad moment I thought she was going to yell at me, or send me packing back home. However, to my surprise she suddenly began to nod her head, her fingers and thumb resting on her chin.

"Not bad, not so bad," she said, slowly and reluctantly. "Looking good, smelling good...but proof will be in taste," she said with an enigmatic smile.

A voice from the living room suddenly greeted us. "What is that delicious smell?" Nicholas Pavlovich inquired as he slowly entered the dining room. He was dressed even more slovenly than the previous day. This morning he was wearing wrinkled cotton pajamas, white socks upon his feet, and a maroon sweat shirt. His graying brown hair was greasy and uncombed, his eyeglasses badly in need of a cleaning. The negative impression of him that I had from the previous day was reinforced by his current appearance. He was not the sophisticated, successful American that I had expected. Harriet addressed him first, her head motioning toward me. "Sonia has surprised us with delicious breakfast. If breakfast is delicious, I will be surprised," she added sarcastically.

Nicholas smiled at me with a look of amazement. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise," he said, winking at me as if we shared some secret. He sat down at the head of the table. "Well, what are we waiting for? My mouth is watering for this delightful Russian cuisine," he said, as he slowly and carefully tied a handkerchief around his neck.

Harriet quickly pulled Nicholas's plate away from him, before he could begin eating. "You are being rude, nephew," she admonished him. "Little brother Alexander is still to join us," she reminded him gruffly.

Nicholas sighed. "You are quite right, Aunt Harriet. I have the manners of Ivan," he declared with a slight smile upon his lips. "I mean Ivan the Terrible, of course. Not my dear brother Ivan."

Nicholas ambled leisurely into the kitchen. From the other room I could hear the sound of him dialing a phone. "Alexander?" Yes...this is your big brother Nicholas. Sorry to interrupt your scheduled dreaming, but I wondered if you could honor us with your presence at the breakfast table. What was that?" Nicholas asked. "Oh, no, Aunt Harriet didn't cook this morning. No worries," he said. "It was our new little friend, Sonia. I think that you should come down now, so as not to insult her," he said, the sound of the phone hanging up echoing throughout the house. Nicholas walked back into the dining room, and resumed his seat at the table.

"I hope Mr. Alexander not having to drive far to come here," I said gingerly.

Nicholas laughed. "Oh, I called him on his cell phone. Mr. Alexander can drive himself downstairs and have breakfast with his family like a civilized person," he declared.

Embarrassed, I turned my face away and started to examine the wall. I suddenly noticed the picture with the Indian and the buffaloes. Except...there were no buffaloes now. The Indian was standing next to his horse, looking straight into my eyes.

And there was blood on his spear.

I blinked. Could I have imagined that there were buffaloes before? I pointed a finger at the picture on the wall.

"The buffaloes...they are gone," I stammered.

Nicholas gazed lazily at the picture. "Yes, they are extinct now," he said quietly. He then looked back at his food. "This looks exquisite, Sonia. What do you call it?" he inquired with a friendly smile.

Distracted, I replied, "It is called...Russian Peasant omelet," I said, still mystified by the picture of the Indian.

"Russian Peasant, huh?" a familiar voice greeted us from the entrance of the dining room. It was Alexander Pavlovich. In contrast to Nicholas, his raven hair was combed neatly. He was fashionably dressed in a silk shirt, beige cotton trousers and brown leather shoes. The large cross from the previous evening still hung prominently around his neck. His gloomy eyes seemed even more unfriendly in the light of day.

"Good morning, Mr. Alexander," I greeted him cheerfully. "I am hoping you are enjoying breakfast I make," I said gingerly.

Alexander smirked. "What's with that accent?" he asked antagonistically. "You sound like Boris from 'Bullwinkle' the cartoon," he informed me.

Tears of embarrassment came to my eyes. I was very sensitive about my broken English. Finally, I was able to respond to his rudeness. "I am being sorry if accent is not acceptable. Hopefully English is improving with practice," I said.

Harriet glared at Alexander. "So, Mr. Bigot. Perhaps you are not liking Aunt Harriet's accent. Perhaps you are hating all foreigners," she accused her nephew.

Alexander looked red in the face with shame. "I didn't mean anything by it. My mother was a foreigner," he said, looking directly at me.

I nodded my head with approval. I went back into the kitchen and soon returned with the rest of the breakfast food. Everyone had seated themselves, and I served the Bliny pancakes last.

"These are the famous Bliny pancakes, huh?" Nicholas asked with a twinkle in his eye. He took a bite of one. "Well, very delicious. Most authentic, I'm sure," he remarked.

"Here, try them with sour cream," I said. I plopped a dollop of the thick white cream onto his pancake. Nicholas took another bite, closing his eyes and smiling. "Yummy," he said emphatically. "Sonia, you are a great find. And I didn't even have to search for you on the precious Internet," he added with a sly grin at Alexander.

Alexander grunted; a bemused look appeared on his features. "Huh, like you could actually do a Google search," he challenged his older brother.

Nicholas benevolently chided his younger brother. "Now, Alexander. Show some respect. I've successfully searched the Web in the past. "In fact," he said as he looked straight at me with interest. "I discovered some rather interesting things as I was browsing on the Internet. Some truly fascinating information concerning Russian history," he declared.

Harriet interrupted him. "I'm sure Sonia is not being interested in your hobbies, Nicholas. Is not young people kind of stuff," she said with authority.

I shook my head. "Oh, I would be very interested in any stuff concerns my Mother Russia. We are having rich culture and history," I stated proudly.

Nicholas smiled at his aunt with a look of triumph. "You see, Harriet? The girl has a natural interest. And it is interesting, Sonia," he said with special emphasis.

Nicholas cleared his throat, rubbing his hand through the thin, graying hair on his strangely-shaped head. He looked at me, his dead eyes coming to life. "You see, Sonia, I have always had a curious obsession with the Russian healer, Rasputin. Oh, I am certain that you have heard something of him in your village. How he was a tall, mystical holy man who became a faith healer and sometimes doctor to the Romanov family of Czarist Russia. How he saved the life of the son of Czar Nicholas II. How a jealous Russian aristocracy, led by Prince Yusupov , murdered him in 1917," he related.

"I have heard something of this story in school, da," I affirmed.

Nicholas' eyes, so dead the night before, were positively sparkling with life. "Da, yes, undoubtedly you have heard of that," he said. "But perhaps you didn't know what I have discovered in my research. How Rasputin walked among the Startsi, the Makari; wandering holy men and ascetic hermits. How he traveled to the monastery of Verkhotouri, and learned that only those who understand suffering can know the nature of God. How he performed the Radenie Ceremony, dancing and chanting hymns in ecstasy around a ring of fire. How he used carnal knowledge to get closer to God while in the Khlysty Cult. Rasputin came to understand that Jesus lives in various men throughout the ages. We are all Christ," he added.

I was shocked by his blasphemy. I nearly dropped the tray of Bliny pancakes that I was holding. Harriet shook her head disapprovingly, but smiled indulgently at her nephew. Only Alexander seemed to find his voice.

"I thought we were supposed to be Jews," he said, a smirk of irony upon his lips. "You seem to have mistaken us for goys, bro. And, I wouldn't believe everything you find on the Web. Particularly if you find it on Wikipedia. Any jackass can write what he wants to on that," he informed us.

Nicholas shook his head. "I grant you your techno-nerd instincts are correct in some cases. However, I've found corresponding information from periodicals and archives at the University where I teach. And...I've discovered much more. Far more than I could have dreamed," he added with special meaning.

Alexander's interest appeared to be tweaked. "What did you discover?" he inquired of his older brother.

Nicholas paused for a moment. He gazed at the other people around the table, as if he were reading our thoughts and storing them for future use. Then he spoke, in a soft, monotone voice: "Early in his travels, Rasputin wandered to Mount Athos in Greece. He received special instructions there. Concerning what? That remains unknown. However, he then wandered all the way down to Jerusalem, in what was then Palestine. What he discovered there we do not know. But, when he returned, Rasputin met with certain Jews who were knowledgeable concerning Kabbalah. And they didn't meet just anywhere, but outside the Monastery of the Caves, in Kiev. What did ancient Jewish numerology have to do with Christian Russian Orthodoxy? What secrets did they unlock? This I would give my arm to learn," he declared.

"That could easily be arranged," a booming, familiar voice echoed from the entrance of the dining room. We all turned our heads at once. It was Ivan Pavlovich, an unannounced breakfast guest.

"Nice of you to come, Ivan," Harriet said unconvincingly. "I guess we missed phone call telling us you arrive."

Ivan didn't take her bait. "Oh, I grew up in this house, Aunt Harriet," he reminded her jovially, sitting down at the end of the table, opposite to Nicholas. "The door is always open to family, isn't it Nicholas?" he said, more as a command than a question. As Ivan's gaze met that of his own, Nicholas averted his eyes from his brother's intimidating look.

"Of course...yes of course, Ivan," Nicholas weakly replied. Some of the fire had gone from his voice. "Just because my name is on the deed doesn't mean you shouldn't just show up here any time you like," he said with a sarcastic tone. He lifted his eyes from the floor and the two brothers glared at one another.

Then Ivan smiled. But again, there was malice in that look of his. "Yes, the deed. You're quite right, it is your name on the deed to this house. Mother was quite kind in willing it to you alone. Still, it would be a shame if someone were to challenge the validity of that title..." Ivan's voice trailed off as he nodded his head, then regarded the food on the table.

"But that can wait for another time," he said, changing gears. "This food looks absolutely delicious. You didn't waste any time, did you Sonia?" Ivan questioned me. He peered at me with large, wolf-like eyes. I tried to smile back, but quickly averted my eyes from his stare, looking down at the floor instead. There was something bold, almost threatening in his smile. It made my heart beat fast with excitement.

Ivan took a bite of the thick Russian bread. "Hmm..." he said slowly. "This is very good. It reminds me of the bread mother used to make. She found the recipe in an old book of our grandmother Elizabeth. You remember the story of her, don't you Nicholas? As I recall, you were always playing with those Russian dolls of hers," he related, a cruel smirk upon his lips.

Nicholas shook his head. "Yes...the Matryoshkas in Sonia's room. They always fascinated me. You open one woman, then find another one hidden inside, and then another. A mystery inside a mystery," he declared.

Ivan nodded his head. "Women are like that...but I am being quite rude. You were discussing the mystery surrounding Rasputin," he said.

"What does this crap have to do with anything?" Alexander interrupted. "It's just a bunch of old fables and rumors. What does it have to do with us?" he inquired.

Ivan stood up, a cup of tea in one hand. He circled around the table, placing one hand paternally on Alexander's shoulder. Alexander, who was seated, looked up carefully at his older brother. Ivan had a hulking presence; his mammoth body seemed to fill up the tiny dining room. He looked at the furnishings, seemingly taking stock.

"Yes...very eccentric. This room reflects Mother's tastes," Ivan paused. "And your own, Nicholas," he gave his brother a hard look. "You resemble her in many ways. Alexander, on the other hand, resembles Father," Ivan commented absently as he examined the paintings on the wall. "Yes, these will have to be removed," he said nonchalantly. Ivan gave a brief look at his watch. "Well...I have to be going. I have a buyer waiting for me across town. She believes that I'm her agent; however, I represent the seller's interest," he paused. "And my own. Always my own," he said with meaning.

Ivan placed his cup upon the table. "Thank you for the excellent breakfast, Sonia. I think you are going to prove to be very useful indeed," he said. His eyes met those of Harriet's for a moment and then turned back to mine. He smiled at me, though his face had an expression that put me ill at ease.

"Thank you, Mr. Pavlovich," I said, but he didn't respond. With a curt wave of his hand he dismissed me and quickly exited the room. In a moment the sound of the front door slamming told us of his departure. We all sat quietly for a moment. Then Harriet broke the silence:

"Well, Mr. Sunshine certainly made us merry, huh?" she asked. No one replied. She looked at me with seemingly new interest. "Sonia, are you being good with making cakes?" she inquired. I got the impression that she was trying to lighten the dark mood that Ivan's visit had left.

"Da,yes, I am baking many cakes at home. Why you ask, Harriet?" I inquired.

Harriet smiled mysteriously. "I have recently seen article in local paper concerning baking contest. Contestants must be making special cakes. Judging is in two weeks," she informed me. She regarded me with a serious look. Harriet took a bit of a Bliny pancake, all the time gazing into my eyes. "This is cooking I have not tasted in long time. Maybe never .Are you up to challenge?" she inquired, her hands on her hips as those large eyes intimidated me behind square, old-fashioned glasses.

I averted my eyes from her gaze, looking instead at Alexander. He didn't smile, but he nodded with encouragement. His dark eyes seemed friendlier than before. I turned to Nicholas. He was busy examining the dining table; he certainly didn't seem interested in the conversation. Then without warning, he pulled his head up and looked straight into my eyes.

"If they have no bread, let them eat cake," he said enigmatically. Nicholas directed a warm look toward me. "It might be tricky, Sonia. You've only just arrived here; the language barrier might make this contest difficult for you," he warned. "Still...if Harriet has no objections, I certainly don't," he said with a warm smile.

I placed my hand on his arm. "Thank you, Mr. Pavlovich. This is being great opportunity for me. And I am working twice as hard at job here," I promised. "Meals will not suffer."

"Only our stomachs, huh?" Alexander said with a mischievous grin. I ignored his barbed comment and proceeded to start to pick up the dirty dishes from the table. Alexander departed from the room without warning, presumably to the privacy of his upstairs room. Harriet marched into the kitchen, a number of dirty dishes in her large hands. I guessed that she intended to wash them; she obviously didn't intend to cede all of her former jobs to me if she could help it. Nicholas lingered at the table for a moment. He hesitated; I got the impression that he had something important to say to me, but was trying to gather the courage to tell me.

"Sonia," he began slowly. His voice had a gentle, almost fatherly quality to it. "I know a little something of your past. Your father died in Afghanistan, I believe? And your two brothers in Chechnya?" he inquired with a sympathetic wrinkling of his brow.

I nodded my head. In Russia, we didn't speak of such things; certainly not with people who were essentially strangers. I indicated my embarrassment at the subject matter by gazing down at the floor, pulling at my ear as I did so. But Nicholas Pavlovich continued to speak:

"I just wanted you to know, Sonia," he said softly. "We are not just your employers. I want you to think of us as your host family here in America. If you have any problems, don't hesitate to approach me, ok?" he said with a smile.

I took a close look at him. It was strange; despite his appearance, Nicholas Pavlovich seemed like a young boy. He had a trusting, naïve quality about him; despite his obvious intelligence, he didn't impress me as being particularly responsible. But even so, despite the fact that he confounded me, I felt that I could trust him. Despite his eccentricity, I believed that he had a good soul.

"Thank you, Mr. Nicholas," I said with genuine feeling. "I am being grateful for all."

Nicholas got up from the table, and like his brothers exited without a word. I cleared the dishes off of the table and brought them to the kitchen sink. Harriet was busy drying some plates. She looked up from what she was doing; the hot steam had fogged up her glasses, and sweat was pouring off of her red face. Harriet wiped her brow, giving me a strange half-smile.

"They are strange lot, aren't they?" she asked.

I nodded my head in assent. "Like a Russian troika," I replied.

"Oh, I have heard of troika," she responded. "One main horse in center leading other two, who are following every command," Harriet arched her eyebrows, giving me a questioning look.

"Da," I replied. "The brothers Pavlovich are like troika," I paused, scratching my head and pulling on my earlobe in confusion. "But...who is being lead horse?"

# CHAPTER THREE

The onion-shaped blue dome of the Russian Orthodox Church on Scarborough Street in Hartford reflected the golden sunlight from its shiny surface. Its outside walls were yellow, like the walls of the Orthodox Church in my village in Russia. Anchored to the front of the building, hanging prominently over the entrance, was a colossal eight-pointed cross. It did not resemble the Roman Catholic ones that I had seen on other churches in West Hartford. It was unique: a testament to a thousand year old Eastern Church that had shone a light in a dark world since Prince Vladimir had embraced Christianity in Russia. Looking at this building, I felt a connection to my own home. I was glad that I had taken the bus to Hartford this beautiful Sunday morning.

The bells were ringing, announcing the beginning of the morning service. I quickly made my way through the entrance and into the building. I immediately noticed dozens of icons placed strategically at different points in the chapel. Each painting was that of an Orthodox saint, surrounded by lit votive candles. These lights emitted an eerie glow to the inside walls of the church. I gazed up at the ceiling, which curved into the concave shape of a dome. There was an enormous iconographic image of Jesus Christ painted on its surface. I knew this to be Christ as Pontokrater----ruler of all.

I glanced at the front of the chapel. The nave was separated from the holy altar by an iconostasis. The altar itself was covered with candles and holy relics. I took a seat in a wooden pew and crossed myself in the Orthodox fashion. The service began, and a tall man clad in full black robes led the prayers. I noticed that there were more similarities than differences between this church and the one back in my village. It really didn't matter to me---we all prayed to the same God.

As I prayed, I suddenly noticed a young man who was sitting in the next pew, staring at me. He was blonde and blue-eyed, about eighteen years old. He smiled at me in a friendly manner. I ignored him at first, intent upon saying my prayers. When the service ended, he surprised me my walking over to my pew.

"Hello," he greeted me in English. "I've never seen you here before. My name is Nikita. What's yours?" he inquired.

I hesitated for a moment. I was a young lady; a stranger to this country, a foreigner. I didn't believe it wise to trust an unknown young man so soon. But still, we were in church, not some nightclub or bar. And I didn't want to be rude. "I am being Sonia Godunov," I introduced myself, sticking out my straight arm to shake his hand. He shook my hand firmly, and to my astonishment, boldly sat down next to me in my pew.

"I am not remembering asking you to sit here," I tartly remarked.

"I am not remembering needing your permission," he replied, in a playful, mocking tone of voice. He glanced around the chapel. "So, how do you like our church? Does it meet with your approval?" he inquired.

I raised my eyebrows. "Is not needing my approval," I responded. There was something about this young man that rubbed me the wrong way. He had a cocky grin; when he smiled it was insincere, and though his eyes were lively and interesting, they suggested arrogance. Nikita placed his hands behind his head, leaning backward as he rudely rested his feet upon the back of the pew in front of us.

"Oh, but it does need your approval," he contradicted me. "You are from Russia, aren't you? I can tell from your accent," he said boastfully.

My face turned red with embarrassment. "You are not big detective solving big mystery," I retorted. "This is Russian church, is natural Russian girl comes to pray," I commented.

"Yes," he said. "You are very authentic. Are you a student? Where are you staying?" he asked.

I thought that he was being too forward. Nikita's accent was American, despite his Slavic features. He wore a blue cotton shirt, a matching tie, and white trousers. He seemed to never stop smiling---his teeth were very white and straight. Despite his pushiness, I was somewhat disarmed by his friendly manner. Perhaps he was someone who could be trusted. "I am being cook," I informed him. "I work for family in West Hartford. I want to speak better English, and learn to be chef," I confided.

Nikita nodded his head. "Yeah...well, anything is possible here in America. Does your host family attend our church?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, the brothers Pavlovich are being Jews, I believe," I stated.

Nikita's eyes seemed to bulge out of his large, blonde head. "Do you mean that you work for that crazy Pavlovich family in West Hartford?" he asked incredulously.

I nodded my head. Without another word, Nikita rushed to the altar, interrupting the priest. He whispered something in his ear, frantically pointing in my direction. The black-robed priest crossed himself and then walked over to where I was still standing in the wooden pew.

"Good morning, child," he said warmly. "I am Father Nicolai. I welcome you to our Orthodox Church. Nikita tells me that you are from Russia?" he inquired.

"Da," I replied. "I am from village of Gogol, being near Ukraine. I am hoping to pray here; I am of Orthodox faith," I informed him.

Father Nikolai nodded his head. He was an older gentleman, perhaps in his sixties. He had a long, snowy-white beard and full mustache. I could have mistaken him for a Russian priest, save for his distinctly American accent. "Of course, child," he responded with a smile. Then his face became serious. "However," he said with a frown. "Nikita has informed me that you are staying with the Pavlovich family in West Hartford. If that is the same Pavlovich family that lives on Keeney Avenue, then that concerns me greatly," he stated gravely.

I searched for Nikita. He was on the other side of the chapel, speaking to an older couple whom I presumed to be his parents. All three of them were staring at me strangely, like I was some sort of freak. I began to nervously pull on my earlobe.

"The Pavlovich family is living on Keeney Avenue," I admitted. "Are you knowing them personally? They are being very nice to me," I defended them. "I respond to letter in Russian newspaper, and come here to America to cook for them," I explained.

Father Nicolai shook his head sadly. "And you such a nice, young girl. Well, I knew their father, Peter Pavlovich quite well. We went to school together. He eventually married a German girl; Catherine was her name. She was the younger sister of Harriet, who is said to live with her nephews," he said.

"Yes," I confirmed. "And very nice lady, too," I defended Harriet.

"Yes, I'm sure," Father Nicolai agreed. "At any rate, I know something of their family history. Peter's father came to America sometime after the Russian Revolution. He brought his bride with him, a young Ukrainian lady named Elizabeth. They lived in New York City for some years; they then settled here in Connecticut in the 1930's. They built that house in West Hartford in 1936, I believe. It was a small, simple Cape, but a very nice home for the Pavlovich family," he related.

"I lived around the corner from them, on Sylvan Avenue. I used to play with Peter when we were children. I remember his mother; she was delightful, very pleasant and kind. She would bake special Ukrainian eggs, and make us the fruity dish called Kisel," Father Nicolai said, smiling at the memory. "Yes...she was someone I liked."

"Was Grandfather Vladimir being around much?" I inquired.

Father Nicolai's brow wrinkled. A dark look crept into his eyes. "Peter's father, Vladimir---he was not someone I liked," he informed me. "As I remember, he was a tall, hulking man, with jet-black hair and a fierce-looking beard. His voice was like a lion's roar," he recalled. It was odd. Father Nicolai could have been describing Vladimir's grandson, Ivan. Except that Ivan was a red lion, not a black one.

"Everyone in the neighborhood was afraid of him," Father Nicolai continued. "He crushed the spirit of that poor wife of his. Peter was terrified of him, for good reason. Vladimir Pavlovich was cruel; Peter had always wanted a pet. His mother secretly bought a cute little puppy for her son. When Vladimir found out about it, he made Peter kill the puppy with his own hands, right in front of the mother. And me," he added, his eyes betraying the pain of the haunting memory.

"Then, the mother Elizabeth died. Officially, she died of a fever. But a story circulated around West Hartford at the time that she had displeased Vladimir, and that he had subsequently locked her in her room to starve to death. Of course, rumors will always travel like the wind; still, I'll never forget the look of triumphant malice in that man's devil eyes as his son killed the puppy," he said.

"I stopped visiting 69 Keeney Avenue after that," he remarked. "I remember leaving the house for the last time after Peter's mom died. The young girl next door warned me not to step on the roses. What a pale thing she was," he recalled.

"Anyway, Peter seemed to change after his mother's death. He began to resemble his father more and more. He would bully younger children in school, stealing their money and hurting them physically. By high school, everyone was afraid of him, including his teachers. I stopped being friends with him; he ridiculed both my compassion for others and my faith in God. The Pavlovich family was supposed to be Jewish, yet I don't remember them ever observing the Jewish holidays. Peter informed me that religion was for fools and weaklings. I don't think that he even believed in the concept of God," Father Nicolai crossed himself as he said this. He paused a moment, breathing heavily as he struggled to maintain his composure. Finally, he seemed to recover himself, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and breathing more evenly.

"Then came the death of Vladimir Pavlovich," Father Nicolai continued. "Now, I thought that I had been in every corner of that house, playing with Peter. But there was a room upstairs that no one was allowed to enter. It was the private office of the father, Vladimir. I personally thought of it as his secret lair," he said confidentially. "Fastened over the door of that room was a green-colored clay figure, a three-pointed face of some hideous creature. Casually glancing at it, you would take no notice of the thing. But, I once made the mistake of closely examining it, as I was playing hide-and-seek with Peter. The clay figure looked like a demon from hell---and it seemed to come to life as I stared at it. I screamed in horror, running to rejoin Peter. He laughed at my foolishness, and I soon forgot the incident."

"But on the day we were to graduate from high school, neighbors reported having heard a violent argument between Peter and his father. I never learned what it was about. What I do know is that Peter reported last seeing his father going into his office room and slamming the door. Strange screams were heard all over the neighborhood. Hordes of locusts descended upon the streets, looking like they wanted a battle. They appeared to have crowns of gold, and human faces. Their teeth looked like lions, their wings sounded like horses. And their tails stung like scorpions," he related.

Father Nicolai looked around nervously, as if fearful of being watched. Then he resumed. "The sky seemed to become dark; the sun appeared black, and people thought that the moon was dripping with blood. A rumbling noise could be heard from the Pavlovich house, like that of an earthquake. Drops of ice hit its roof, looking like stars that had fallen from the sky. The police came, and Peter told them that his father was locked in his room upstairs. They broke down the door, finding..." his voice trailed off.

"What?" I asked with morbid fascination.

"Nothing," Father Nicolai said. "The room was empty. They could find no evidence of any foul play. Vladimir disappeared; he was never seen again. However, one of the policemen happened to glance at the green clay figurehead that was mounted over the door. It appeared to him like a man writhing in agony. The policeman didn't know why, but he somehow felt that it was Vladimir's face. The officer looked at Peter, who nodded his head and smiled. When the policeman looked back at the door, the clay figure was quite still and ordinary. This story floated around West Hartford for quite some time," he remarked.

"Peter was cleared of any wrong doing. He inherited the house and continued to live there. No one in the neighborhood would dare speak to him, yet things were quiet and normal for many years. I became a Russian Orthodox priest, as my babushka always wanted, and pushed these somber memories from my mind," he confided.

Father Nicolai seemed drained by the effort of telling his story. Dark circles appeared around his eyes. He rubbed his temples vigorously, and shook his gray head, as if to awaken it. Then, he smiled a weak smile and patted my arm lightly. "Perhaps I should not have told you these things," he said softly. "It is you who are supposed to confess to me, not vice-versa. I have not considered these events for many years. But I felt it my duty to warn you. Peter and Vladimir are long gone, but the bad apple doesn't fall far from the tree," he said, wrinkling his brow with concern.

We were interrupted by the entrance of a second priest. He whispered something into the ear of Father Nicolai, who nodded his head and got to his feet. "I am unfortunately called away on pressing matters," he apologized. "But perhaps we can speak again. Will you be here next Sunday?" he asked.

I stood up from the pew, and nodded my head. "Of course; I am being here every Sunday," I promised.

Father Nicolai held my hand warmly before walking off with the second priest. I heard whispers around my pew; I nervously wondered if the other churchgoers were talking about me. Nikita suddenly reappeared, with a friendly, cheerful smile. He seemed very eager to gather some information.

"Well, I see Father Nicolai has been enlightening you about that weird Pavlovich family," he said. "You know, Sonia, I really like you. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you in that crazy house," he said with a smile and a devilish twinkle in his eye.

I looked at him coldly. "You are not knowing Sonia Godunov well enough to like her," I informed him angrily. "And what Father Nicolai tells me is none your concern," I said bluntly. I grabbed my coat and started to walk quickly toward the exit. Nikita rushed to keep up with me.

"Wait," he begged. He ran to my side. "I didn't mean anything earlier. I bank on first impressions; that is all," he smiled.

I didn't smile back. "First impressions of you not so good," I told him. I tried to escape the conversation by walking out the front door of the church, but Nikita followed me outside. The bright sunlight hit our faces with striking force, especially after having been in the shadows of the chapel. We both rubbed our eyes from the glare,

"Sonia, I'm serious," Nikita said imploringly. "You are really cute. I like your blonde hair, your short stubby nose, and your sexy accent. Are you seeing anyone? He asked boldly.

For some reason, I thought of Alexander at that moment. But that was ridiculous, so I pushed the image of him from my mind. I shook my head violently. "Nyet, I am not having time for this," I told him emphatically. "I must be best cook I can, and learn the better English. That is all I am having time for," I declared.

Nikita nodded his head with sadness. I suddenly felt guilty for having been so unfriendly. "I hope that I can talk to you next Sunday," he said hopefully. "We're not on Facebook, but can I friend you?" he asked, holding out his hand.

I smiled warmly. I shook his hand. "I not ignore you, da, just friends," I replied. I waved goodbye to Nikita and hurried down the sidewalk toward the bus stop.

I had to run to catch my bus. The driver gave me a disapproving stare, but still opened the door to let me on. I paid my fare and found a seat, next to a heavy-set Asian woman with two shopping bags. I smiled as I sat down next to her; she grunted as she reluctantly moved over to make room. A child was screaming somewhere behind us, as his mother told him to be quiet. I glanced down, and noticed that I was still clutching a bible from the pew in the church. I promised myself that I would return it the next Sunday.

I took another look at the bible in my hands. The cover was black; it was very dirty and well-worn from use. I noticed that someone had left a marker inside of it. I opened the book, turning the yellowed pages until I came to the marker. It was in Revelation. There were two passages highlighted, to my surprise. I read the first to myself:

"He came from the earth, with two horns like a lamb, but he spoke like a dragon. He makes fire come from heaven. He will cause all to receive a mark on their foreheads. The number of the beast is 666," it read.

I shuddered and quickly looked up. There was a man sitting across the aisle from me. He was short and plump, middle-aged with rosy cheeks and a neatly-trimmed gray mustache. It seemed too small for his chubby face, as did his tiny eyes. The man was smiling as he nodded in the direction of my bible. His beady eyes reminded me of a hungry wolf prowling the snowy forests of Russia. I glanced down at the open book. The second passage was also highlighted:

"The one who believes in me though he should die, yet shall he live; the one who lives and believes in Me shall never die," it read.

I closed the bible and held it tight to my chest, over my heart. It was suddenly dark in the bus, and I was afraid. I pulled on my earlobe, secretly wishing that my brother Sasha were there to help me. I wished for this during the long bus ride home to 69 Keeney Avenue.

# CHAPTER FOUR

The beef stroganoff came out well this time. I combined the onions, beef, and mushrooms in a special spicy sour-cream sauce that my mother had taught me. A few weeks had passed since I had first come to stay at 69 Keeney Avenue; I had become used to the idiosyncrasies of the kitchen stove as well as the idiosyncrasies of the Pavlovich family. Despite my initial impression of Nicholas as being somewhat lazy and slovenly, he tended to leave early for his University job, rarely lingering around long enough to have breakfast. However, when I saw him most mornings leaving for work, I was confirmed in my opinion of him. His shirt would be half-out, his shoelaces untied, and his papers would be falling out of his brown leather briefcase. Nicholas rarely met my eyes on these occasions; he would look down at the floor as he offered greetings and hurried out the door. Then he was gone; I sometimes didn't see him again for days.

I considered myself lucky that I hadn't seen Ivan Pavlovich since the first breakfast two weeks earlier. From what I gathered from overheard conversations between Harriet and Alexander, Ivan was very much occupied with the closings on several of his houses. One of the richest and most powerful men in West Hartford, the real-estate mogul was about to become richer. Alexander was in awe of his older brother; he sometimes spoke of wanting to go to work for him after he was done with school. But this just remained talk; he was much too involved in his daily computer activities to undertake the training that would allow him to become a licensed real-estate agent.

This day I was preparing several items for lunch. There was the beef stroganoff; I was also preparing a thick beet soup known popularly as borscht. I boiled this soup in a large steel pot over the burner of the stovetop. It became a rich, purple color; the delightful smell permeated the kitchen. I quickly gazed around the room; I was happiest and most comfortable in the safety of the kitchen. I wondered if Alexander's mother and grandmother had felt the same way.

For dessert, I baked a BabkaYablochnaya. It is commonly known in the West as an apple Charlotte. I surrounded the applesauce with strips of crisp bread and then covered it with an apricot sauce. This had also been a specialty of my mother's, and I hoped that the Pavlovich family would like it.

Alexander was on vacation, and did not have to go to school that week. Both he and Harriet expressed their approval of the meal. I smiled my thanks. After clearing the table and washing the dishes, I went out to the garden in the backyard for some fresh air. It was a beautiful day; the fragrant smell of various flowers hung in the air. Despite what the young girl Becky had said, Nicholas was a dedicated gardener; various herbs, plants and flowers were carefully and tastefully located in different parts of the yard. Attractive stones bordered the miscellaneous herbage of the lovely garden. It was very peaceful here, and I felt relaxed.

A voice from behind startled me. "Sonia, Sonia...how does your garden grow?" Alexander Pavlovich asked with an ironic tone. All of his former kindness seemed to have drained from his face. Never before had I noticed how much of the Pavlovich cruelty was etched upon his dark features. "With pretty Cossacks all in a row," he said with an unfriendly smirk.

My face turned red with anger. "I am not liking this, Mr. Alexander," I said indignantly. "My family are not being Cossacks. Please to apologize," I said, my hands resting on my hips.

Alexander smiled, this time in a friendlier manner. "Good, you're not pulling on your earlobe," he observed. "I'm glad that you're not scared of me. And I do apologize," he said this softly, then took my hand and kissed it in the same old-fashioned way that his brother Ivan had earlier. "You are a white Russian. I am a black Russian," he joked, pulling a small glass bottle from his pocket. "The only thing separating us is vodka," he remarked. He took a small sip and then offered the bottle to me.

I pushed it away, offended by the vulgarity of his offer. "Not all people in my country are drinking like this," I informed Alexander. I pointed to the budding flowers of the garden. "Like buds here, you are needing to grow-up," I informed him with anger in my voice. I turned to leave, but he grabbed my arm and before I could stop him, he kissed me on the lips. Despite my anger, I couldn't help feeling something; excitement, passion---I wasn't sure. I pushed him away, looking at him silently.

He turned bright red in the face, like the borscht soup that we had eaten earlier. "I'm...sorry. I'm sorry, Sonia," he stammered with embarrassment. "I don't know what came over me. You are so pretty, with that little button nose and light blonde hair..." his voice trailed off.

I quietly walked over to him with a smile on my lips. Then I slapped him hard on the face. Alexander rubbed his cheek, saying nothing. "You will respect me, Alexander Pavlovich," I informed him, tears coming to my eyes. "You need respect me..." I stammered. I turned around and fled the garden. I ran up the back steps, onto the large, wooden porch, and fled into the house. I retreated to the safety of the kitchen, grateful to find it empty. Harriet was nowhere to be seen. I was happy---I just wanted to be alone.

I glanced at the refrigerator. Taped to the front of it was a piece of paper. I tore it off and regarded it. What I held in my hands was a recipe. I examined it a little more closely, wiping away the remainder of my tears with the sleeve of my shirt. It was a recipe for a Russian cake. I carefully read the instructions. It was something that I had never seen before; a Russian Bird's Milk Cake. At first glance, it seemed too difficult to attempt to bake. A note was attached to the back of the recipe. It simply said: "For the baking contest." But who had left it there for me?

"A Bird's Milk Cake?" a girl's soft voice from behind startled me. I almost jumped, quickly spinning around. It was Becky, the next-door neighbor. Her milky-white skin looked paler than ever. I noticed that she was wearing the same sweater and dress that she had worn on the day we first met. But that had been two weeks ago; surely she must have had something else to wear.

I smiled at her. "Oh, you are scaring me, Becky," I told her. "I see you are here for promised cookies. Give me moment; I will bake some for you," I promised her.

But Becky's attention was fixed upon the piece of paper that contained the recipe. "Do they really use the milk of a bird?" she asked innocently.

I laughed. "Oh, silly girl, that is just name of cake. It is looking like milk of bird, not tasting like it. Here," I showed her the recipe. "Big contest is being tomorrow, and Sonia is lazy girl. Let's try and make this together, huh?" I asked the serious-faced girl. For the first time since I met her, Becky smiled.

"Oh, I would like that, Sonia!" Becky exclaimed. "Mommy never lets me help her cook. She says that I'm too frail," her eyes darkened for a moment.

"But is being nonsense," I declared. "You will help Sonia, da?"

Becky enthusiastically nodded her head. I found a clean mixing bowl and placed it on the counter. The recipe called for gelatin that had been soaking in warm water. I retrieved a box of gelatin from the cupboard, and let it soak while I showed Becky a card game that we played in Russia. When I thought it ready, I placed the gelatin in a steel pot and boiled it. I let Becky help me to strain it. We separated six egg whites and beat them thoroughly. I then stirred in one and a half cups of sugar, slowly adding it to the gelatin with mashed butter. I put this cream-souffle part in the refrigerator and moved on to the cake part.

I had Becky help me to separate six more egg whites, and we beat these, adding one and a half cups of sugar. I took the remaining twelve egg yolks and added them in one at a time. I added one and a half cups of flour and carefully stirred the mixture. I placed this into a cake mold covered with metal foil, sprinkling some flour over the top. Becky got much of the flour on herself; however, with her pale skin it wasn't as obvious as it would have been on someone else. I placed the mold into the oven. The recipe called for a baking time of about forty minutes. As I set the timer, I wondered if it was wise, trusting to a recipe from an unknown source. I admonished myself for not considering this question before doing all this work.

"Do you think this turn out ok, Becky?" I asked her over my shoulder.

But there was no reply. I looked over to where Becky had been standing. There was nothing there but some white flour lying on the floor. She must have slipped out the back door while I was busy with the oven. I pulled up a wooden stool and sat watching the cake rise through the glass window of the oven. I must have dozed off; the timer buzzed and I hastened to use a couple of cloth pot holders to retrieve the cake from the heat.

"Is smelling good, huh?" a familiar voice surprised me from behind. I nearly dropped the cake, having been startled like that. The familiar square eyeglasses and blondish-gray hair of Harriet Blom greeted my curious look. She wore a strange half-smile; part mocking, part friendly. I placed the still-warm cake on a cooling rack on the counter. As I was taking the pot holders off of my hands, Harriet reached over to turn the oven off.

"I'm sorry," I quickly told her. "I should have turned off oven more quick. Was careless of me," I said quietly. I shook my head in disgust. But Harriet smiled; to my surprise, she placed a friendly hand on my shoulder.

"It's ok, Sonia," she assured me. "Perhaps I am being too hard on you these past two weeks," she informed me, her brow wrinkled with concern.

"Oh, no Babushka," I contradicted her. "You have been fair boss. I am appreciating all you have done," I assured her.

Harriet shook her head with sadness. "No I have been tough on you. No one likes being replaced, especially by younger, better-looking person. But you have been doing good job here, Sonia. Your cheerfulness is bringing much-needed light to this somber house," she declared.

I was embarrassed, and tried to change the subject. "I am finding this recipe for cake taped to refrigerator. I am preparing now for entry tomorrow. Am hoping it turn out ok," I confided to her. Despite myself, I was once again pulling on my earlobe.

"Then we are making it come out ok," Harriet cheerfully declared. As we waited for the cake to cool, I took some milk-chocolate out of the cupboard and melted it in a pot. After testing it with a toothpick, I cut the cake lengthwise with a sharp knife. Harriet helped me to spread the cream-souffle on one part. We covered it with another, and then carefully poured the melted chocolate upon the top and sides of the cake. We finished it with a flourish, decorating it generously with fruits and nuts.

"Voila," Harriet announced in triumph when we had finished. "The famous Russian Bird's Milk Cake will beat all competition tomorrow," she declared. "You winning contest is as certain as wrinkles on Harriet's face," she laughed.

I laughed with her, but I was still worried. "But Babushka," I protested. "I am taking big risk on cake. What chance has Sonia from small village in Russia to beat American cooks?" I shook my head.

Harriet's face was suddenly red with anger. She had a look that almost seemed like a sneer; not unlike the one she had on the day I met her. "Are you questioning Harriet, girl?" she said with an almost hostile stare. Then, she seemed to soften a bit. Some of the wrinkles on her face relaxed. "You are not good cook---you are great cook," she assured me with a pat on my back. She gave me a quick hug and smiled. "You are needing confidence, Sonia. When you believe, they will believe," she informed me.

I wrapped the cake in metal foil, covering it with a plastic cover for the next day. Harriet left that afternoon to do some errands, and I took the opportunity to dust the living room. I usually avoided this room if I could help it; the picture there with the bridge over the river still made me shiver every time I viewed it. But I couldn't avoid it; I needed to dust around that area, and I knew that I was just being silly.

As I wiped the rag over the glass surface of the picture, I thought that I could hear the sound of the river flowing. It was loud, like the roar of thunder. I imagined that I could feel the cold spray of water on my face. I thought that I saw the current rapidly moving. Then, I saw the ghostly face. It was grinning, reaching its white, bony hands out to me. I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to jump into its arms...

Suddenly, someone abruptly pulled me back from the abyss. As I staggered away from the painting, I felt a jolt to my system; I was disoriented for the moment, unsure of where I was. Then, I recovered, and turned around to see who it was that was holding me tenderly in their strong arms.

It was Ivan Pavlovich.

I nearly shrieked in my surprise. My eyes went wide with fear. However, Ivan was smiling in a friendly, almost fatherly manner. He stroked my hair, and helped me to the Victorian-style sofa. I sat down and attempted to catch my breath. Ivan remained standing in front of me, watching me with interest as I fidgeted on the velvet sofa. He looked down at his watch, regarding with a warm grin.

"My dear Sonia," he gently addressed me. "You really should be more careful. That picture is a strange one indeed. Nicholas should have warned you about it," he admonished his brother.

I tried to return Ivan's smile. "Thank you, Mr. Pavlovich. I don't know what happened. I felt that I needed to jump into that river---but that is crazy, no?" I inquired of him.

Ivan was pacing back and forth across the living room carpet. He reminded me of a caged Siberian tiger. He took one last look at the painting; he then seemed to forget that it existed.

"Crazy...no, not at all," he echoed me. Ivan Pavlovich paused for a moment, gazing at me with a strange mixture of craving and disgust. One moment I felt that he might take advantage of me; the next, I could see something wolf-like, ravenous in his eyes. He reminded me of a wild beast, about to devour his prey.

But then, Ivan's voice became silky, not unlike that of his brother, Nicholas. "Little Sonia," he said in a calculating tone. "It must be difficult for you to be here, all alone in a strange house, in a foreign country," he said, bending down to one knee and stroking my hand kindly.

I was a little suspicious. "It hasn't being so bad," I replied cautiously. "Aunt Harriet, Mr. Nicholas, Mr. Alexander---they being friends as well as employers," I stated.

Ivan stared hard at me with those large, penetrating eyes of his. "And me, Sonia...am I not your friend as well?" he asked softly.

I hesitated. "Of course," I said reluctantly. "Mr. Ivan is being good friend too," I said weakly.

"Yes," the fox-like voice assented. "And friends should be willing to help each other, shouldn't they, Sonia? For you see," he said a little louder, rising to his feet. "I need your help, my friend. Very, very much so," he implored me.

I looked around the room. It appeared that I was alone in the house with Ivan Pavlovich. Neither Alexander nor Nicholas seemed to be around, and Harriet had not yet returned from her errand. And I suddenly realized how dark the room had become.

Ivan's hulking body edged closer to the edge of the sofa. I could smell the strong odor of cologne upon him; he clearly liked to sprinkle it liberally upon himself. His eyes peered challengingly into my own. My hands began to tremble with fear.

"There is an item, Sonia," he informed me. "An item which I suspect is located somewhere in this house. An item which I must have," he stated with iron determination.

I was flabbergasted. "What...what kind of item?" I asked in confusion. "I am not knowing what you talk of, Mr. Pavlovich." But Ivan just broadened his grin, shaking his head with derision. "Ah, but I think you do know of what I talk about. You cook, you clean---in fact, you have the very run of the house, do you not?" he commented with an almost diabolical, gleeful look upon his features.

I shook my head, denying him again. But this time, Ivan lost his patience. "Don't be coy with me, little Russian girl," he commanded. "There is a valuable family heirloom hidden in this house. One which rightfully belongs to me!" he roared. But then, noticing my cowering, shaking form, he changed his tone of voice.

"Perhaps Mr. Ivan is wrong," he said much more softly. "Perhaps you don't know what Nicholas has been hiding from me. But--you can help me to find it," he demanded.

I was tired of his repeated attempts at intimidation. I got to my feet and tried to assert myself. "I am not knowing anything concerning family heirlooms, Mr. Pavlovich," I informed him, attempting to keep a steady voice and trying desperately not to pull on my earlobe. "I have been busy baking cake for West Hartford contest tomorrow. It is being held in old town hall. I want to be chef...not be in middle of family squabble," I said with determination.

Ivan's voice was quieter, almost reflective. "Ah, but you are in the middle, Sonia," he informed me. "And that is a position from which you will help me," he said. From his pocket, Ivan pulled out an old drawing of a Russian tea samovar. In America, a samovar would probably be considered a large kettle. This particular one was shaped like a silver bullet, with gold leaves decorated upon its ornate top and bottom. As I examined the picture, I noticed that there were two interlocking letter A's on the surface of the samovar. There was something strangely familiar about it---like something that I had seen before. It reminded me of a samovar that I had seen in a Russian history book.

"Here," Ivan commanded me, as he forced the picture into my hands. "You will search the house for this object for me; you will start immediately, and tell no one about it. For you see, Sonia," confided, putting his large, red-bearded face right in front of my own. "I can get you all the things you most desire: Money, citizenship, becoming a chef---the entire American Dream," he promised. "And," he threatened, with a menacing curl of his lip. "I can take your American Dream away. If you betray me, I'll have you deported. Or worse," he whispered cryptically.

Suddenly, the figure of Alexander Pavlovich appeared in the room. My fear transformed into gratefulness. I ran over to where he was standing, and clutched his arm for protection. "What's going on here, Ivan?" he challenged his older brother. I had never heard Alexander speak to Ivan in this manner.

Ivan whistled, smiling as he sauntered over to his little brother and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Why, nothing little brother," he assured Alexander in a booming, jovial voice. "I was simply wishing Sonia good luck in the baking contest tomorrow. In fact," he added. "I hope to be there personally to offer her moral support. Am I to understand that it's being held at the old West Hartford Town Hall?" he inquired.

I slowly nodded my head. I was still clinging to Alexander's arm. I managed to find my voice. "Is being starting at ten in morning. I make special Russian cake for entry," I said softly, still afraid of him.

Ivan smiled at me knowingly. "Well, I think that I may have a client on the judging board," he informed me warmly. "So, just consider what we discussed, Sonia. And remember, we will have tea together soon," he promised with special emphasis.

Ivan looked at his watch. He then opened the front door, exiting 69 Keeney Avenue without another word. I hurried to the window and peered out through the curtains to get a view of the front lawn. Ivan had stopped at the small rose garden that Becky loved so much. He picked a beautiful red rose, holding it out towards the house as if he could see me right through the curtains.

Then he crushed the rose, letting the mangled petals blow away in the strong wind. With a smile, he put one finger to his lips in a secretive manner. I could tell that he was giving me a warning. Ivan Pavlovich then quickly walked to his Mercedes-Benz, got inside it and drove away.

I turned from the window to face Alexander. He was giving me a strange, intent look. I smiled weakly at him.

"Thank you," I said.

"What did..." Alexander began.

"Thank you," I repeated.

"Is there anything I can..." he tried to say.

"Thank you," I said, gratefully and emphatically. I turned to go the kitchen. There was much I needed to do, not the least was to prepare dinner. But Alexander caught my hand, momentarily preventing me from leaving the living room.

"Thank you," I said once more. I gave his hand a little squeeze, batting my eyes at him as we both smiled wordlessly. We gazed at each other for a moment more. I then dropped his hand and hurried to the kitchen to prepare the evening's dinner.

The Zakuska herring and Pokhlobka potato soup came out well this time.

# CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, Harriet drove me to the West Hartford Town Hall, where the baking contest was to take place. I needed to be there early; we were to be given instructions pertaining to the various rules and procedures of the morning's event. When Harriet had knocked on Alexander's door to see if he was coming to support me, she received only a loud grunt. Shaking her head in frustration, we made our way to the Town Hall alone. Nicholas had made a vague promise to try and get away from the University and come to cheer me on; however, he hadn't seemed willing to make a commitment. I felt a little disappointed with the Pavlovich men, but was certainly grateful for the support and help of Harriet.

When we arrived at the hall, it was utter chaos. People were yelling at one another, arguing over the placement of their cakes, debating over what constituted a cake and what didn't, who was eligible and who wasn't, and other countless tiffs. The majority of contestants appeared to be women, yet there were also a few male cooks participating. And these men were as passionate and as combative as the women, particularly one man with a black mustache. He was busy claiming his territory on the judging table with a large, glass bowl. This gentleman's creation was a combination of golden-yellow and brown swirls, with a fine brown powder sprinkled on its surface. If I wasn't mistaken, he had made the famous Italian dish called Tiramisu.

As I placed my cake down next to his, the man with the black mustache gave me an unfriendly look. He was short and pudgy, with a balding head of oily-black hair that matched the color of his mustache. The look he gave me was appraising; it was not unlike the look you might get from a gunfighter in the old West who is sizing you up as a rival. I tried to ignore this man as I straightened out the tablecloth and attempted to sign my name on the provided card. The man gave us an icy glare; Harriet returned this with one of her own. To our chagrin, the unpleasant man approached us as we attempted to get ready for the judging.

"Are you two broads gonna' take up all the table space or what?" he asked us with an ugly smirk.

"We are not broads---we are ladies," Harriet testily replied to the rude man. "A gentleman would not try and take up all space for himself," she said as she regarded the man's entry with contempt. "Is your mother baking this monstrosity, or are you buying this from supermarket?" she asked of the man.

The man had an unfriendly smile upon his features as he slowly rubbed his mustache. "You got some kinda' smart mouth, lady," he remarked. He regarded my entry for the contest. "I hope that cake ain't as bitter as your tongue," he addressed Harriet. He looked in my direction. "You kinda' young to be here, ain't you?" he asked of me. "You grandma's assistant here?" he indicated Harriet with his thumb.

I shook my head. "I am entering cake myself, and you are...?"

"Dante is the name," he informed me. "But you broads..." a look from Harriet stopped him in his tracks. "I mean, you ladies can call me Paulie. And this monstrosity, as you call it, is my Ma's Tiramisu," he stated with pride as he pointed to his cake.

I smiled in an attempt to make peace. "I am being Sonia Godunov," I introduced myself. "Please to call me Sonia. And this is being Harriet Blom," I introduced Harriet.

"Please to call me Mrs. Blom," Harriet declared, arching her eyebrows and sniffing her nose at the man.

"Pleased to meet ya both," he said cheerfully with a short wave of his hand. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I gotta' get my stuff ready, I'm a stickler for the details," he told us. He then ignored us, focusing all his attention upon the display of his Italian cake.

Before we could do much more, we were interrupted by the voice of an elderly lady with falsely-colored dark hair and a garishly-bright yellow dress. She introduced herself with the aid of a microphone as the event coordinator. She informed us of the rules, procedures and the schedule of the morning's events to be certain of no misunderstandings. We contestants were to place our entries on the long table with the red tablecloth, ensuring that we had properly filled out our display cards. Then, we were to stand in a special section of the hall reserved for us, and to await the results of the judging. Only one person per entry was allowed here; relatives and friends were relegated to sitting in the seats provided for the audience. Harriet wished me good luck; she then went to sit down on one of these metal fold-out chairs.

I had a nervous twitch in my stomach as I stood there awaiting the decision. Without being actively conscious of it, I began to pull on my earlobe. But then, I suddenly felt someone giving my hand a friendly, supportive squeeze. For a moment, I wondered if it was Paulie Dante.

"Good morning, child. Fancy meeting you here," a warm, familiar voice greeted me. It belonged to Father Nicolai! I happily shook his hand. "Father Nicolai," I almost shouted with joy, "What are you being here for?"

"Why, the same as you child," he responded with twinkling eyes. "I have prepared a Kulich Paskha cake, one typical of Easter in Russia as you must know. It's over there," he indicated the table with the red tablecloth.

I recognized it at once. It was tall and cylindrical; it was covered in white icing and adorned with raisins and nuts. It rested upon a large, silver platter, one that was quite elegant and tasteful. But that wasn't all. Forming a colorful circle around the tall cake were brightly-painted Ukrainian eggs. If presentation and style counted for anything, Father Nicolai would surely take first place.

I nodded my head, squeezing the priest's arm gently. "That is amazing cake," I declared, overwhelmed and perhaps a little jealous. "You are winning blue ribbon for sure," I informed him. He beamed with pride. "I don't know, Sonia," he said hesitantly. He looked at my entry and smiled. "I like the look of your creation. Is that a traditional Russian Bird's Milk Cake?" he asked kindly.

I scrutinized the floor in embarrassment. "Da," I responded. "But, there is being no comparison," I said quietly with self-deprecation. Father Nicolai placed a friendly hand on my shoulder. "Don't lack confidence, Sonia," he told me. "We will let the judges make comparisons. In the meantime, let's relax and observe some of the colorful characters in this audience," he said with a laugh.

It seemed like a strange thing for a priest to say. But then, Father Nicolai was no ordinary priest. He was very down-to-earth; I had really come to think of him as someone whom I could trust. Taking his lead, I inspected the large group of people which had come to watch this provincial baking contest. It was a varied mix of folks; some old, some young, some female, some male. I supposed that they were similar in their love of the culinary arts. I continued to view the crowd. Suddenly, I noticed a familiar figure sitting next to Harriet. For a moment, my heart stirred; I thought it might be Alexander. However, with a closer look I soon realized that the familiar figure was another Pavlovich. It was Alexander's older brother, Nicholas.

He waved at me from his seat. I guessed that he was there to offer support. But even from where I was standing, I could see the cold, dead look in his eyes. Nicholas didn't appear as much bored as disengaged from reality. As I beheld him, I wondered why he had even bothered to come to the event. Father Nicolai, following my gaze and recognizing my employer, shook his head with disapproval.

"So," he said darkly. "The leopard has emerged from his lair in order to hunt his prey," Father Nicolai commented as he caught the eye of Nicholas Pavlovich. The two men stared hard at each other for what seemed like forever. The noisy room suddenly became deathly quiet; there was something in their mutual glare that seemed to consume both light and sound. It filled me with terror; I tried to look away, but was quickly distracted by the honey-toned voice of the event coordinator.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending this important community event," she began. "We thank you for both your past and present support of our local culinary artists," she gushed. "We are happy this morning to present to you some of the finest future chefs of West Hartford, as well as their remarkable creations," she remarked.

She then proceeded to introduce the contestants, the panel of judges, and various other town officials who were present. The judging panel consisted of two women and one man. The gentleman was a plump, middle-aged fellow with rosy cheeks and a neatly trimmed mustache. There was something oddly familiar about him...then it hit me! He was the short man that I had observed on the bus that first time I had gone to the Orthodox Church on Scarborough Street in Hartford. I expected him to recognize me; however, he just contemplated the entries, seemingly oblivious to my presence.

The first lady judge was blonde, with a too-sharp nose and thin, red lips. Her eyes were colossal, like two ostrich eggs with dilated pupils. Her posture was awful; she hunched over like Quasimodo, and kept sniffing the air like some bloodhound. The second lady judge looked like an Indian from Bombay. She had jet-black hair, liberally sprinkled with streaks of gray. She was fairly short and heavy-set, with a limping walk that suggested lameness. She had thick, bushy eyebrows; their ebony color seemed to contrast sharply with the rich, light-brown tone of her complexion. She wore a traditional Indian dress which contained various shades of orange and brown. A bright red dot was displayed prominently on her forehead, between her eyebrows. When she smiled, her demeanor made me think that she was in physical pain.

The three judges circled around the table, examining each entry carefully and nibbling on a sample from each one. It was difficult to determine what they were thinking; however, the blonde bloodhound seemed to sniff even more when she regarded my cake, and the short, chubby fellow took a second sample, nodding his head at me as he did. The Indian lady didn't waste more than a moment on my entry. However, I did notice her looking closely at my name card, hesitating for just a second. With a quick look at the audience, she then hurried on to the next entry, inspecting it with diligence, and taking a slice to taste.

I was very nervous. When the judges came to Father Nicolai's cake, they appeared to be most impressed. They whispered to one another; the bloodhound took time off from her sniffing to write a note in her little book. It was clear to me that Father Nicolai's entry had definitely met with the approval of the judging panel. The short, chubby man himself ate three slices. I was happy for Father Nicolai's sake, but was a little disappointed for my own. However, I only had myself to blame. I should have spent more time in the planning and preparation of my cake.

Suddenly, the event coordinator raised her shrill voice: "Ladies and gentlemen! The judges have made their decision," she said, taking a handful of ribbons from her pocket. She went over to Paulie Dante's entry and paused for a moment. Then she spoke:

"In third place, I'm happy to award our prize to Paulie Dante's delicious Tiramisu! It simply arrested our taste buds," she smiled at him as she said this, as if laughing at some private joke.

Paulie Dante did not return her smile. "Get outta here! You freakin' kidding me?" he said as he shook his head with disappointment. I smiled at him with sympathy, but he just shrugged his shoulders angrily in response. "Third prize for my Ma's recipe" he said bitterly, almost to himself. "I'll use this ribbon to wipe my ass," he remarked.

Apparently embarrassed by Dante's bad sportsmanship, the event coordinator quickly moved down the table. She stopped at Father Nicolai's Kulich Paskha cake, pausing again for a dramatic moment. She then held up a red ribbon to show the audience. "And in second place we have Father Nicolai Andropov, whose Russian Easter cake is a masterful blend of taste and elegance," she said, then paused a moment, a sly grin upon her features. "And as a Russian," she continued. "I'm certain that he will be happy with the color red," she joked.

There were a few chuckles in the audience, mixed with groans of annoyance. I searched for Father Nicolai, to witness his reaction to the judging. To my surprise, his face displayed no hint of disappointment. On the contrary, he was smiling broadly and raising his fists in triumph. A feeling of rejoice came over me; I overcame my hesitancy and went over to share in the celebration of my friend.

"Isn't this great, child?" he said happily. "I didn't expect to win any ribbons. This is the first time that I have placed in the top three," he told me, beaming with pride.

"But, you are having best cake," I informed him. "Why you not mad?" I asked.

Father Nicolai patted my shoulder warmly. "There is no shame in second place," he told me. "Seeing all these people display their love of cooking, that is the important part of the event. Encouraging people to be creative and supporting their dreams---that is what this contest is really about. Unfortunately, some people just don't get that," he said, sighing with disapproval as he watched Paulie Dante storm off from the table. The third-place contestant tossed his ribbon in a garbage can, and with the slam of a door, exited the building. I ignored this display and instead, gave Father Nicolai a hug.

"Congratulations," I told him. "You are being real winner today," I informed him with a smile.

We were interrupted by the unfailingly cheerful voice of the event coordinator. "And now," she said dramatically. "The award that you have been anticipating.This year's blue ribbon for first place in the West Hartford baking contest goes to...Sonia Godunov, for her Russian Bird's Milk Cake!" she yelled, pointing in my direction with a look of glee. "Come here, Sonia! Let everyone see you," she commanded.

I was deeply shocked. I kept blinking my eyes, not certain that I was not in some kind of a dream. All of a sudden, several people were patting me on the back, shaking my hand with congratulations. I turned to Father Nicolai in confusion. He was very quiet as the loud noise of the crowd waved around us. I thought that perhaps he was angry at me for beating him. I looked at him with tears in my eyes and shook my head.

"I am being sorry, Father Nicolai," I apologized lamely. "My simple cake being no match for yours..."

He stopped me in mid-sentence. "No, child, remember what I said? Don't lack confidence; this is the first step toward achieving your dreams," he said, his voice full of emotion. He was smiling warmly, though there were tears in his eyes. "I am very proud of you, Sonia," he informed me.

I was being pushed to the main judging table. There were various shouts of encouragement and applause as I approached the event coordinator. She handed me the blue ribbon, then shook my hand energetically, until I felt like it would fall off. Then, she turned to the audience, placing her arm around my waist and facing me in the direction of the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began. "There were so many exquisite dishes presented today that choosing one over the others was a difficult task for our panel of judges," she informed the audience. She paused, giving me a smile. "However, there was one entry that captivated us with its unique combination of simplicity and ethnic charm. It was the creation of this young lady, a cake that is sinfully delicious. It has a blend of flavors and textures that enchanted both our imaginations and our taste buds," she declared.

I was red in the face from both the heat of the crowd and the embarrassment of the woman's words. I gazed out into the sea of unfamiliar faces that made up this audience. I fervently wished to recognize Alexander's dark features, but I could see no hint of him among the spectators. However, I did spot Harriet; she was standing in front and watching me with that red face and those square eyeglasses of hers. She was smiling broadly, and when she caught my eye she showed her approval by putting her thumbs up in the air. I noticed that Nicholas was also watching; he regarded me with a hypnotic stare that made me feel uneasy. His eyes no longer appeared cold and lifeless; they seemed to glow red, like those of a dragon. He nodded his head in my direction, as if we had entered into some unholy covenant. I averted my eyes from his as quickly as possible.

The event director began to speak. My face flushed red, and I tried to regain my composure and smile. I pulled on my earlobe so hard that it began to throb with pain.

"Sonia Godunov is new to our community," the director said loudly. "She has come all the way from Russia to join us here in West Hartford. I understand that she is residing with the Pavlovich family, who are well-known and respected here in town. We are proud to present to her the award for first place, and look forward to her returning next year to delight us with new delicacies," she said gushingly. She turned to me. "Would you like to share your thoughts with us, young Sonia?" she asked with a ridiculous grin as she suddenly handed me the microphone.

I was speechless. What was I to say? I stood there with a blank look; a few people in the audience began to titter at my discomfort. Finally, I managed to find my voice. "Being grateful, thank you kind people," I said weakly. "I am being very happy, thanks to good people of West Hartford. Also, I want give special thanks to Harriet Blom. She is being special friend," I said, with tears of appreciation in my eyes.

The audience clapped at this for quite some time. And then, the contest was over, as quickly as it had begun. I took a moment to examine my blue ribbon. I had to admit that it was beautiful. I had never won anything back home, and here I was in America, winning my first baking contest. I turned sideways to search for Father Nicolai. But to my disappointment, he seemed to have mysteriously vanished from the hall. I turned it over in my mind---perhaps he truly had been upset at not winning a blue ribbon. But this was impossible. Wasn't it?

I ran over to where Harriet was standing. She held her arms out, and we embraced. She held my hand as I looked at her moon face. I noticed that she had tears in her eyes; she wiped these away with a large hand, stepping away from me so that she could behold her good work. "You are doing well, Sonia," she said with a voice husky with emotion. "Pavlovich family is being very proud," she declared. Harriet then resumed something of her former manner, tilting her head at me and putting her hands on her hips. "I am needing face cream now, no?" she said with mischief. "Are you still insinuating I'm having wrinkles?" she said, laughing.

I laughed too. But then, her face grew dark. She turned from me and began to search the room with her gaze. I was confused. I would never understand why I seemed to offend people when I didn't mean to. However, I was saved from this negative feeling by the appearance of Nicholas Pavlovich. He had apparently hung back, too shy to approach me before. Now, he put out a hand to congratulate me.

"Harriet is correct, Sonia," he offered. "We are absolutely proud of you," he informed me. To my surprise, he reached out his hand and squeezed my own. His touch was cold; I had never felt such a chill in my life. I reflexively pulled back my hand, smiling with embarrassment.

"Please to thank you, Mr. Pavlovich," I said quickly. "I am being very grateful you come," I told him.

He regarded me with a strange, half-smile. "Oh, I don't pretend to know much about cooking," he admitted, his hairy eyebrows arching as his forehead displayed his middle-aged wrinkles. "In my youth, we tended to get baked rather than baking, and our brownies were more of the hashish variety. Frankly, I tended to handle the smoking rather than the production; far too many cooks spoil the pot," he jested, smiling at his own bad joke.

Harriet suddenly reappeared, and gently pushed her nephew away. "We are not needing black humor now, Nicholas Pavlovich," she declared. "This is time of triumph for Sonia," she stated with pride in her voice. I quickly forgot her earlier change in mood and felt incredibly close to the crusty lady who had helped me so much. This was a very special moment for me; I only wished that Alexander could have come to share it with me.

Then, through the dense crowd of people, I thought I saw the dark, penetrating Pavlovich eyes. A fluttering in my stomach made me giddy for a moment as my hopes seemed to have been suddenly realized. But as I studied them, I soon realized that they were not the eyes of Alexander Pavlovich.

They were Ivan's eyes.

He was immaculately dressed, a fashionable gray suit and tie giving him the air of some country gentleman. His shining bald head never appeared so large, his red goatee never as sharply cut, his cat-like eyes never quite as cunning. He took my hand and kissed it in that old-world style of his. He seemed almost debonair as he cheerfully greeted us.

"Well, you've amazed us again this day, haven't you Sonia?" his lion's roar echoed through the hall. I gave him a polite smile, but I couldn't hide the mistrust in my voice.

"Being very thankful that you come today, Mr. Ivan," I quickly said. "Is much appreciated," I added nervously.

"But of course, Sonia...I wouldn't have missed this for all the real estate in West Hartford," he said emphatically. He then turned to Harriet. "Well, Aunt Harriet, you've certainly helped this little flower to blossom," he observed. Ivan offered her a friendly smile, but she rebuffed his overture.

"This girl is being wildflower," she declared, shaking her head with unconcealed distaste for her nephew. "She has bloomed with no other hand than that of God," she pointed upwards with one finger.

"Yes, Harriet, you are right as usual," Ivan said with deference. But his eyes shone with malice. "Sonia has had help from a higher power," he said, waving to the judges who were in the process of leaving the hall. The Indian lady nodded her head at Ivan and then quickly fled the room. The real estate mogul then returned his attention to me.

"A very nice lady, that Gita is," he confided to us. "I'm helping her to purchase a house on Mountain Road. But I think you'll discover that I am very helpful those who show their gratitude," Ivan said with meaning. He stared hard at me; though he continued to smile, I observed that his eyes were forcing their way into my heart, attempting to frighten me into submission. Clearly, he expected a satisfactory closing today.

Before I could reply, Nicholas Pavlovich suddenly reappeared. He intervened, placing himself between me and his brother. "Like Gogol, you're still shopping for souls, huh Ivan?" he asked, his leopard's purr contrasting sharply with the bombastic tone of his younger brother.

"Don't interfere with me, little man!" Ivan's voice bellowed, echoing through the hall. He looked around, taking care to see that no one else was listening. He then spoke in a calmer voice. "You don't really know who I am," he said enigmatically.

It was now Nicolas' turn to smile. And the dead, cold eyes seemed to come to life once more. "But...I do know, little brother," he said, mocking the bigger man. "I was there before the beginning. Mother gave birth to you at the beach. You came from the sea, and I observed there were ten horns on each of your fingers, though they were invisible to anyone else. And upon the heads of those horns was the name of blasphemy," he said quietly.

Ivan Pavlovich roared with laughter. "Well, you have to have your little jokes, don't you St. Nick?" he responded with mirth. "However, this is Sonia's day, not ours," he declared. He handed me one of his business cards. "Sonia, the Pavlovich family is proud of you. I'm looking forward to great things from you. I know that you are searching for something special here in America. When you have found it, call me on my cell phone," he directed me with paternal warmth.

Nicholas placed his arm around me in a protective manner. "I'm her host, Ivan. Whatever Sonia needs, I'll be the one to provide it for her," he said, giving Ivan a challenging stare.

Ivan gave his older brother one last look. "We will be settling today's account soon, big brother," he threatened in a soft voice.

"And I will be there after the end," Nicholas responded.

Ivan resumed his former cheerful manner. He gave us a friendly wave, and then disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. Harriet then took charge of the situation, brusquely admonishing her nephew. "A shame," she said with a chastising tone of voice. "A shame to talk so on Sonia's special day," she asserted. She smiled, sighing with something akin to resignation. "Let's forget about Mr. Sunshine, and go home to celebrate. I am being happy to think of hanging the blue ribbon on refrigerator," she happily said.

We drove home in an atmosphere of silence, each person reflecting on their own thoughts. As the car made its way down North Main Street, I gazed out the window and noticed how close the houses were to the road. I wondered if the people who lived in those houses ever felt connected to the fast life that was speeding past them as they inched their way through their daily struggles. I thought of all the times I had passed these same houses, and never met the folks who lived in them. And I knew I probably never would.

As we pulled up in front of 69 Keeney Avenue, the house was deathly silent. We quietly parked the car in the stone driveway, making our way up towards the little porch. It was hotter than ever, despite the chilly Spring air. As Harriet opened the front door, an unexpected sight greeted us from the interior of the house. The usually dour living room was now brightly decorated with colorful crepe paper and balloons. Russian folk music blared from a small portable CD player on the white, wooden ledge. Alexander Pavlovich suddenly leaped out from behind the antique sofa. He was holding a banner in his hands, struggling to unfurl it. It had the words, 'congratulations Sonia', emblazoned on its surface.

"You did it, Sonia!" Alexander shouted. His usually somber, unfriendly face was now animated, the dark eyebrows contrasting with the sparkling laughter in his eyes. I was flabbergasted at the change.

"How...how you know?" I stammered. I was stunned, yet a joyful feeling began to creep upon me as I began to realize what the shy boy had done for me.

Harriet placed her hands on her hips. She shook her head, her red face attempting not to break out in a smile. "You American trickster, you are being one step ahead of Harriet Blom," she said with reluctant admiration. "But then, you are finding out from older brother, no?" she asked her other nephew in an accusing voice. The look of embarrassment on the visage of Nicholas Pavlovich gave him away. He pulled a small object from his pocket.

"Even Nicholas has to come into the Twenty-first Century," he admitted sheepishly. He held the object up so that we could examine it. "They are funny things these cell phones. I'm in the dawn of technology, in the twilight of the gods," he said cryptically.

There were tears of gratefulness in my eyes. I faced the unkempt man, with his crooked nose and his dirty eyeglasses staring me in the face. I felt a sudden urge to hug him. "You are being too much, Mr. Nicholas," I told him with my hands on my hips. I must have appeared at that moment like Harriet, for he turned away and walked to another part of the living room. I turned my attention to Alexander.

He had resumed something of his former manner, a look of arrogance replacing the friendly demeanor he had just been wearing. I reached my hand to touch his shoulder. He involuntarily flinched. He looked away in embarrassment. I had forgotten again of our cultural divide. I wondered if we would ever be able to narrow it. I spoke to him:

"I was being angry with you not coming to contest," I informed him. He turned back to face me once again. A smirk displayed itself on his face.

"Perhaps I was being there, little peasant girl" he replied, that arrogant look softening for a moment. He gazed at me for a long moment. I felt his longing for me, and heard all that he was afraid to tell me in that moment.

I was in the mood to rejoice. As the music played, I demonstrated to both Harriet and Alexander how to dance in the Russian style. We were all laughing and enjoying ourselves. Only Nicholas stood apart from our festivity. I noticed that he was staring intently at the strange painting of the bridge spanning the river. He was scrutinizing it carefully, as if he were surveying something new. His glassy dead eyes once more seemed to come to life. He removed his eyeglasses, cleaning them with a handkerchief and then resuming his inspection.

But then I lost track of him, as I continued to have fun teaching more folk dances to Alexander. After some time, he stumbled, chortling as he fell to the wooden floor that was covered with an old-style Persian rug. As Harriet helped him to his feet, I glanced over to where Nicholas had been standing. However, he had abruptly vanished, as if into the evening mist. It was too bad, I thought to myself.

I had wanted to thank him.

# CHAPTER SIX

True to her word, Harriet had attached my blue ribbon to the front door of the refrigerator. I knew that it was prideful of me, but I couldn't help frequently peeking at it as I prepared breakfast the next morning. I was making Kasha, a special Russian dish that I had not yet tried to cook in America. These were buckwheat cakes with mushrooms and onions. As they cooked I heated up some strong black tea to counter the morning chill. The excitement from the previous day had carried over to the present moment; I felt as cheerful as a Siberian puppy, and would have barked with happiness if I hadn't feared waking the neighbors.

I set the silverware. I then placed the breakfast that I had just prepared on the dining table. I happened to glance at the picture of Venice in Italy that hung on the sun-lit wall. The gondola was missing; the brown water appeared to be a blood-red color. I knew that it was just my vivid imagination, so I decided to ignore it. But then, the sound of a barking dog filled my ears. It was only for a brief moment, but it reminded me of my first night at 69 Keeney Avenue. I covered my ears with my hands---it soon stopped, and I was glad that I hadn't resorted to pulling on my earlobe.

Harriet and Alexander soon made their way to the dining room, and took their usual paces at the table. Alexander sat in front of the Venetian picture; when I took a second glance, it had returned to normal. Harriet sat opposite of her nephew, in front of the Indian painting. The presumably extinct buffaloes had returned, seemingly unharmed.

I carefully poured them both a cup of hot tea. Alexander took a bite of black bread, regarding my Kasha with some distaste. Harriet held her steaming cup with both hands, staring hard at the empty seat at the head of the table. It was the one usually occupied by Nicholas Pavlovich.

"Strange," she remarked, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. "I thought he is being here..." her voice trailed off.

Alexander was looking directly at me. This morning he wore a black t-shirt, black jeans, and fashionable black sneakers. I noticed that he wasn't wearing his cross.

"What happen to cross?" I asked.

"Didn't feel like wearing it," he replied testily.

"Why not?" I inquired.

"Maybe I've decided to become a born-again Jew," he said.

"What is being wrong with first birth?" I asked him with a half-smile.

"Being born wasn't bad," Alexander stated, his dark eyes contrasting with the mirthful grin on his face. "The hard part was I had to be there when it happened," he joked. I rolled my eyes. That was an old one, even in my country.

I suddenly noticed that Harriet was shaking her head with wonder. She abruptly stood up and walked from the dining room into the living room. She forced back the blinds, and gazed out into the front driveway.

"I knew this was being strange! Nicholas' car is still being in driveway," she informed us. She started to walk very quickly to the stairs. She placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head in bewilderment. "I thought he leave early for University, but car still here," she remarked. "I am going to his room to check," she announced. Her large frame filled the small space of the stairwell as she ascended the steps with purpose.

Alexander and I looked at each other in puzzlement. Finally, Alexander broke the awkward silence. "It's strange, I grant you, very strange. But then, my brother is a strange man," he commented.

"I am liking your brother," I told him confidentially. "But I admit, he sometime scare me," I almost whispered.

"Mama's death was hard on him," Alexander replied. "I was very young when she passed away. In fact, I never really knew her. She was said to be as delicate as a flower. In fact, that rose garden in the front yard was her pride and joy. She cultivated those flowers, and the garden was known and admired by many people in town for its beauty and simplicity. Not unlike your cooking," he added, smiling at me.

I looked down in embarrassment. I quickly changed the subject. "They were close, no? Mr. Nicholas and his mother?" I inquired.

Alexander slowly nodded his head. Speaking of his mother seemed to bring him pain. "I think that she protected him from our father," he remarked. "Peter Pavlovich was a very successful real estate agent here in West Hartford. Why he chose to remain in this old house, nobody knows; he could have easily afforded a better one. But perhaps the Pavlovich family is linked to it by destiny," he reflected.

Alexander looked around the room, regarding its furnishings with distaste. I had never realized how much he disliked the house he had lived in all his life. He glanced at the river picture that had terrified me so much, but didn't really seem to notice it. He then turned his attention back to me.

"In any case," he continued. "I've been told that Mama shielded Nicholas from the worst of our father's temper. My brother was artistic and sensitive, not cut in the Pavlovich mold. He preferred books and music to the worldly role that our father expected him to take. When he wasn't hiding in his room, his head in a book, Nicholas was busy helping our mother with her garden. They were inseparable," he said.

"She was being Harriet's sister, da? Catherine she called?" I asked.

Alexander gravely nodded his head, the look of a much-older man upon his features.

"Yes, that is correct," he confirmed. "My mother was born in Germany. She came here to America years ago, as an au pair, a kind of domestic nanny. They say she saw the hidden, tender part of my father's soul. They were a real contrast; my father the wolf, and my mother, a sort of Little Red Riding Hood. I've always wondered if it was some sense of guilt that attracted her to him; perhaps she felt as a German, she couldn't hurt my Jewish father by rejecting him. In any case, they were married after a very short courtship. The wedding took place at Elizabeth Park, on the West Hartford-Hartford border. It was a secular ceremony, held at the wooden gazebo near the rose garden. After the wine glass was crushed under my father's foot, the two of them danced together. Many people commented on my mother's wedding dress; it was white, but adorned with blood-red flowers. Perhaps she grew the roses here as a reminder of her day of happiness," Alexander reflected.

"And Harriet?" I inquired. "Was she also coming here from guilt?"

Alexander laughed; a look of contempt was visible upon his features. "My Aunt Harriet?" he said. "She despised my father at first sight. She warned my mother not to go anywhere near him. While Peter Pavlovich was alive, Harriet Blom was not allowed to even visit her sister at 69 Keeney Avenue. And my mother was not allowed to leave the vicinity of this house. It was only after the death of my parents that my aunt came here..." his voice trailed off.

I noticed that Alexander was staring with surprise at the sight of his aunt, who was standing silently in the entryway to the dining room. Harriet's large red face was now pale; all the color was seemingly drained from it. Her full lips were moving, yet no sound emerged from her mouth. There was fear in her eyes, a look of indescribable terror. Her entire body seemed to tremble with the very effort of breathing.

I jumped up from the table at once. "Harriet! What is being wrong?" I asked in concern. I was really scared; I had never seen anyone look so afraid in my entire life.

Some of the color returned to Harriet's ashen face. "He...he's not there," she managed to stammer. She leaned forward, supporting herself with a hand upon the edge of the dining table. I was really in fear of her suffering a mental breakdown.

Alexander and I exchanged a confused look at her words. "Not there?" Alexander asked. "In what sense? I've spoken to my brother many a time, and sensed that he wasn't really there listening to me. Not there emotionally? Nicholas Pavlovich is as detached from life as a camera. The light passes through him like a lens, but it doesn't touch him. In what way is he not there, Aunt Harriet?" he inquired.

Harriet was apparently too distraught to respond to Alexander's irony. "In most literal and physical way," she responded. "He is not being in bed, yet blood is there, nonetheless. I am thinking he is dead!" she declared with horror.

Dead! How could that be? A shiver ran up and down my spine as I thought this. I pulled on both of my earlobes, tears coming to my eyes from the pain. Before I could say anything, Alexander leaped up from the table and ran out of the room. I followed him as Harriet shadowed me, the three of us quickly making our way to Nicholas' bedroom. His door, usually closed shut and locked, was now wide-open. I hesitated a moment before entering; there was some cold feeling that warned me not to intrude upon the privacy of Nicholas Pavlovich. But Harriet pushed me aside, and I finally forced myself to follow her into the room. But I followed her with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

To my surprise, it wasn't a well-furnished room. There was a single bed with a cherry finished headboard propped up against the far wall. A small nightstand of the same color wood sat right next to it. The knobs caught my eye; they were white, each one adorned with a single maple leaf in its center. Across from the bed was a cherry-finished maple dresser, each drawer possessing the same maple leaf knobs. A large picture behind the dresser caught my eye. It was a reproduction of a famous painting that I had seen somewhere before in a book. In the picture, a man was lying asleep in a desert; a golden lion was poking its nose in the man's face. I didn't know why, but the picture really frightened me. I felt that the lion would roar at any moment.

Alexander was busy pulling the sheets off of Nicholas' bed. The ivory-white sheets were as pale as Harriet's face. She hadn't just imagined it; the dark, red blood was everywhere. It reminded me of the water in the Venetian painting in the dining room. The sight of this blood made me tremble---I started to shake all over my body with fear. The urge to run from the room overtook me, and yet, I was stunned by the sight of the red sheets. The sound of Alexander's voice shook me back to reality.

"We have to call the police," he grimly declared. There was pain and concern etched upon his face; however, I thought for a moment I detected a look of triumph in his eyes. What was it about this family that I couldn't put my finger on? They were unlike any people I had ever known back home in Russia. But then, Alexander's strange look quickly vanished, and I wondered to myself if I hadn't just imagined it. Alexander couldn't really be happy about this, could he?

Alexander pulled a small object from his pocket. It was his Blackberry cell phone, and he now used it to call the local police. He had shown it to me on earlier occasions; he could access the Internet with it, and send text messages to anyone he wanted. The bright lights from his new phone cast an eerie glow in the relative darkness of Nicholas' room. I looked furtively at Harriet, who was silently ringing her hands. She caught my glance and quickly averted her eyes, turning her back to me. I almost thought that she was talking to herself; she held her ear and spoke quietly to the wall. I was embarrassed for her, and returned my attention to the room. I noticed a small mirror on the opposite side from me, one that I hadn't noticed before. Something drew me to it, and I slowly and timidly approached it. The mirror was painted gold on its edges, with dabs of blue that resembled jewels. It was eight-sided, with eagles stretching their claws out on the top and bottom.

As I regarded my reflection, an image of a red-eyed, frightened young girl looked back at me. I prevented myself from once again tugging on my ear. Suddenly, I felt a hand reach out of the mirror and gently stroke my face. I pulled back with a cry, greatly startled. I blinked, but could observe nothing in the mirror except my own frightened face. Was I going crazy? Had all of the strange occurrences from the past few months been only my vivid imagination? I turned to Alexander, who was in the process of finishing his phone call. He hung up, and turned his attention to me.

"The police will be here soon," he informed me, the dark hair on his forehead hanging slightly over his eyes. "They said that we shouldn't touch anything, and that we need to get out of this room," he said. He paused for a moment, and almost smiled. "I guess that I tampered with evidence when I pulled up those sheets," he said sheepishly. I wanted to touch his arm in sympathy, yet something about his demeanor told me that he wouldn't welcome it. I think that it was the peculiarity of the situation that caused me to be so horrified. Where was Nicholas? Could he really be dead? And if so, where was his body? If he wasn't dead, where could he have disappeared?

We slowly made our way out of the room. No one spoke; I think that we were each too shaken by what we had just discovered to be able put our thoughts to words. Harriet sat down on a plush, red armchair in the living room. She slowly sank into it, the softness of the velour-like material enveloping her large, awkward body. She continued to rub her oversized hands together, as if she believed that she could erase the invisible blood from her palms.

Alexander remained on his feet, pacing back and forth on the carpet in the center of the living room. His restless energy recalled to my mind the first time that I had seen his brother Ivan. Indeed, though there was little physical resemblance between them, Alexander now seemed to possess much of his older brother's intensity. He glanced at his watch with impatience, then lifted his dark face and stared in my direction. His eyes seemed to have that cold, viper-like quality that so characterized those of Ivan Pavlovich. For the second time that evening, I felt a chill run up and down my spine.

"Do you know anything concerning Nicholas's vanishing act, Sonia?" Alexander suddenly accused me. I felt the air escape my lungs; I leaned against the sofa, supporting myself on its curved wooden arm as I struggled to regain both my balance and my breath. As I slowly calmed down, I noticed that Alexander's expression had suddenly changed. A look of genuine concern appeared on his face, the dark look in his eyes being replaced by a lighter, warmer one. He rubbed his black hair with the palm of his hand in frustration.

I finally found the words to reply to him. "I am not knowing about Mr. Nicholas being gone," I informed him indignantly. "I am being sorry you are upset. Me and Harriet also are...but please to not take your anger out on us, not being fair," I told him.

Alexander regarded me with an odd, half-smile. "How do you measure fairness?" he suddenly asked me. "When it's all done and gone, how will you be judged?" he questioned me.

His words made me angry, despite my resolve to control my feelings. "By how I am treating others," I replied. "You are not being judged so well this account," I informed him.

A look of annoyance crossed Alexander's features. "Maybe," he responded. "But some strange things have been happening in this house since you arrived, Sonia Godunov," he declared.

Hannah interrupted our conversation. "Strange things been happening in this house before you two been born," she said, with a melancholy look in her eyes.

I couldn't stand the tension anymore. "I'm needing to clean up breakfast," I informed them. I hurried to the dining room, and began to clean up the remnants of the morning meal. Sunlight poured in through the cracks of the window drapes. The rays were warm and golden; everything that the horrible morning had not been. I happened to glance at the Venetian painting on the wall. The gondola had returned; its sole passenger was a middle-aged man with graying hair and a crooked nose, a pair of dirty eyeglasses upon his face. He smiled at me from the seat of the strange boat. Was it Nicholas? I couldn't bear to look at it, quickly averting my eyes.

I placed the dishes into the sink and began to run the tap. The carton of milk that rested on the counter was still half-full, and I didn't want it to spoil. I opened the refrigerator door to return it to its place on the shelf. Suddenly, hundreds of insects flew out of the refrigerator, blinding me with their flapping wings. They were locusts! I batted them away, but there were too many of them. I swatted in every direction, both blinded and terrified by the spectacle of such hideous creatures. But then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the locusts vanished. I peered down and noticed that I had dropped the milk upon the kitchen floor. I bent down to clean it up, but a man's hairy hand beat me to it. This hand picked up the carton, shaking it until the last few milky drops had dripped upon the wet floor. The voice of the man startled me, for I had initially believed it to be Alexander.

"What's the matter, honey? You a kitty-cat crying over spilled milk?" the man said sarcastically. I looked up into the amused face of Paulie Dante, the man whom I had beaten in the baking contest. He was now smirking, and as my eye searched further, I noticed he wore a policemen's badge on his jacket. He regarded me with a look of ugly triumph.

"Lucy," he said with a kind of Spanish accent. "You got a lot of 'splaining to do."

# CHAPTER SEVEN

I was struck speechless. After everything else that had happened, the sudden appearance of Paulie Dante was especially jarring. Was he really some kind of police officer? He had given no hint of this at the baking contest. And yet, there he was, with a West Hartford badge pinned neatly to his navy-blue jacket, and a look of determination in his eye. The unmistakable tone of his voice told me that I truly did have some explaining to do, though about what I couldn't be certain.

"What...what you doing here?" I managed to stammer, still shaken by both the horrific experience at the refrigerator, and the unexpected presence of the rude would-be chef here in my home. I still had milk on my hands, and hastily attempted to wipe it off on my shirt.

Dante grinned, though his eyes weren't smiling. "Like you didn't know, Natasha," he sarcastically replied. "You remember Natasha, don't you?" he asked. "She was Boris Badenov's partner in crime. Question is: Did you have a partner in this crime?" Dante demanded.

My anger got the better of me. "How dare you accusing me of being criminal?!" I challenged him. Dante seemed momentarily taken aback by my aggressive defense. "I am not being girlfriend of this Boris you speak of, and my name is not Natasha. I am Sonia Godunov," I angrily informed him.

Paulie Dante put up his hands, as if to defend himself. "Ok, ok. Have it your own way, Poker Face," he said, once again grinning. "I'm just here to ask a few questions, and maybe get some answers," he said. Dante shrugged his shoulders; he then began to circle around the kitchen, letting no small detail escape his eye. He examined the small, butcher-block table, rubbing his hand over its smooth surface. He gazed at the Cobalt-blue cabinet, opening it slowly and paying close attention to the way it creaked as he pulled its door towards himself. Dante then let his eyes wander around the room, simultaneously pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He retrieved a small, silver-colored lighter from his jacket and turned it on with a flick of his fat thumb.

"Mind if I smoke?" he inquired. The tone of his voice suggested that he wasn't asking for permission. Despite my sense of intimidation, I didn't really feel like obliging his rudeness.

"Yes, I am minding," I replied. "This is private residence, not cheap bar," I informed him.

Paulie Dante's eyes betrayed amusement. "You got some kinda' smart mouth, girlie," he said with a half-grin. "You're a wise-ass, like your grandma from the contest. Yeah, this ain't a cheap bar, that's for sure. And you ain't no cocktail waitress neither, not with that uppity manner of yours," Dante remarked. Then he paused a moment, as if reflecting on something. "Still...I'm lookin' at several pieces of a puzzle I can't figure out. And I like putting the puzzles together even more than I like to cook," he told me.

Dante extinguished the flame in his lighter that he had somehow managed to keep alive during our conversation. He took the lighter and slowly slid it back into his pocket. The unlit cigarette he placed inside of his jacket. The unpleasant man briefly scrutinized the kitchen; he then turned his beady little eyes on me once more.

"You in the habit of spending time in here, Sony?" he inquired.

"Name is being Sonia, and da, I am spending much time in kitchen," I replied bluntly. "Cooks are being known to do this," I added tartly.

Dante ignored my barbed remark. "How long you known Nicholas Pavlovich?" he interrogated me.

I paused a moment to consider his question. It seemed like I had been living at 69 Keeney Avenue my entire life---the time had just passed by so quickly. I struggled to remember exactly when that taxi cab had brought me to this house that had changed my life so much. The Sonia Godunov who had lived in a small village in Russia was now an elusive stranger to me. That past life was now a dream I could barely recall.

"I think...I think it is being one month since I am moving here," I answered. If the short policeman didn't make me so nervous, I could probably have said this with more confidence and assurance. Without meaning to, I reverted to pulling on my earlobe. Dante's quick eye instantly witnessed the motion. I swiftly pulled my hand away from my face, which went red with embarrassment. Dante smirked, barely able to suppress a chuckle. He moved a little closer to me, and I involuntarily pulled back a few inches away from him. This time he really did snicker a bit.

"That's some kinda' quirk you got there, honey. You pull on that ear every time you lie?" he asked slyly.

I quickly attempted to protest, but Paulie Dante cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Nah, don't bother, Sony," he commanded me. "I know you been here in this country now five weeks. I know you go to that Russian church on Scarborough Street in Hartford once a week," he said, pausing a moment to watch my reaction. "I even know how you won that baking contest the other day," he smiled knowingly.

Hot tears came to my eyes. "Da...you are regular KGB," I accused him. "You are spying on me like that. But I do nothing wrong!" I defended myself.

Dante crossed his arms, arching his eyebrows as he tilted his head sideways. "Ok, Poker Face, have it your own way," he said resignedly, suddenly lowering his voice and speaking in a much softer tone. "Still, there's one thing kinda' playin' with my brain," he said. He paused, examining my blue ribbon that was still attached to the refrigerator door. "You gotta' admit, it's kinda' funny how your boss suddenly vanishes right after you win the first prize. Yeah, it's probably just a coinky-dink. Problem is...I don't buy into coinky-dinks," he said emphatically, suddenly giving me a long, hard stare.

I didn't know how to respond. Nothing in my previous life had prepared me for such an inquisition as this. Still, I felt strongly the need to maintain my innocence in the face of Dante's grilling. "Why should I be doing harm to Mr. Nicholas?" I asked the policeman. "He is being my boss, the one who give me big chance in America. Why I risk this? What I get from him disappearing?" I challenged Dante.

My point seemed to have hit its mark. Dante frowned, considering what I had said for a moment. He paced silently around the kitchen, frowning as he pondered my questions. He looked at me with a smirk, his arms crossed in front of him.

"Yeah, I hear you honey," he reluctantly admitted. "That motivation thing don't make no sense to me neither. And baby," he smiled in an unfriendly manner. "You don't look like you could say 'boo' to your shadow," he informed me.

Dante moved closer to me. I was very uncomfortable with his proximity to my person. He smelled of cheap cologne and body sweat. To my chagrin, he put his face close to mine, speaking in a soft, almost whispering tone of voice.

"What you think of that brother of his?" he asked. "Oh, not the one you're sweet on, honey," he smirked as he said this. I flushed with embarrassment at the mention of Alexander. "I'm talkin' bout the big shot, Ivan Pavlovich," he said the name with some disgust. For a moment, I sympathized with Paulie Dante. I wasn't crazy about Mr. Ivan either. But then, I remembered that I was being interrogated by a hostile detective. I tried to look impassive.

"Mr. Ivan Pavlovich is being very kind," I defended him. "He was supportive of me in contest," I stated.

A devilish grin betrayed itself upon Paulie Dante's face. "Oh, I know all about that kinda' support, baby," he said rudely. "See, you probably don't know who that broad was on the panel that pressured the others to vote you the blue. Her name is Indira Nehru. She's a realtor, just like old Ivan the Terrible. Matter fact, she gets a lot of his business. So, I'm guessin' Ivan's one cash cow she kinda' holds sacred," he said, chuckling at his own bad joke.

I stepped away from Dante. I crossed my own arms in indignation. "So, you insinuating contest was fixed?" I demanded of him. But he shook his head, just the trace of a grin on his features.

"Oh, I don't like to insinuate, Sony" he said defensively. "I just like to put the pieces together, know what I'm saying?" he remarked, then strolled around the kitchen again, slowly examining the cabinets. He reached up and pulled on the handle of the small, square door. Something about it seemed to fascinate him.

"You are never seeing kitchen cabinet?" I asked him with some sarcasm in my voice. I was still determined to not let him see how intimidated I was by his questioning.

"Not like this one, Sony baby," he replied. Dante found the wooden stool that was near the telephone, and dragged it over to the cabinet. He climbed upon it, struggling to balance himself and to get a closer look into the interior of the cupboard. His dark head poked inside, then reappeared with his eyes blinking furiously. Dante pulled his lighter out of his pocket, flicking it on and illuminating his view of the cabinet's interior.

"Please to not light house on fire," I requested him. I was indignant at the manner in which he took liberties without as much as asking permission.

"Oh yeah...but I'm the one on fire now, Russian chick," he replied. "This cabinet is just some kinda' façade," he told me. "Somethin' older is behind it," his voice echoed from somewhere deep in the cupboard. I could hear the noise of him pulling on something; the sound of cracking wood soon filled the kitchen.

"Hey," I protested, pulling on his stool. "You are going to pay damage to kitchen," I informed him.

Dante's voice boomed from within the hollow walls of the cupboard. "Don't worry your pretty little head, Sony. The town of West Hartford will compensate you. Sue me if you like; you can only wring so many pennies out of my salary, honey," he joked.

In answer, I pulled harder on the stool. The force of this caused Paulie Dante to fall back upon me. We both collapsed on the floor, the stool lying next to us. One of its legs was broken, the jagged stump a testament to the pig-headed determination of the detective to find some kind of clue, regardless of cost. I looked at Dante to see his reaction. To my surprise, instead of anger, there was a triumphant grin on his whiskered face. He held something upright in his hand. It was an old farming sickle, much like the one from the old Soviet Union flag. The blade looked sharp, the curved steel shining bright under the dull light of the kitchen lamp. It was a dangerous-looking object, the kind of tool that could cut right through anything.

And it had blood on it.

Dante forcibly pulled me up by my arm, dragging me to me feet and hurting me in the process. He yanked me forward, pushing the blood-red instrument under my nose. I could smell a sour stench; like death, putrid and ugly. Dante's grin was almost malicious as he stood gloating at me.

"Now, who would hide something like this in the kitchen, where she spends much of her time?" he asked me. "Who you think, Sony?" he interrogated me.

A man's voice suddenly rang against the lemon-colored walls of the room. It was surprisingly forceful, yet sad.

"That's my sickle, Detective Dante," the voice stated. "Let Sonia go." I looked up into the eyes of the speaker. It was Alexander Pavlovich. And he was smiling warmly at me.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

The man was propped up on a bench. His large forehead was slumped forward, though he was not asleep. He was hollow-eyed, with an appearance of misery and intense suffering. He seemed to be shivering with cold, yet his tremors suggested a man withdrawing from either alcohol or drugs. His pale face was streaked with tears, which fell like drops of rain upon his small, black mustache. The sound of his moaning echoed through the Police Station. He truly seemed to me to be a haunted man.

I averted my eyes from the sight of the unfortunate gentleman. I was waiting on news of Alexander's release from jail. It hadn't taken me long to trek to the West Hartford station. It was only a twenty-minute walk from Keeney Avenue to this station on Raymond Road. It was smaller than I had imagined an American one would be; perhaps it was the sprawling Blue Back Square development right next to it that caused it to appear such a diminutive part of West Hartford Center. Nevertheless, it was a very intimidating place to me. In Russia, people who were taken to a police station were never seen again. And I very much wanted to see Alexander Pavlovich again.

"What's a nice place like this doing with a girl like you in it?" A man's voice startled me from behind. I turned around to see the Slavic face of Nikita from my church greeting me. He was wearing the same blue, cotton shirt that I had previously met him in, though the white pants he had worn on that occasion had now been replaced with designer blue jeans. He smiled at me, his straight white teeth radiating a sort of brightness.

I didn't return his smile. I was embarrassed to meet Nikita under the present circumstances. My nervousness returned; I was just able to prevent myself from tugging on my earlobe. "Oh, Nikita," I managed to say. "Hello," I said weakly.

Nikita continued to smile. "Privyet," he greeted me in Russian. I tried to avoid his gaze. He was being too forward, and this was making me uncomfortable. Something suddenly occurred to me. "What you doing here?" I inquired of him. Nikita didn't seem at all taken aback by my question. In fact, he actually seemed happy that I was questioning him.

"Oh, you would be surprised at the kind of stuff that interests me," he replied. Nikita indicated the pale man seated on the bench, who was still nervously sniffling. "See that man over there?" Nikita asked. "He reported his wife missing two weeks ago. The police have investigated, but turned up no leads. Sonia, can you believe me, that man comes here every day hoping for some new development. Yet, look at him," he nodded his head at the pale man. The poor gentleman was twitching uncontrollably; he couldn't keep his hands still, he scratched his arm incessantly as if it were on fire, and he shook his head from side to side. I had to turn my eyes from the very sight of him. I returned my attention to Nikita, who nodded his head with sympathy.

"What interest you besides strange man?" I asked him.

"Strange Russian girls, who are more than they appear to be," he responded with a mysterious smile. But then, he quickly stopped smiling. He reached down to his belt and pulled some kind of large cell phone out. The screen of this strange object lit up with bright lights. Words suddenly appeared upon the screen. Nikita's hand scrolled across the surface of the phone, seemingly moving the text with just the touch of his fingertips.

"It's just a smart phone, Sonia," Nikita informed me. "I wanted to show you the reason I come here. I have my own blog," he said, with pride in his voice.

"What this blog?" I inquired of him. I had never seen such wizardry in Russia as the technology I had witnessed here in West Hartford the last few weeks.

"Oh, it's sort of like my own little newspaper," he replied. "I write about true crime stories and then I post them on the Internet. Those people who are interested read the blog. I've had thousands of hits just this past week," he bragged.

"What sort crime stories?" I asked defensively. I didn't like the direction this conversation was going. Nikita's eyes seemed to peer into my heart, digging up information that I didn't want to share.

"Unsolved murders mostly," he cryptically responded. "I especially love murders with interesting details. Seemingly senseless killings that make more and more sense as you unravel them. Gothic tales: lurid and horrifying stories full of blood and vengeance. I find the real stuff here at the station, then text the stories onto my phone and put them on the Web," he proudly informed me.

I shook my head in disgust. "Smart phone too smart for own good," I said. "Should stick to ordering pizza," I added. I turned away; I had heard enough to strain my already agitated nerves. Nikita was making my stomach upset with his techno nerd foolishness. I started to walk away, hoping he would get the hint and leave me alone.

"Wait," Nikita implored me. He put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me from leaving for the time being. Despite my sense of revulsion, I did not push his hand away. "I know one of the police chiefs here," he quickly confided. "I think I know the reason for your being here. Maybe I can help," he offered.

I shook my head with anger. "What help you give me? And who is friend? Officer Dante?" I spit his name out with disgust.

Nikita shook his head in reply. "No...I don't mean Paulie Dante. He is not the only detective in West Hartford," He informed me. "In fact, my contact is Dante's superior. I'm not supposed to share this kind of information, but..."

Suddenly, we were interrupted by the sight of Alexander Pavlovich. He appeared out of nowhere, disheveled and red-eyed. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. However, Alexander's tired eyes seemed to come to life when he saw me.

"You shouldn't be here, Sonia," he scolded me. His features were dark with disapproval. And yet, I could sense that he wanted me to be there just the same. He seemed to be fighting the urge to smile, his face betraying a strange bemusement.

"I tell police you innocent," I responded. "I am not understanding reason they think either of us guilty of something," I said with frustration, gazing into his eyes.

Now Alexander smiled. "They are just fishing," he said. "They took a preliminary test of that sickle; it's not even human blood that's stained on it. It's a lamb's blood," he informed me.

Nikita's voice interrupted our conversation. I had forgotten that he was still there. "When the beast came from the Earth, he had two horns like a lamb. But he spoke like a dragon," Nikita said cryptically. His voice was tense, with something akin to fear in it.

Alexander seemed to notice Nikita for the first time. He approached him slowly, with almost a stealthy menace. For a bad moment, I thought that Alexander might actually attack him. But to my relief, Alexander just gave him a cold smile, patting him lightly on the shoulder. Once again, I was reminded of the resemblance between him and his older brother Ivan.

"It's Nikita, right?" Alexander asked with some contempt in his voice. He didn't give Nikita a chance to respond. "You know, I remember you from Hall High School. I think you were on the newspaper staff or something like that. Yeah, I recall it now. You were always sticking that bird nose of yours were it didn't belong," he said in a threatening manner.

Nikita didn't show any signs of being intimidated. "I only use my nose when I smell something bad. And there is definitely something bad about that creepy house of yours," he said flatly.

At first, Alexander didn't reply. He seemed to be distracted by the haunted man on the bench. But then, without warning, his hand shot out towards Nikita's face. It happened so quickly that Nikita had no time to respond. Alexander held him by the nose, twisting his fingers until tears came to Nikita's eyes. He struggled, but couldn't break free of Alexander's iron grip.

"Stop it, Alexander!" I cried. "Let him go, you hurt him," I implored him.

Alexander continued to smile that evil smile that only Ivan Pavlovich possessed. He slowly pulled Nikita to the door. I was surprised that no police officers were interfering; they had all seemed to have mysteriously vanished.

Nikita continued to attempt to break free. But the harder he resisted, the stronger Alexander's grip seemed to become. He twisted Nikita around, and then kicked him down the stairs of the entrance to the station.

"Fly away, little bird!" Alexander shouted down to Nikita, who scrambled to his feet. "Next time I'll cut off your beak and add it to my collection," he threatened Nikita.

Nikita raised a fist at Alexander. However, he slowly began to back away from him, making his way to the street. Then, he broke into a run and vanished. Alexander turned back to me, laughing. But he stopped when he saw the expression on my face.

"You are cruel, inhuman man," I said through tears. "You are being no better than grandfather of yours that you think so terrible," I informed him.

Alexander seemed to consider this for a moment. He nodded his head, looking at me with sadness. I returned his downcast expression with a glare of disapproval.

"My grandfather broke the everlasting covenant," he said with a remote voice. "When he did this, he brought a curse down upon our family and home," he told me confidentially.

I was confused. "Curse...what you talk about?" I asked him.

He pondered for a moment, apparently not certain if he should continue. Then, he seemed to recall something. "I think a woman is linked to the curse. I once overheard my brother Nicholas speaking of the Whore of Babylon. Apparently she will be the one to break the curse, perhaps by fracturing one of the scrolls. But which of the scrolls? And who is this mysterious woman?

For a moment, I stopped being angry and began to fear for Alexander's sanity. To my way of thinking, this was insane gibberish. What did it have to do with the disappearance of Nicholas Pavlovich? And what was the meaning of the bloody sickle that Paulie Dante had found in the kitchen?

Alexander didn't give me time to speak. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the entrance. I didn't resist, though I was frightened by the strange look in his eyes. There was a desperate, erratic expression on his face; he seemed to be in some kind of trance, yet he moved frantically, like one in fear for his life. We silently made our way outside to his parked car, and then climbed inside. As he turned on the engine, Alexander turned his head in my direction. He appeared to have regained his composure, though he still carried an air of urgency in his bearing. He kept an eye on my features as he adjusted the rear-view mirror and put on his seat belt. Finally, he broke the silence.

"I know that you're innocent, Sonia," he told me. "I don't know where Nicholas is, but I am certain that he is still alive," he stated emphatically.

I opened my eyes wide. "How are you being sure of this?" I asked. Alexander paused for a moment. He seemed to be debating whether or not to be frank with me. Finally, he seemed to reach a decision.

"I think I know what my brother Ivan is searching for," he said cautiously. "It's a family heirloom, isn't it?" he questioned me, raising one eyebrow and tilting his head sideways at me as he did so. "And I think that Nicholas didn't find you just by sheer chance," Alexander paused for a moment, breathing heavily with the effort of speaking about such grave themes. "He has opened a Russian Matryoshka doll; one by one, piece by piece, he has found who he was looking for," he declared. Alexander peered deep into my eyes, and at that moment I guessed the horrible truth.

I was the Whore of Babylon.

# CHAPTER NINE

We raced through the streets of West Hartford at a breathtaking speed. Alexander gripped the steering wheel tightly, until his fingers turned white from the effort. The side of his face was equally white, though a shadow hovered over his eyes. He was deathly silent as he drove, never once looking in my direction. His thin shoulders hunched over the wheel; for a moment, I thought he resembled the haunted man from the Police Station.

Before I knew it, we had arrived at 69 Keeney Avenue. Alexander parked the car in the driveway, and we gingerly stepped out upon the front lawn. For some reason, the house appeared much as it had the first time I had seen it. The shutters looked as forbidding as ever. The shadow from the building covered us both, and I once again felt a cold chill run up and down my spine. I quickly glanced at the hunter-green bushes, hoping for some sign of my little friend Becky. But she was nowhere to be seen.

Alexander dragged me by the hand in the general direction of the house. We scampered past the trellis of roses that adorned the wall of the abode as we entered the front porch. The sound of a loud dog barking greeted my ears as I ducked my head to fit into the claustrophobic porch. And though the heat inside was stifling, I suddenly felt a paralyzing cold run through my body. It was sharper and more powerful than any other sensation I had previously experienced. It froze me in place, stiffening me like a marble statue. A state of pure terror swept over me. But Alexander, seemingly oblivious to my emotions, forced me to move forward. And so, forward into 69 Keeney Avenue I went.

The house was dark. I thought that I had left the lights on when I had departed earlier in the day. But it was as black as coal in the living room. Why hadn't Harriet tuned on a lamp? Harriet! All of a sudden, I found myself wondering if the older lady was ok. I stumbled around in the shadows, desperately searching for a light switch. I could hear the sound of Alexander attempting to do the same. Finally, I found the switch on the side of the living room wall. I pulled it up and down. Nothing! Was the power dead? What was happening? It all reminded me of a nightmare I had experienced as a young girl in Russia. In the dream, I had attempted to switch on the lights at home, but none of them would work. My nightmares were becoming my reality!

Suddenly, I saw a flicker of light visible in the room. A warm glow emitted from a tiny flame. I could just make out Alexander's face in the glare of the flame. Strange shadows seemed to reflect off of his visage. An eerie smile displayed itself upon his somber features. But like all of the Pavlovich men, his eyes weren't smiling.

"Sonia, come over here," Alexander commanded. I obeyed reluctantly, stepping cautiously to where he was standing. This proved to be difficult in the blackness of the room. Twice, I tripped over furniture, hurting my knee at one point. Eventually, I arrived at the place where he was attempting with some labor to steady the light. Alexander surprised me by reaching over and gently holding me by the hand. To my satisfaction, this hand was warm.

"Why so dark?" I asked the obvious question, fear betraying itself in my shaky voice. "It is only being early evening," I commented.

"There must have been some kind of power surge earlier...the electricity is out," he replied. But Alexander didn't sound convinced by his own words. "This lighter won't last forever. We need to find a candle or flashlight," he said.

Alexander tugged gently on my arm, and we shuffled our feet in the general direction of the kitchen. We felt our way through the arch of the open door; we then entered the silent room. There was something almost sinister about the quiet; it seemed to suggest horrible, wicked things to my imagination. And then, the sound of the barking dog grew louder. I reached to pull for my earlobe, but Alexander was holding my hand firmly, effectively preventing me from carrying out my nervous compulsion.

I was shaken back to reality by the sound of Alexander opening a drawer. I could hear the racket made by him while he moved several various items about. But then, there was a sudden flash. As a larger flame lit up the room, I realized that Alexander had been successful in finding matches and a candle. I could now observe the kitchen by the illumination afforded us by the wax candle in his hand. It was a steady, dependable brightness than that of the cigarette lighter. It suddenly occurred to me to wonder why he possessed a lighter in the first place. Actually, I had never witnessed him smoking in my presence.

"We have to find Harriet," Alexander declared. "I'm afraid that she might be in grave danger," he said apprehensively.

I was dismayed by his statement. There seemed to be something in all of this that I had yet to understand. "Why?" I asked him. "What danger she being in?" I inquired in frustration. I dropped his hand, and quickly pulled on my earlobe. Just as quickly as I had done it, I pulled my hand away, becoming red in the face with embarrassment. To my relief, Alexander looked away, pretending not to notice. "What danger Harriet being in?" I repeated.

Alexander hesitated for a moment. I think he still wasn't sure if he could trust me. I reached for his hand and held it, giving it a friendly squeeze. Alexander seemed to relax a little bit. His breathing became slower and more controlled.

"She is a true believer," he said sardonically. "Nicholas was one as well. The Second Seal has been opened, and the true believers are beginning to vanish. It is the Rapture," he informed me.

I was more befuddled than ever. The Rapture? That was some biblical story concerning the End of Days. Father Nicolai had once spoken of this in a sermon. But what did it have to do with Harriet? I suddenly felt a sense of dread for her safety. I ran in the dark, smacking into various objects as I desperately made my way to Harriet's room. I could hear Alexander calling out to me, but I chose to ignore his cries. I needed to find Harriet!

"Harriet!" I shouted out as I searched for her room in the dusk. "Where are you being, Harriet?" I asked in frustration. I finally found her door, and despite my apprehensions, pushed my way inside. It wasn't locked, which to me was very strange. Harriet always kept her door secured from the inside.

As I gained admission to the chamber, I was startled by an uncommon sight. Instead of darkness, the room was basked in the glow of a red light. For the first time, I noticed how many crucifixes Harriet kept on her walls. I had only been in her room once before, and had failed to notice the religious character of the décor. Granted, I had only been given a brief look, as Harriet Blom valued her privacy. I now observed an interesting painting of a suffering Jesus on the cross. It seemed to come alive as I regarded it; the throbbing of the Savior's chest was as real to me as the throbbing of my own heart. And the blood from His wounds appeared to flow down right before my eyes. I averted my gaze, looking instead to the bed. For a moment, I thought I saw Harriet lying down on the mattress, her arms crossed and a little bible in her hands.

But then, the light flickered, and she was gone from my sight. I screamed, pulling on the bed sheets in terror. I ransacked the bed, rummaging through it but to no avail. To search further was fruitless. Harriet was gone!

Suddenly, I felt the presence of Alexander Pavlovich. The bizarre red light was gone, replaced by the more reassuring glow of his candle. I stared at him with scorn and contempt; he seemed like some kind of rogue, a villain who had played some part in Harriet's disappearance. But then, I happened to regard his eyes. There were fresh tears flowing from them. It was then that I remembered that he had just lost someone that he loved. I glanced down at the bed, noticing something strange. It was blood---lots of fresh, warm blood. It was all over the sheets and all over my hands as well. I realized that I had Harriet's blood on my hands---and on my soul.

I opened my mouth to scream, yet no sound came forth. I attempted to get up from where I had been kneeling, but seemed to have lost the ability to stand on my own two legs. I almost collapsed, but Alexander caught me before I could hit the floor. I swooned in his strong arms, the horror of the situation overwhelming my senses. He supported me, rocking me back and forth as he whispered reassuringly into my ear.

"It's not you, Sonia," he said gently. "You're not to blame for any of this. It's the curse laid on my family many years ago," he informed me.

Suddenly, all of the lights in the house seemed to turn back on at once. White radiance enveloped the two of us, and I felt some sort of consciousness, some presence, that suggested that Alexander's fate was bound together to that of my own. I slowly rose to my feet, gently pushing him away from me. I had an overwhelming urge to return to the safety of my room. I slowly treaded my way towards it, taking short, careful strides down the hallway. As I passed a picture hanging on the white, stucco wall, I couldn't help stopping and examining it a little closer. It was a painting of Nicholas', called "Twilight of the Gods". It depicted a Norse legend concerning the end of the world. Before he had vanished, Nicholas had told me some things about the painting. In one corner of the picture, the god Thor was dying from a serpent's bite. In the sky, Asgard, the kingdom of the gods, was aflame. Midgard, the land of the humans, was frozen. People lay dead on the ground. The sun and the moon were being devoured by giant wolves. I had never seen such detail in one painting before; the vividness struck me hard, I could feel the combination of blistering heat and icy cold striking my face. Suddenly, I thought that I could see Harriet's face visible in the picture. She looked right at me, seemingly terrified. I turned my gaze away and when I looked a second time, she was gone.

I opened the door to my room, worn out by the day's events. I switched on the light, intending to lie down on the bed and collect my thoughts. I happened to glance at the Russian dolls on the white shelf. I had never noticed how much the large one resembled Ivan Pavlovich. I admonished myself for thinking I saw his image everywhere. But then, on an impulse, I reached for one of the wooden Matryoshka dolls and pulled at it. The doll twisted open in my hands, the Byzantine image on its surface seemingly glowing with vibrant colors. And then I spotted the smaller doll inside of it. No...it must have been my imagination. But it was real---a Russian Matryoshka doll of Nicholas Pavlovich. The same weary eyes hidden behind dirty glasses glanced back at me. I trembled with alarm as I gingerly held the doll in my hand. It was so hot that it felt like it was burning my skin; nevertheless, I couldn't seem to let it go.

I rotated the second doll, twisting it open with a sense of urgency. Yet a third face greeted my confused features. It was that of...Alexander! It had the same thin face and the same dark goatee. It also possessed the same serious eyes, both questioning and mocking me. I felt that either I was hallucinating or that someone was playing a monstrous joke upon me. I don't know why I didn't drop the doll, or throw it to the ground. I was transfixed with dread, and yet, this Matryoshka didn't fill me with the same sense of revulsion that the other two had given me.

I couldn't prevent myself from opening the third doll. As I twisted it ajar, I imagined that I could hear Alexander crying out in pain. This particular doll didn't open quite so easily. I pulled with all my might, until it finally gave way, popping as it divulged its secrets. A strange sight greeted me as I viewed the interior of the doll.

"Well, well, Natasha...you got the missing piece of the puzzle there, honey," A familiar voice addressed me from behind. I quickly turned, startled by the unexpected surprise of an unwelcome visitor in my room. As I spun around, the wooden doll accidentally dropped to the floor. Quick as a cat, the man snatched it in his hands before it could land on the ground. I was now well-acquainted with those slimy hands. They belonged to Detective Paulie Dante.

I was deeply offended by his appearance. "What you doing in room?" I demanded of him. "How dare you take this liberty? I am having rights...I know this," I informed him.

Dante looked amused. He juggled the Russian doll with his fingers, looking like some practiced circus performer. "You'd be surprised the kinda' liberties I take, baby,' he said. He looked down at the Matryoshka doll with interest. "Right now I'm kinda' liberating the truth from the fiction," he remarked. Dante tapped a stubby finger to the side of his sweaty forehead. "Funny thing 'bout truth," he said with a smirk. "It's like the missing ingredient to my Ma's Tiramisu. You can try and substitute something else for it, but sooner or later you gonna' need the real thing," he taunted me.

I placed my hands on my hips in disapproval. I had recovered from the shock of his unexpected appearance, and was now quite angry. "I think you got lot of 'splaining to do, Lucy," I said sarcastically.

Paulie Dante seemed taken aback by my sudden show of confidence. His oily forehead wrinkled with annoyance. "What you talking 'bout, Sony?" he asked with consternation in his voice.

"Aunt Harriet is being missing just now. How this fit into your puzzle?" I challenged the detective. "And how is it you are appearing at 69 Keeney Avenue same moment as disappearance? I accused him, pointing a finger at him as I said this.

Paulie Dante looked genuinely confused. "Fuggetaboudit! That old broad from the contest?" he asked incredulously. "Who you think let me in here to investigate?" Dante scratched his head, obviously attempting to make sense of this news.

I nearly knocked him over in my excitement over this revelation. "You saw Harriet? When you see her?" I demanded of him. Dante stepped back, a frown betraying itself upon his features. "You freaking kidding me?" he asked. "She let me in here 'bout an hour ago. She told me she got stuff to do up in Vladimir's room, and left me to conduct my investigation. Strange old broad," he added.

My mind raced, as I tried to process this new information. I well knew the room that he was talking about. It was the only place in the house that I had never been to, with the exception of Alexander's room. The story that Father Nicolai had told me concerning its history had alarmed me greatly. I had passed by it several times since learning of its dark history, yet the feelings of terror and dread had never left me whenever I chanced to approach it. And that little green clay figure continued to guard its entrance, as it had for decades. I wasn't sure if it really resembled the face of Vladimir; I had never met him, nor ever seen a picture of Alexander's grandfather. I only knew that it bore a striking similarity to the devilish features of my tormentor, Ivan Pavlovich.

Dante's attention returned to the wooden Russian doll he still held in his hands. He seemed to fondle it lewdly as he examined it more closely. "Get outta' here!" he exclaimed. "This thing is old. Probably worth a few bucks on E-bay. But hey, I think there's a detail here needing more investigating," he declared, sticking his fingers inside of the hollow of the Matryoshka. He perused its contents, smiling cruelly with satisfaction as he did so.

In my concern for Harriet, I had forgotten what I had just found inside of the doll, right before the appearance of Paulie Dante. My stomach turned in knots as I pondered the implications of my discovery. I now wished that I had had time to hide this discovery; Detective Paulie Dante was the last person I wanted to view it. But no detail seemed too small to escape his beady eyes.

"Well, what we got here?" he asked. He pulled the contents out of the doll; they unraveled as he did so, seeming to sparkle by the light of the overhanging lamp. Dante held it up with both hands, scrutinizing it with a veteran policeman's experience. Now that the object was out of the doll, it seemed to overpower everything else in the room.

It was a necklace. It had five bows, each own made up of gold and diamonds, forming the basic structure of the jewelry. At the center of each bow was a large green emerald. This necklace was so beautiful, that I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I felt an overwhelming urge to snatch it from Paulie Dante and wear it around my own neck.

Dante whistled out loud. He chuckled as he fingered the precious stones of the necklace. A look of triumph displayed itself upon his feature. "Ever seen this chunk of stones before?" he questioned me. It was now my turn to be taken aback. To be honest, there was something vaguely familiar about this piece of jewelry. It was as if I had seen it in some history book, or beheld it in some old photograph back in Russia.

Dante leered at me, looking like he was enjoying every moment of this little game he was playing. He stepped closer to me, inching forward until his small, olive-skinned face was opposite my own.

"I told you I was a stickler for the details, Sonia," he reminded me. "See, your Aunt Harriet informed me that there was something missing from Nicholas Pavlovich's room. Something valuable, that had been in the family for years. Wanna' guess what that something was?" he said tauntingly, waving the necklace in my face as he mocked me with it. I pulled away from him, his garlic breath offending me just as much as his hateful words.

"I no take this...I don't!" I defended myself. Dante smirked at this comment. "Oh, I believe you, honey. Problem is, we got the detail of this stolen necklace to deal with. Like I told you, the truth is something hard to substitute," he informed me. "We got two missing people, and a piece of evidence linked to them shows up in your possession. What you planning to cook up to answer for this, Sony?" he asked.

I was speechless. Instead of pulling on my earlobe as I usually did, I now rubbed my hands together, desperate for a little warmth and comfort. What did all of this mean? Why was I being accused of these horrible things? I had never felt so alone in my life.

"What the hell are you doing here, Dante?" A familiar voice boomed from behind me. I turned, expecting to see Alexander, my knight there to rescue me. But as I contemplated my hero's face, I quickly realized that it wasn't Alexander at all.

It was Ivan.

Paulie Dante tried to keep control of the situation. "I'm conducting an investigation here, Mr. Pavlovich. I'd advise you not to interfere," he said with a hint of fear in his voice.

Ivan's eyes gleamed with malice, much as they had at Harriet that first day I had come to the house. He looked down at his watch; he then returned his gaze upon Paulie Dante. Ivan smiled, the wicked grin of a lion that is about to devour its prey.

"Yes, I warrant you are conducting a thorough investigation," Ivan remarked. "Speaking of warrants, I assume that you have one?" he suddenly demanded of the detective.

Paulie Dante didn't look quite as cocky as he had a few minutes before. He reached into his pockets, nervously searching them for the needed document. Instead, he found a cigarette. He placed it between his lips, but put the wrong end into his mouth. He spat it out upon the floor, and began to desperately pull his pockets out of his jacket. Finally, he retrieved an official-looking piece of paper from the depths of his coat. He handed this to Ivan, gingerly and begrudgingly.

"There you go, Mr. Pavlovich," Dante stated. "I got the right to search these premises, on the suspicion of murder," he said, giving me an intense look of dislike.

Ivan slowly examined the warrant. He held it up to the light, quickly reading the text to himself. And then, he tossed it at Dante's feet with a look of contempt.

"Yes, Detective Dante. Everything about that warrant is in order," he admitted. "It was even signed by your police chief to make it official," Ivan conceded.

Dante grinned. He bent over and picked the document off of the floor. He then stuffed it into his jacket pocket, wiping the sweat off his brow as he did so.

"Now you talkin' my language," the detective said happily. He started to walk in my direction. But Ivan quickly moved his large, hulking frame to intercept Dante's progress. He forced his massive head down upon Dante's smaller one, until they were face-to-face. Paulie squirmed uncomfortably under the intense glare of Ivan Pavlovich.

"My great-grandfather was a landowner in old Czarist Russia," Ivan said. "He owned thousands of acres of prime farmland. He also owned the serfs that worked the fields of this land. They were legally regarded as souls, ones that were to do my great-grandfather's bidding. And he owned many souls," he said with emphasis.

Dante once again wiped the sweat off of his forehead. He attempted to move his head away from Ivan's, but was instead pressed into a corner of the room. This time, the detective looked to me for assistance. He would get no sympathy from my corner.

"I am fortunate enough to own more land than my great-grandfather," Ivan informed him. "And I own more souls than he ever did. The mayor, the police chief: even your own, Dante. Now, take your corrupted soul and get out of my family's house! His voice boomed with fury.

Dante jumped at the sound of Ivan's shout. Without another word, he started to slither out of the room. Before he could escape, Ivan snatched the necklace out of his hands. Dante began to protest, but one look from Ivan made him reconsider. The detective was almost at the door when he paused for a moment, stopping at the place where I was standing. He handed me back the Russian doll, which he had somehow managed to conceal from Ivan.

"This mystery is like the doll," he said. "Each level keeps opening to another one. And it ain't a necklace at the center of it," he said in a low voice. "It's you, Sony," he whispered.

I gulped, but resisted the urge to pull on my earlobe. I mustered my courage and looked Paulie Dante straight in the eye.

"Missing ingredient in your Tiramisu is not truth," I informed him. "It is being love. You don't have it, and that make you second-rate chef and third-rate human being," I told him.

"Crazy Russian broad," he muttered under his breath. He skulked out of the room. Both Ivan and I stood quietly as we heard the sound of Paulie Dante slamming the front door, then driving away in his car.

Ivan's expression changed instantly. He smiled; he then held out an enormous hand to me. I wasn't sure what to do, so I accepted it with some hesitation. He gently patted my hand, holding it tenderly in his own. Without saying a word, he led me out of my room, directing me through the hallway. He didn't stop until we had arrived at the dining room. Ivan pulled out a chair for me to sit upon; I obliged, scared yet surprisingly grateful to him for his kindness. He sauntered over to the dark, wooden liquor cabinet. He retrieved a bottle of Russian vodka from the cabinet, pouring the clear liquid into two small glasses. He silently offered one to me, but I shook my head.

"A drink, Sonia...we must toast our new friendship," Ivan declared.

I continued to shake my head. "I am being grateful, but I not drink," I informed him.

Ivan scoffed at my words. "Come now, Sonia! You're a white Russian and I'm a black Russian; the only thing separating us is this vodka. You want?" he asked again. But I shook my head once more.

Ivan shrugged his shoulders. He raised the glass of vodka in the air, apparently intent on making some kind of toast. "To the Czar," he said with a solemn demeanor.

My eyes widened with surprise. I started to speak, flabbergasted by Ivan's words. "I...thought you were Jews. The Czar was horrible to the Jews! Why are you drinking to him?" I asked.

Ivan's bearded face betrayed laughter and mockery. His large eyes twinkled with mischief. He seemed to take great delight in confusing me.

"Oh, there seems to be some question as to the true identity of the Pavlovich family," he responded. "Are we Jews?" he said rhetorically. He pointed to a small Byzantine picture of Jesus that hung over the liquor cabinet. "Wasn't He Jewish as well?" Ivan mocked me.

I crossed myself, shuddering at his blasphemous speech. "This making me uncomfortable, this talk," I informed him.

Ivan took my hand once more. But this time his touch wasn't gentle. He held my hand tightly, so tightly that it hurt. I tried to pull my hand back, but he was too strong. He continued to keep my hand prisoner as he stared straight into my eyes. I could smell the strong odor of cologne upon him; it was an overpowering stench that made my eyes water. Ivan's red beard was close to my face. He reminded me of some ancient devil from an old woodcarving.

"Our talk is about to become even more uncomfortable, Sonia," he stated. Ivan pulled the necklace from the Matryoshka with one free hand, and deftly placed it around my neck. He did this as he continued to keep a firm grip on my hand. But then, he dropped it without warning. I rubbed my hand to make the blood circulate properly again. Then I reached for the necklace, intending to remove it immediately.

"No!" Ivan commanded. He pushed my hands down from my neck. I acquiesced, too intimidated by his temper to resist. He began to pace back and forth in the dining room, looking like a caged dog that can't wait to be free to run outside.

"What all this mean, Mr. Ivan?" I pleaded. "I just simple Russian girl who wants to be chef...I don't want no part of all this," I indicated the necklace, which was becoming very uncomfortable around my neck. The room suddenly seemed tiny to me; I felt claustrophobic, the paintings on the walls seemed to come to life. I glanced at the picture with the Indian who had killed the buffaloes. He was staring straight at me, and appeared to be fingering the crude necklace around his own neck. I could almost smell the sour odor of blood upon his spear. I turned my eyes away from the painting, and greeted those of Ivan Pavlovich. They held no warmth or kindness now.

"Listen Sonia," Ivan commanded me. "I don't particularly care what you want or don't want. I've already requested you to find a certain item for me. You've failed me, but that doesn't concern me at the moment. For you see, Detective Dante has been kind enough to place into my possession the means to recover that very same item," he informed me.

I reached for the necklace around my neck. Its precious stones seemed to throb hotly against my skin, burning like fire. I very much wanted to remove the jewelry, but feared the temper of Ivan more than the pain of the necklace.

"Yes, Sonia," Ivan's voice seemed to penetrate my thoughts. "That necklace is the key to finding the Samovar. My brother Nicholas was able to hide it from me for years, as well as keeping its true meaning hidden as well," he said cryptically.

"Its true meaning?" I repeated blankly.

Ivan glanced at his watch and then continued to pace back and forth. His large frame kept banging against the dining-room table, as the chairs rattled with his movements. Ivan appeared to become more animated with every passing second. I leaned against the liquor cabinet; I couldn't help wishing for a little vodka now to settle my nerves.

"Da, you little waster of my time," he hotly replied. "There is a meaning; that is not just a pretty piece of jewelry. That necklace you are wearing around your peasant neck was once worn by the Empress Alexandra on the day of Czar Nicholas the Second's coronation. It dropped from her neck and fell upon the floor that same day, shortly after the ceremony. It was regarded at the time as an evil omen. And perhaps it was," Ivan said, his voice heavy with irony.

I shook my head, tears coming to my eyes. I could barely make him out through my misty haze. "I don't want this thing, it has evil soul," I declared. Despite my fear, I was determined to defy him.

Ivan jeered. "You have no idea, Sonia Godunov. Is your God enough? We shall soon see. But anyway, this necklace was given to a friend of the Romanov family for safe keeping. He was more than a good friend to them; a holy man, a healer---he was a man who had gained ultimate knowledge of God by exploring the black depths of hell. Can you not guess who once possessed this necklace?" he taunted me.

I froze. The words wouldn't come to my lips, yet I somehow knew whom he was referring to. He was the wandering hermit, the ascetic holy man. The person we Russians knew as the evil one.

"Rasputin!" I cried. I had finally found my voice, though it was shaky with fear. "This cursed necklace being in his possession?" I inquired.

"Yes, little one," Ivan replied. He purred like a cat, one that enjoyed playing with its captured prey. "I don't believe in all of this black magic nonsense myself; at least not to the extent that my dear brother Nicholas did. But I do know that before he was murdered, Rasputin trusted my grandfather with the safekeeping of this necklace," he watched me as he let these words sink in to my mind.

I tried to escape the room; Ivan caught me, pushing me down upon the same chair I had sat on before. I rubbed my hands with frustration. I was experiencing a different kind of fear now; not of the unnatural, but of a cruel, vicious bully who was used to hurting people and forcing them to do his bidding. Underneath that veneer of respectability of his was a brutish monster. And I was now his prisoner.

"That necklace is now yours, Sonia," he informed me. "I have learned that you are the one who must utilize its powers to find what I most desire," he said, in a much calmer, quieter tone. Ivan now resumed using that silky, charming voice that he had used on me on previous occasions.

"Come, Sonia my friend," he said with a smile. "We are friends, aren't we? Who was it that paid for your trip to America? Did you really think that Nicholas could afford that kind of money? And who got Paulie Dante off of your back? And..." he crossed his arms as he spoke, smiling with a look of complicity. "And, who arranged your little victory in the baking contest? Like I've said before, I own many souls. And they all do my bidding," he said.

I suddenly remembered the look that the lady judge had given Ivan on that special day. I knew...somehow I had always known. I was no chef; I was only a young peasant girl, a puppet of this master villain. And he had been pulling my strings from the very beginning. But then, a feeling of anger and defiance rose in my heart. I would not let him manipulate me any longer.

"No!" I shouted. "I am not helping you!" I declared. I leaped up from the table, knocking over the chair and startling Ivan. I ran into the kitchen and raced to the refrigerator door. I viewed my award through hot tears of shame, the same award that Harriet had so proudly hung up for me. Then I ripped it off the door, returning to the dining room with the document in my hands.

Ivan was seemingly stunned by my act of defiance. It took him a moment, but he slowly regained his composure. He smiled once again, and somehow managed to not look at his watch. "Now Sonia, you really shouldn't be so disappointed at my interference," he said warmly. "With my help and support, you truly can become a chef here in America. You just require someone who can get you the finest training and the right contacts. And that person is me," he declared.

I held up the blue ribbon, the same one that had meant so much to me. It had become tainted by the corruption of Ivan Pavlovich; I was disgusted by the mere sight of it. I angrily tore it in half, throwing the pieces at Ivan with defiance.

"That is what I am thinking of your help," I told him. "I am not one of your souls," I informed him. I smiled, though my knees were shaking with fear.

Ivan's face turned red with anger. He grabbed one of the vodka glasses and smashed it against the wall. I was petrified, but I held my ground. I was determined not to let him intimidate me any longer. For a moment, I thought that Ivan might physically attack me. I met his furious stare with a determined one of my own. He became quiet for a moment, apparently in thought as to his next move. Then, unrepentantly, he smiled. But as I had noticed in the past, his eyes weren't smiling.

"So, the little peasant girl has spirit," he said in a more friendly manner. "Not bad, not bad at all. But, I think that you will help me all the same, Sonia. Have you not wondered where Alexander has been during your ordeal this evening? A little strange, his not coming to your aid, don't you think?" he mocked me.

Ivan was correct. I had been puzzled by Alexander's absence from the evening's events. I hadn't seen him since I left him in Harriet's room; I had been forced to face the two terrors of Paulie Dante and Ivan Pavlovich without his support. Where was he? Was he cowering in his room? Had he vanished along with Harriet and Nicholas, into some deep abyss? Why hadn't he come to rescue me?

"Where is your white knight indeed?" Ivan replied to my unspoken question. It was uncanny how he could read my mind. I needed to gather all of my strength to fight him. "Oh, I am aware of your little crush on my brother," he chuckled. "Ah, young love," he mocked me. "A passionate flame that burns brightly, then extinguishes itself into wisps of smoke," he said with false irony.

My ears became red with embarrassment. "What you know of love? In your world, things bought and sold with money," I declared.

Ivan raised his eyebrows, as if he were actually offended by my statement. "Oh, are we bathing in the anti-Semitic waters today? Well, no matter if we are. You've no doubt been expecting my little brother to arrive and save you from the horrible Ivan the Terrible. And there's no doubt that he would have...had I not made other arrangements," he said, a tone of deadly seriousness in his voice.

I began to panic. "What you do with Alexander?" I demanded. "He your brother,' I reminded him.

Ivan shook his head. There was no mercy in his demeanor now. "He is an obstacle, the same as you, Harriet and Nicholas. But don't worry Sonia, I think that it is time for you to be reunited with your lover," he said cruelly. He grabbed me by the hand, once more reminding me of his brute strength.

Ivan dragged me back into Harriet's room. It was just as I had left it earlier in the evening. But there was one exception; Alexander was now lying down on the bed, his arms stretched out lifelessly, his eyes wide open as if he were dead. I screamed, quickly running to the side of the bed where his body hung awkwardly over the edge.

"Oh, Alexander!" I cried. "Don't be dead, no be dead," I pleaded. I stroked his face, desperate for a sign of life. I carefully placed my ear against his chest; I couldn't tell if there was a heartbeat, though his body still felt warm. The only heartbeat I could hear was one I fancied was my own.

"Oh, don't be afraid, Sonia," Ivan's beastly voice reassured me. "Little brother Alexander is still in the world of the living. Whether or not he stays there depends upon your choice now," he informed me with a twinkle in his eye.

I spun around and angrily confronted him. I attempted to hit him with my tiny fists, but his enormous hand easily protected him from my fury. "What you do to him?" I demanded. "Why he looking dead? Is he hurt?" I asked.

"It's just a little bit of Russian magic," Ivan informed me, a self-satisfied smirk upon his features. "A little potion passed down from generation to generation. Nicholas is not the only Pavlovich who is familiar with the Black Arts. What I gave Alexander simulates death; however, it is only the appearance of death. He will wake up tomorrow none the worse for the experience," he informed me.

Pure rage surged throughout my body. I had never wanted to hurt another person like I now wanted to hurt Ivan Pavlovich. I believed that if I now possessed that farm sickle, I could make myself use it to harm this evil man.

"Here is what will happen, Sonia," Ivan said in a cold voice. "Tomorrow you will go about your business as usual. Everything will appear to be normal. Then, in the early evening, as the sun is setting upon the fine town of West Hartford, you will use that necklace to lead you to the Samovar. You will find it, and then you will give it to me," he ordered me.

"What if I can't find?" I pleaded. "I am not understanding how necklace will help find Samovar," I added.

"What I have learned from Nicholas' research suggests that the necklace will lead you to it," he replied. "Tomorrow is the start of the Russian White Nights. Even though it will be dusk, you will have some sunlight to see by as you search. I don't yet know why this phenomenon will occur in West Hartford; it is usually unique to the Russian city of St. Petersburg. What I do know is that this will happen tomorrow evening. Nicholas was a fool, but at least he has proven to be a useful one," he said.

I pointed an accusing finger at Ivan. "Was it being you that make Nicholas and Harriet disappear? I demanded. I now felt that this monster was capable of anything.

In reply, Ivan looked at his watch. "Don't be so foolish, Sonia," he responded in annoyance. "They are my family!" He looked eager to change the subject. "Just remember, tomorrow evening, you are to use the necklace to find that Samovar," he commanded. He paced nervously across the floor, once again banging into the dining table.

"And if I refuse?" I challenged him. Though I was still afraid of him, I was still determined to show him I was not intimidated.

Ivan brought his face right up to my own. He stared at me with a look of danger and menace, one that suggested horrible things that were yet to come. I suddenly felt cold, a chilliness that seemed to flow from Ivan himself.

He regarded me with malice in his eyes. "If you don't perform this task tomorrow, Alexander will die," he told me bluntly. "And I promise you Sonia, it will be a painful death," he added.

I turned my head away to avoid his grave look. When I turned back, I was surprised to discover that he was gone. I ran into the kitchen, and then searched the living room, but it was to no avail. I peeked outside the window, but could see no trace of his car. Ivan had managed to vanish into thin air. For a moment I couldn't help thinking that he might have disappeared into one of the mysterious paintings on the wall.

I returned to Harriet's room, where Alexander lay immobile upon the bed. I moved him so that he was resting more comfortably, a pillow propped up under his black-haired head, a blanket to keep him warm. When I had done everything that I could think of to make him more at ease, I reached over and stroked his head.

"Good night, Alexander," I whispered quietly. I gave him a kiss on the cheek, observing that his breathing was becoming steadier. I turned off the light in Harriet's room and returned to my own.

I performed my nightly ritual of locking my door. I put on my nightdress and pulled back the heavy purple covers before slipping under them. It was becoming warmer at night with the approaching summer, yet I still found it a comfort to hide under the blankets for protection. Before switching off the light on my nightstand, I took one last glance at the Russian dolls on the shelf. They were gone! They seemed to have been mysteriously replaced with the bells from the living room. I switched off the light, and was greeted by the sound of tolling bells. They seemed to play a tune like that of a Russian folk song. I placed my hands over my ears and held them tight. But strangely enough, for the first time since I had come to 69 Keeney Avenue, I could hear no trace of dogs barking.

# CHAPTER TEN

Rays of sunlight fell upon my face as I awoke to the chirping birds. I pulled back the warm covers, eager to embrace the miracle of a new day. I knelt at the front of my bed and said my prayers. I prayed for the souls of Alexander, Nicholas and Harriet. I prayed for my family in Russia, including my dead father and brother. I prayed for Father Nicolai, who had been so kind to me these past weeks. I even managed to say a prayer for Ivan---though it was difficult.

I went over to the window and pulled back the blinds. The roses that I loved so much were in full bloom. Their rich red color seemed to call out to my heart. I noticed that there appeared to be twice as many growing in the wooden trellis attached to the side of the house. I gazed down at the street and noticed a young mother walking with her two small children. A cute brown dog was bounding behind them, causing the children to giggle happily. I smiled at the scene as I opened the window. The sweet smell of spring hit my nose; it was like the aroma of flowers and honey, the fragrant scent of green grass and morning dew. It was so peaceful that I felt tears of joy flow down my cheeks. I wiped them with my hand and turned from the outside scene of paradise.

I dressed quickly and cleaned up my room. Paulie Dante must have searching diligently for clues; I found articles of my clothing and other various possessions strewn all over the floor. After I had cleaned my bedroom, I closed the door and made my way to the kitchen. I was determined to have a great day, no matter what mischief Ivan Pavlovich planned for me.

On the way to the kitchen, I passed the picture of the bridge and the ghostly river. I certainly didn't want to look at it now, but for some reason I couldn't seem to avoid it. However, on this occasion it didn't look that spooky. The white water of the river flowed gently, the waves moving ceaselessly, like eternity. I held my breath as I scrutinized the crystal blue sky in the painting. I searched for the ghostly face that had captivated me in the past. But, all I could make out was an eerie mist that rose just above the river's surface.

I walked with purpose into the kitchen. It appeared the same as it had on my first morning at 69 Keeney Avenue. The lemon-colored walls gave off tartness, the white-and-black counter sadness. The tiny butcher-block table still stood near the entryway, its smooth wooden surface giving a rustic charm to the room. I made my way over to the Byzantine painting of Jesus clutching a cross. I rubbed my fingers against my forehead, trying to decipher the meaning to all the mystery of this house. Why did the Pavlovich family continue to refer to the Book of Revelation in the New Testament? If they weren't actually Jewish, why did they pretend to be? I had witnessed many strange and bizarre things since I had come to this particular house. What part was I to play in all of this?

To put my troubled mind at ease, I decided to cook some breakfast. I put a kettle on the burner and began to heat some water for tea. I toasted some black pumpernickel bread. I then spread heavy yellow butter and red caviar upon it. I prepared some Kasha, buckwheat cakes with mushrooms and onions, placing them upon Harriet's white dishes. I also warmed up some potato soup that I had cooked the day before, storing in the refrigerator. If Alexander were to wake soon, I wanted to have a hearty breakfast to feed him .

I lay the familiar red tablecloth upon the walnut dining table. Harriet's white crockery looked beautiful against the blood-red cloth. I wished that she were there to help me set the table. She would have admonished me to be more confident, and I now resolved to be so. I thought of my mama and Babushka in Russia. The women in my life were prickly on the outside, but at heart they were kind. Those rich West Hartford ladies at the baking contest had looked successful, perhaps even arrogant. I felt that I would rather be like Harriet; she didn't place such emphasis on external appearances. Like her, I would measure my success by how I treated others.

A male voice surprised me from behind. "Don't you know how to make an American breakfast by now?" It was the sleepy-looking Alexander Pavlovich. There were dark circles around his deep-set eyes. His black hair hung loosely over his face, a sneer displaying itself upon his full lips. He rubbed his knuckles into his eye, attempting to waken himself more fully. But his arrogant manner seemed to be fully awake.

"So, Mr. Alexander is making special appearance," I coldly remarked. "Is his majesty needing breakfast in bed? Perhaps royal feeder to place in Czar's mouth?" I taunted him.

Alexander's tight mouth betrayed a small smile. His dark cotton shirt hung loosely over his grimy blue jeans. He still wore the large silver cross around his neck; he was now rubbing it, more out of habit than out of any gesture of faith.

"I really wouldn't want to be a Russian Czar," he commented. "The last one got fed a breakfast of lead bullets," he said, a more friendly smile displaying itself upon his features. "I hope your cooking will be a little easier than that on my stomach," he said with a grin.

I forgot my anger toward him, giving him a little playful punch on the shoulder as I moved closer to him. He pulled away self-consciously, seeming embarrassed by my proximity to him. I would never get used to the American concept of personal space. We were both people---why shouldn't we share space?

I began to prepare a plate for him, placing the various items of Russian food upon it. To my chagrin, Alexander actually leaned over and sniffed what I had prepared for him.

"Well...it smells ok," he commented. "But like I said before, I'm a little tired of Russian. I think I'd like to have something French this morning," he said mischievously.

I slammed the milk jug down hard upon the table. White drops of liquid spilled upon the red tablecloth. My face became equally red with anger. "You are being ungrateful, Mr. Alexander!" I exclaimed with anger in my voice. I pointed my index finger at his face. "I am making good breakfast for you every morning. You are thanking Sonia by burping in her face. Why don't you try making food for once?" I demanded of him.

For a moment, Alexander was silent. I tried to read his thoughts from the expression on his face, but his blank look was of no help. Then, without saying a word, he walked out of the room. I instantly regretted my harsh words. I was the cook, why should he have to thank me for doing my job? I pulled nervously at my earlobe. I quickly realized that I hadn't done this for a long time, and ceased. Not knowing what else to do, I cleaned up the spilt milk with a cloth. I half-expected Paulie Dante to appear, spouting wise-cracks about cats and milk. As I picked up the white ceramic plates, I suddenly noticed a nice odor coming from the kitchen. Baffled, I balanced several plates on my arms and headed for the source of the aroma.

As I entered the small, cozy kitchen a great surprise awaited me there. Alexander was hunched over the pint-sized black oven, slowly using a fork to scrape something in a frying pan. It was steamy in the room and sweat was pouring off of his forehead. He wiped his face with one of his sleeves, and then happened to look up and recognize me. He had a guilty smile upon his features as he quietly regarded me.

I was so astonished at the sight of Alexander cooking that I almost dropped the plates in my hands. Alexander dropped his fork and let the skillet rest upon the metal surface of the stove, running over to me and preventing the plates from dropping on the floor. He took two of the plates and placed them gently upon the black-and-white counter. I started to giggle at the unlikely sight of Alexander Pavlovich cooking breakfast.

He didn't appreciate my laughing at him. "Is this what passes for manners in your little village back home?" he sneered at me. "Why don't you go play Russian roulette with Paulie Dante, he's always shooting his mouth off," Alexander said sarcastically.

I was offended by his unkind words. I threw the rest of the plates in the sink and turned to leave. Instantly, Alexander seemed to realize that he had gone too far. He grabbed me by the arm, pulling me gently back into the kitchen.

"Your tongue being bitter like Shichi Cabbage Soup," I informed him. "Why you act superior to me? You're being smarter, but not being better," I said emphatically.

To my surprise, Alexander nodded in agreement. He pulled me gently toward the stove. The sugary, vanilla smell was intoxicating. I couldn't help betraying a little smile. "I'm sorry, Sonia," Alexander said with an apologetic look upon his features. "You are correct," he added. "I have been contemptuous of both your culture and your beliefs. And you're right, I'm definitely no better than you are. I'm inferior, actually, in many different ways," he said sorrowfully.

Alexander looked so downcast that my cold heart melted. I forgave him for his tart words. I suddenly realized that he used harsh words to mask his true feelings. Although he looked and sounded like his brother Ivan at times, he had his mother's gentle soul. It was a strange combination.

I regarded the food he was cooking in the pan. It was golden-brown, a few pieces of bread with an egg coating. It looked like nothing that I had ever eaten, but it smelled delicious nevertheless. "What mess you make here, Mr. Alexander?" I inquired. "Smell good for food not Russian," I kidded him.

Alexander responded with a prideful smile. He shrugged his shoulders, observing me with a sideways tilt of his dark head. "If you won't let me teach you the French tongue, at least you can let me introduce you to French toast," he said cheekily. I gave him a playful slap on the side of his face. I tried to help him prepare this dish, but Alexander would have none of this. He marched me to the dining-room table, holding out a chair for me like a gentleman. When he had finished cooking the breakfast he served me himself; I had to admit that some non-Russian food really was delicious. I ate four pieces of this appetizing toast. I had never had a better breakfast, not even back home in Russia.

Afterwards, I began to clear the dishes from the table. To my shock, Alexander actually assisted me! We both laughed as he tried in vain to wash the crock ware in the tiny sink. In the end, I let him dry the silverware. I thought that we made a pretty good team.

That afternoon we sat outside, in the back garden. The essence of the flowers was overwhelming. There was a cool breeze, and the sunshine stroked our faces with light and warmth. It was odd; after all of the terrible happenings that had occurred in this house, I now felt happier and more at peace than I had ever felt in my life. I glanced over at Alexander; he was sitting on the grass, quietly watching the robins fly from tree to tree.

"It's funny," he said. "I spend so much time in my room surfing the Internet that I don't even realize what I'm missing right outside my door," he said softly. He surveyed the garden. "I make fun of Nicholas, but I have to admit that he keeps this pretty nice," he admitted.

I picked a dandelion from the grass and held it under his chin. "He need mow lawn," I commented. "Wildflowers growing here," I observed. I suddenly realized what I had just said. I turned my face away, red with embarrassment. Nicholas Pavlovich was no longer there, either to mow the lawn or to keep up his mother's garden. Hot tears came to my eyes; I tried to hide them by placing my hands over my face.

Suddenly, I felt Alexander's comforting arms around me. I could smell his cologne, a pleasant masculine odor that didn't overwhelm me as Ivan's had. Alexander wiped away my tears with a warm, gentle hand. Before either one of us knew what we were doing we began kissing. I melted in his arms; he was the first man who had ever held me like this. I leaned my head back and stroked his face. He held me for a long time as we watched the birds together.

We spent the rest of the day together. We held hands as we walked up the hill to Fern Park. We both smiled as we witnessed children having a catch on the grassy slope near the tennis courts. We passed the swimming pool, where the first hardy swimmers were braving the cold to refresh themselves. We returned home and had a quiet dinner together. This time I cooked the meal. I prepared the Beef Stroganoff that I knew Alexander secretly loved.

We were seated in the living room that early evening, enjoying the peaceful calm that signals the end of a Spring day. We were both perched upon the old sofa, its beautifully-carved wooden back supported our heads, the rich texture of the cushions keeping us comfortable. Alexander had his arm around me; I felt completely relaxed with him now, having none of my previous misgivings about him. I wasn't certain what life was going to throw at me next; whatever it did, I wanted Alexander to be with me to meet it. I felt that his hidden soul had revealed itself to me, and was now locked with mine. I didn't pretend to know what love was---but I felt that it must be something like what I now shared with Alexander.

Unexpectedly, I began to hear the mysterious barking of a dog. It was similar to the sounds I had heard on previous occasions, only much louder. What was odd was that Alexander now seemed to hear these sounds too. He stood up, his dark face scowling as he walked in the direction of the noise.

I jumped up and attempted to prevent his leaving me. "Don't go, Alexander. It is just being imagination," I said, not too convincingly. He turned his head back toward me in puzzlement. "You've heard this sound before?" he said in astonishment. I nodded my head. He shook his own head in wonder. I saw him rub the cross that still hung around his neck. A beam of light reflected off of its surface, temporarily blinding my eyes. Before I could stop him, Alexander had marched with purpose to the source of the noise. He ascended the dark steps that led up to the second floor of the house. Alexander's own room was up there, just a few feet from the office of Vladimir Pavlovich. I wasn't certain why I thought so, but I was very sure that the hellish barking of the dog had originated in Vladimir's lair.

I stumbled awkwardly in the direction of the stairwell. My legs were unexpectedly weakened, and a cold stab of fear spread like wildfire throughout my body. Chills ran up and down my spine; I rubbed my arms and legs with my hands to try and warm myself. Despite my terror, I pushed myself toward the steps. As I began to climb them, the blackness of the dusky stairs suddenly seemed to envelop me. My fear of the dark gripped me, I clenched tightly on the wooden railing as I forced myself upward. My left hand brushed against the white stucco wall, scraping chalk-like dust off of it as I ground my fingers into its surface.

The sound of the dog grew louder. I glanced up, and observed a pair of red eyes glaring at me from the shadows. I tried to see through the haziness of the hallway; a strange husky shape seemed to materialize around the pair of devil-eyes. It was the figure of a large, hulking dog. The animal was black; not cute or cuddly like most dogs that color, but sinister and menacing. I imagined that I could see its white fangs dripping foam as it growled threateningly at me.

I somehow resisted the urge to flee. Somehow I sensed that I would never be fast enough to escape that hound from Hell. My breath escaped me as I tensed my body, expecting it to lunge at me any second. But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the dog vanished. I forced my jelly-like legs to climb the final few steps of the stairwell; I could barely move, it was like something heavy was pushing me backwards toward a pit. Finally, I managed to make it to the top. The hallway was dimly lit by small lamps perched on the sides of the walls; I had never noticed these lamps before now, though I had cleaned this hallway during the daytime a hundred times.

I paused for a moment to catch my breath. I closed my eyes, rubbing my hands together in a vain attempt to calm myself. When I felt a little more in control of myself, I began to gingerly step down the hallway. Without warning, a large hand with an iron grip suddenly grabbed me, holding my thin arm with a tightness that seemed to drain the blood from its white skin. I cried out in alarm, but another large hand quickly covered my mouth, preventing me from screaming any longer. I looked up into the face of my towering assailant.

It was Ivan Pavlovich.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

I recognized the goatee. It was orange-red, the color of hellfire. On this occasion I noticed how similar to a devil's beard it looked. Ivan now sported a beast's smile, one that held no kindness or friendliness. I once again regarded his large, prominent nose. Like some savage animal, it appeared to smell blood with every sniff of its ghastly nostrils. The eyes I contemplated now were the same Pavlovich ones that I had come to know and fear these past weeks. They pierced through the protection of your body, penetrating your heart to learn your most private secrets and exploit them. The massive head sprung from ponderous, monstrously large shoulders and an equally ponderous chest. Ivan Pavlovich was colossal, an evil giant from some old German fairy tale. And he was now holding me prisoner in this tiny cell-like hallway.

The stench of his overpowering cologne was making my stomach turn. I fought the urge to retch, looking him in the eye and meeting his challenging glare with a look of defiance. I felt like a hungry lion had captured me as its prey, and was now savoring the moment before it would devour me.

"Let go of arm, Mr. Ivan," I told him. I attempted to muster all the courage I could in my diminutive voice. "I am not being real estate. You are not closing on me," I informed him.

Ivan's eyes were burning with cruelty. His hulking body was shaking like an earthquake in his rage. He placed a gigantic hand around my small neck; for a terrible moment I thought he would crush it like an egg. However, just as suddenly as he had become enraged, Ivan seemed to calm down. He removed his hand from my neck, using it instead to gently stroke my hair. He relaxed his grip on my arm; as I pulled it free I could see purple marks under the pale-white skin. He glanced down at his watch, quickly checking on the time. He apparently didn't want to be late for whatever mischief he had in store for me.

"Well, Sonia Godunov," he said slowly and carefully. "I have been very patient in the past, but now it is time for you to deliver," he commanded me. He put his large face close to my own, beads of sweat pouring down his face. "Where is the necklace I put around your neck for safekeeping?" he asked quietly. Almost too quietly.

I shook my head at him. Though I was petrified, I was resolved not to play the role that he had planned for me. "I am not having it," I told him nervously.

Ivan slowly moved away from me. He began to silently pace back and forth, like some kind of caged animal. Then, without warning, he sprang at me. He seized my arms and shook me violently.

"I have no more time to waste on you, peasant girl!" he exclaimed. "I'll ask you again...where is the necklace?" he demanded. His voice was like a lion's roar; I turned away to avoid it, completely panic-stricken. I tried to think of something to say, some way to distract him, but I was too frozen in horror to attempt any such plan. Ivan reached into my pockets, rifling through their contents. In a moment he had found the necklace that I had foolishly neglected to hide. He yanked it from my pocket, and in one swift move forced it around my neck. Before I knew what was happening, he pushed me down the dimly-lit hallway toward the entrance of the mysterious room that had belonged to his grandfather Vladimir.

I tried to avert my eyes, but Ivan forced me to look up by yanking the hair on my forehead. A strange sight awaited me as I gazed upwards. The green clay three-pointed face that was ordinarily perched in an immobile fashion was now in movement. It seemed to be writhing in agony; it made high, shrieking sounds, like those of a dying man contorted in his suffering. But then, it appeared to focus its attention upon my features. The clay figure continued to shake with spasms of pain, though it also seemed to be changing in appearance before my gaze. In a moment, I seemed to be contemplating the tortured face of Nicholas Pavlovich.

I desperately wanted to run away, to escape this terrible place. But Ivan's steel-like grip on my arm prevented me from fleeing. He seized me by the collar, pushing me toward the door. I flinched, turning my face away as my body was forced closer and closer to the door. Finally, I was inches away from the entrance. Chills ran up and down my spine as I shook in fear.

"Now, Sonia," Ivan's crazed voice became higher and higher in pitch as he spoke. "Now is the Twilight of the Gods! Use that necklace to open the gate!" he ordered me. I was confused by his words, and tried to resist by attempting to pull free of Ivan's grip. But he was too strong. He pushed my stricken face right up to the green clay figure. I stood horrified as the three-pointed face began to come to life, beginning to speak in some ancient foreign language. I thought that perhaps it was Hebrew, but I couldn't be certain. The clay figure chanted for some short time; the sound was almost as terrifying to listen to as the unnatural sight of it coming to life was to my unbelieving eyes. Then, without warning, the figure became silent. The wooden door vanished, and I found myself in a small, claustrophobic room. It was the office of Vladimir Pavlovich, and I would have given anything to be somewhere else.

It was not well-furnished, this study of Vladimir's. A small wooden desk rested against a wall with filthy, peeling paint. A medium-sized picture of Russian Czar Nicholas II and his wife Alexandra hung prominently on this wall. On the opposite side of the room was a large painting of a mysteriously dark man. It contrasted sharply with the bright gold-colored wallpaper on which it hung. The man in the painting had long black greasy hair, deep penetrating eyes, and a thick scruffy beard. He wore the long black cloak of a Russian mystic. His right hand was raised, as if he were performing some strange ritual. There was no mistaking this haunting image---it was Rasputin!

There was old Cyrillic writing visible on the wall, right above the painting. I tried to read some of it, but it was hopelessly muddled. If I had to guess, I would have considered that it was some kind of chant or spell. Under the letters were various groups of numbers. They seemed to be organized into some sort of pattern; the same letters seemed to repeat themselves in a recognizable form. Despite myself, I couldn't help wondering what connection there was between the Cyrillic letters and the standard numbers. Was this the Kabbalah that Nicholas had spoken of on previous occasions? What did it all mean?

I rubbed the arm that Ivan had gripped too tightly. Fortunately, he had relinquished his grip when I had entered the room. I looked around the chamber, but could see no sign of the bully. From the corner of my eye I spotted a crumpled up figure lying prostrate on the floor. At first I thought it was a wolf, or some wild dog with black fur. As I strained my eyes, adjusting them to the haziness of the room, I suddenly recognized the unmoving figure. It was Alexander! He was lying collapsed on the floor, perhaps even dead!

I ran over to the still body of Alexander Pavlovich. I touched his arm, frightened at the possibility of finding him cold to the touch, like a corpse. However, I was happy to discover that he was still warm. I turned over his head, attempting to examine him more closely. His black hair still hung loosely over his closed eyes. His tongue lolled strangely out of swollen lips. Alexander was definitely unconscious; it appeared as if he had been drugged.

From the shadows of the room, a sudden movement caught my eye. It was a large shape, materializing like some ghost from the grave. I gave a quick cry as a shock ran through my body. The figure slowly began to take on a more recognizable, human form. I regarded blondish-grey hair, old-fashioned eyeglasses and a gentle sneer that I knew all too well. It was Harriet!

I rushed over and hugged her large frame. She returned my greeting, patting me on the head and gently rubbing my hand. I was so glad to find her alive that I wept tears of joy. Harriet wiped my eyes clean, smiling at me in her familiar reassuring way.

"Where you been, Harriet?" I asked her. "I being so worried you..." my voice trailed.

"Dead?" Harriet's voice seemed to gently mock me. She affectionately placed her arm around my shoulders, gently guiding me to the door. I was feeling very relieved. Now that Harriet was alive and well, I felt that everything would be just fine.

"I tell you before, Sonia," she said warmly. "You are needing more confidence. Believe in yourself...you are doing great things," she advised me. I turned my head back in the direction of Alexander. He was beginning to move a little, though not without difficulty. He gave a low moan of pain, his eyes still remaining closed as he continued to lie on the dirty wooden floor.

"Harriet," I said in confusion. "Shouldn't we be helping Alexander? He's being very hurt," I remarked with concern.

The eyes behind the old-fashioned glasses unexpectedly changed expression. They took on a hardened, strange look that I had never observed in Harriet before this day. It was unfriendly, almost sinister. It startled me a bit. I told myself that it was just the dimness of the dusky room.

"Oh, that Mr. Alexander and his computer, he going be just fine," Harriet insisted. As she led me closer to the door, her grip suddenly became tighter. I unconsciously tried to pull away from her. Harriet grabbed me by the arm, squeezing it tighter than Ivan had earlier. In fact, her grip was like his, iron and unfeeling. Chills of fear suddenly ran up and down my spine.

"Harriet," I pleaded. "What you doing? I not understand," I begged her.

Harriet gazed at me with a look of pure contempt. She chuckled as she pulled me up to the entrance of the study.

"No, you are never understanding, stupid peasant girl," she rudely commented. "I play you like fiddle, but you never guess what tune is meaning," she laughed cruelly.

I glanced up at the doorway. I suddenly realized that someone was standing on the opposite side of the open entrance. Though it was still hazy, I could make out the hulking, threatening figure of Ivan Pavlovich. His face was red with anticipation. He was pacing back and forth in front of the door, like the wild animal that he was, eager to gain entry to the study. I suddenly realized that I had been an instrument to be played my entire time at 69 Keeney Avenue. And Harriet and Ivan were rubbing a bow across my strings for their own dark purpose.

I tried to break free of Harriet's steel grip. "Let go!" I demanded. I attempted to push her away from me, desperate to somehow get away. But she held on even tighter, grabbing my other arm as well and forcing me to face the entryway. I suddenly realized that I was still wearing the cursed necklace around my neck. I glanced down to examine it. Its precious stones were now glowing, giving off an eerie green color. An odd vibrating sound echoed throughout the room, quickly becoming louder and louder. It hurt my ears with its metallic pitch. The green glow from my necklace began to cast a shadow upon the silhouette of the doorway. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash that forced me to close my eyes. When I gathered the nerve to open them, a horrible sight awaited me.

Ivan Pavlovich was in the room.

And he was smiling.

I made a sudden movement, yanking myself free from Harriet's grip. I ran to where Alexander still lay unconscious. I rubbed his face, shaking his shoulders and desperately calling to him.

"Alexander...please to wake up!" I pleaded with him. He groaned, shaking his head and contorting his upper body. His eyes seemed to roll back in his head. He tried to speak; his lips moved soundlessly, no speech coming from them to show me he was aware of my presence. They opened and closed like a fish that was attempting to free itself of a hook in its mouth.

Ivan and Harriet stood right next to each other. Harriet had slipped her arm through Ivan's in a very familiar manner. If I hadn't known that they were related, I would have thought them lovers. The very idea brought the taste of sickness to my mouth.

Harriet was holding something in her large hand. The object was round and white, and seemed somewhat familiar to me. As she studied me, moving closer and closer, I realized that Harriet was holding a small plate with a piece of cake upon it. I realized to my horror that it was my prize-winning cake!

"Here, little one," she taunted me. "Wouldn't you like a piece of your blue-ribbon cake? Or should Harriet say, her prize-winning cake?" Harriet said maliciously. She was every bit as imposing as she had been on the day I had met her. She looked at me with cruelty in her eyes and her hands on her hips. "You thinking you become chef? I wouldn't trust you to boil water," she said, her words cutting through my heart like a red-hot knife.

Bitter tears came to my eyes. "You just using me," I said with an angry voice. "Contest just way to gain Sonia's trust," I commented. Harriet smirked. She turned to Ivan, giving him a conspiratorial smile. "She getting smarter, this Russian peasant. Yes, little Sonia, you are waking up to reality. We served you cake, you served our purpose. But don't be disappointed," she said, with a tone of false concern. "Here is some cake for you and your new boyfriend," she offered me.

Harriet cut open the cake with a large, dagger-like knife. As she plunged it into the white frosting, a black cloud arose from the cake. When the smoke cleared, I viewed a horrifying image upon the plate. It was a swarm of black spiders crawling out from the inside of the dessert. They seemed to leap from the cake in my direction and attack me, their hairy legs grasping at my pale white skin. Before I knew it, I was covered with dozens of black Tarantulas. They crept up and down my writhing body, driving me into a wave of panic. I desperately pushed them away, shaking them free of my body and screaming with fright. I could hear the sound of Ivan and Harriet snickering at my plight, their laughter echoing off of the walls of the claustrophobic room. Unexpectedly, the spiders seemed to vanish as quickly as they had appeared. Ivan approached me, a purposeful look in his eyes.

Ivan looked impatiently at his watch. Beads of sweat appeared upon his gargantuan forehead. He placed his ponderous face right up to my own, sighing with satisfaction. "Well, Sonia, I must say that these last few weeks have been a distinct pleasure. It really has been a pleasure to manipulate your little brain. Have you enjoyed all of the scary visions and terrors that I created on your behalf? I know that you're a superstitious little peasant girl from a small village in Russia. Do you still believe that 69 Keeney Avenue is haunted by demons?" he mocked me.

I mustered all of the courage that I still had in my body. Ivan clearly expected me to cower before him now. I surprised him by slapping him on the face. "The only unnatural beings I am seeing in house are you and Harriet," I informed him. I stood up straight and boldly looked him in the eye. I was not going to let these two villains torment me without a fight.

Ivan rubbed his face where I had slapped him. He didn't seem angry, however, by my act of defiance. On the contrary, he actually appeared to be genuinely amused by my resistance. "You have become stronger, Sonia Godunov, since the time you first entered this house. I have thrown horrors upon horrors at you, yet you have remained at 69 Keeney Avenue and persevered. You see, Sonia, I inherited many of the drugs and potions that Rasputin gave to my grandfather Vladimir. They are such that can cause the eye to believe that it is witnessing horrible sights. Harriet has been kind enough to aid me in my cause, ensuring that you ingested the proper dosage of my drugs to cause hallucinatory effects. And they have frightened you, despite your bravery. It's like what my brother Nicholas said that day we met you, 'the third eye is in the mind'," Ivan stated with a grin of malice.

"Where is Mr. Nicholas," I demanded, hot tears rolling down my cheeks. "What are you doing with him, you monsters?" I challenged them.

Ivan glanced at Harriet, who responded by chuckling. She placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head sideways, as I had seen her do on many a happier occasion. She now regarded me with a benign look of amusement. I returned her look with one of anger and betrayal. Harriet replied to this by shrugging her shoulders.

"Oh, well," she said in a light manner. "You know how keen my nephew was to discover that connection between Kabbalism and Eastern Orthodoxy. He was obsessed with discovering what Rasputin had learned during his many travels. I sent Nicholas an anonymous e-mail at the University, promising him vital information concerning that meeting that the Dark One had with the Jews at the Monastery of the Caves," Harriet paused a moment, savoring her own clever deception. "You see, Vladimir had hidden the clue in a safe place here at 69 Keeney Avenue. It lay right out in the open, where any fool could see it, if they cleared the mist from their hazy eyes. A bridge to knowledge, if you will," she said enigmatically.

I suddenly understood. The painting in the living room! That was where the clue lay! Harriet nodded at me, as if she could read the thoughts in my mind.

"Yes, the picture of the ghostly river and the bridge," she confirmed my guess. Harriet grinned with malice, resembling Ivan in a way that I had never observed before, "It is representation of real bridge here in West Hartford. Or so e-mail led nephew to believe. Nicholas bolted in dead of night to this bridge to learn secret of lifetime," she informed me.

"And I was there on the other side of the bridge, to ensure that Nicholas would never waste my time again," Ivan broke in, smirking as he did. He pulled a gold watch from his pocket. It was caked with dried blood. I shivered with horror at the grisly sight. Ivan continued to smile. "Nicholas was very prophetic, Sonia," he remarked. "He couldn't kill time; but time killed him, nevertheless," he said with irony.

I tried to back away from the monstrous duo. Just being close to the two murderers filled my heart with disgust. I kneeled down once more at Alexander's side. He was still unconscious, shaking his head from side to side and moaning in pain. I turned my head back toward Ivan and Harriet, giving them an accusing glare.

"What all this insanity for?," I demanded of Ivan. "You richest man in West Hartford. What so valuable here in room that you kill brother for, like Cain kill Abel?"

Ivan resumed his pacing back and forth, seemingly frustrated by the confined space afforded him by the size of the room. He stretched his large body out to its fullest capacity, his colossal head sticking out of his mammoth body, his eyes appearing to burst from his face. He was livid with anger, his lion's voice roaring with rage.

"The Samovar, Sonia!" he angrily reminded me. "I've no more time for these little games. The Samovar is right here in this room, and I will have it now. Your ignorance of its value is maddening. You will help me to retrieve it, and you will do it immediately!" he bellowed.

Harriet stepped closer to me suddenly grabbing me by the neck. She dragged me to the picture of Rasputin. I tried to avert my gaze, but she roughly yanked my hair with her free hand, forcing my face inches from Rasputin's features. I was reminded of my first impression of Harriet Blom. She truly was an ogre from some German fairy tale.

"You want save Alexander's life?" she taunted me. "Then kiss man in picture," she ordered me.

I thought that I had heard her incorrectly. "What...you crazy?" I asked her in horror. I stared into her wrinkled face, my own stricken with confusion. Harriet noticed my look, rubbing her face with her free hand caressingly.

"Are you still insinuating I have wrinkles, pretty young girl?" she inquired with mocking derision. "When I have possession of Samovar, I will be young and beautiful again. Samovar has power to turn back clock. I will be pretty girl again, more beautiful than common tramp like you," she added.

It all made sense to me now. Ivan had played upon Harriet's vanity, exploiting her deepest wishes to use her as a tool to retrieve the Samovar. I attempted to reason with her. "Don't do this, Harriet," I pleaded. "You are being good woman. You are not needing supernatural evil like this," I informed her.

Harriet responded by laughing in my face. "What you know of needs?" she asked me contemptuously. "Everyone is liking beautiful young girl like you. Who is liking old wrinkled hag like me?" she said with a scowl.

"I like you," I replied. "You have been babushka to me," I told her.

Harriet shook her head in frustration. "Samovar!" she declared. "That is all I need. And you going to get it for us. Kiss Rasputin's face, Sonia, or I slit Alexander's throat with my own wrinkled hands," she threatened.

I could see that she was deadly serious. There would be no hope of reasoning with her. I turned my head away, searching the room for some help, any sort of assistance. But there was none. Alexander still remained on the floor, and Ivan was growing more angry and impatient with each passing moment.

"Do it!" he ordered me, his roar shaking the room. I reluctantly placed my lips against the image of Rasputin's face. It leered back at me, as if it were no reproduction, but the real sinner himself. As my lips touched his, they first burned like fire and then seemed to freeze like ice. I felt an overpowering blast hit my face, like that of an explosion. The force of it flung me backwards, thrusting me down upon the dirty wooden floor. As I beheld the painting, a remarkable transformation occurred. The picture seemed to retract, flipping over and vanishing into the golden-papered wall. There was suddenly a loud, humming sound; it hurt my ears to hear its vibrations. Unexpectedly, a large red platform emerged from a part of the wall. It was shaped like some kind of rectangular table, with strange, onion bulb-like ornaments adorning each corner. They reminded me of the onion bulb domes that crested the towers of the Kremlin, back in Moscow, Russia. There was a white cotton cloth laid upon it, which appeared to have the Romanov family coat of arms emblazoned upon its surface. And resting upon this cloth was the most magnificent example of a Russian Samovar that I had ever seen.

It was somewhat oval-shaped, with ear-like handles attached to each side. The body was clearly made up of some combination of gold and silver, its surface shone as if someone had just brushed it with a finish. There were gold leaves engraved upon its base, a beautiful decorative effect that took one's breath away. The top of the Samovar was fluted, bordered on its edges with striking white pearls. But, the most remarkable feature of the Samovar was its front surface. It had two interlocking letter A's engraved upon it, Cyrillic ones from the traditional Russian alphabet. A representation of the Russian Imperial Crown was embossed just above the crossed A's. I had never seen such a rich, graceful object like this, not in my entire life. Its exquisiteness and fine detail were a sight to behold. And both Ivan and Harriet were beholding it.

"At last...," Ivan sighed, a feverish glaze apparent in his eyes. "A mighty angel commands the seal to be broken," he said mysteriously.

He shoved Harriet aside with one large hand, forcing his gargantuan body into the cramped space just in front of the Samovar. Ivan raised his hands to the ceiling with his palms upturned, his massive head tilted backward, and his eyes closed. He began to chant in a language that I didn't recognize. At first, nothing seemed to happen. The room was silent, save for the sound of Ivan's booming voice.

Then a strange humming noise began to be heard in the room. It started softly, like the chanting of some Eastern Orthodox choir. Then it increased in volume. It became so intense that I felt the need to press my hands against my ears to block out the horribly loud noise. I felt a sharp pain in my head as the racket continued unabated. I thought that I would pass out from the discomfort of the deafening sound. But then, just as quickly as it had started, the humming suddenly ceased.

Ivan moved his hulking body closer to the Samovar. His eyes were open now, gazing at the object with a mix of reverence and longing. He stretched out the long fingers of his hand and placed his palm against the interlocking A's on the Samovar's surface. At first, nothing appeared to happen. Harriet yelled at Ivan with impatience:

"What you doing, fool?" she demanded of him. "How we gain power? When do I get young again?" she asked with consternation in her husky voice.

Ivan slowly turned his body toward Harriet. His eyes were glassy, as if they belonged to someone else, or were under the influence of some narcotic. Without saying a word, he took the hand that had touched the Samovar and pressed it against Harriet's forehead.

She shrieked with pain and cold fear. Her entire body shook with convulsions. Harriet tried to pull away from Ivan's touch, but seemed powerless to do so. I could smell a foul stench, like flesh burning. Clouds of smoke arose from Harriet's large frame. Then, a horrifying thing occurred. Harriet Blom simply became black dust, spilling upon the wooden floor in a dusty heap. I attempted to scream, but no words came out of my terrified lips. She was gone---this time for good.

Ivan returned his attention to me. For the first time that evening, I took a good look at what he was wearing. It was a long black robe, like that of an Eastern Orthodox priest. But around his neck was something golden; a chain with some kind of pendant attached to it. As he drew closer to me, I could see that it was a Star of David. Ivan rubbed it tenderly, much like Alexander had done with his cross. However, I doubted that in Ivan's case it was a fashion statement. He stalked me, creeping closer to me like a beast that is playing with its captured prey. He held out his gargantuan hand, the same one that had just killed Harriet. It was glowing red, like flames in a fire. The glare of this hand seemed to hypnotize me; no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't look away from it. Ivan stopped right in front of me; his grossly large body consuming all of the limited space before me. His red goatee seemed to glow as red as his hand. Sweat poured off of his bald head. His eyes were now cruel, savage with evil intent. But then, he suddenly gave me that friendly, charming smile that he had used on previous occasions.

"Ah, poor Harriet," he lamented with sadness. "I promised her that she would have no more wrinkles to frustrate her. Well. You must agree Sonia, I have kept that promise," he said with a mirthful grin.

I averted my eyes from his features. I was filled with disgust and loathing for him. "Only thing I am agreeing on is that you are being viper," I spat at him with contempt.

Ivan once more seemed to be amused by my defiance of him. He saw me regarding his Star of David; he looked down at it, lifting it up so that I might have a better view of it.

"You've no doubt been wondering if the Pavlovichs are truly Jews. My dear, we are descended from the tribe of Dan. I am a viper in this fashion. I bite the horse's head, causing the rider to fall backward," he said cryptically.

Ivan hurried back to the rectangular table. He lifted the Samovar with his obscene hands, gripping it by its ear-like handles and carrying it over to me. To my horror, the Samovar was humming; black steam arose from its spout as this noise continued. The interlocking A's seemed too glow like bulbs. The closer the Samovar came to me, the greater a sense of dread filled my heart. I wanted to run away from this horrible place. But I knew that I couldn't leave Alexander there. Alexander! I had momentarily forgotten him. I desperately searched for his form in the blackness of the darkened room. However, I couldn't see him in the dusk. Had he been consumed by hellfire? Had he been sucked down into some pit, never to be seen again? I dared not to consider the awful possibilities.

Ivan held the Samovar above his head in triumph. His large eyes gleamed with malice and delight. "You see, Sonia," he addressed me, a taunting cruelness in his voice. "Land is only useful for storing the dead. You are correct, I already have all the money I could ever need. What this Samovar can give me is power. It first belonged to Ivan the Terrible, greatest of all the Russian Czars. He enlisted the supernatural to defeat the Tartars and to steal their souls. Rasputin, my grandfather's master, was able to procure this venerated object by performing deeds of black magic for Nicholas II. Had the Czar known of its true power, he would never have allowed it to escape from his hands.It could possibly have saved the Romanov Imperial dynasty, had they understood its secrets," he informed me.

The Samovar seemed to glow hotter and redder as Ivan spoke. His voice became louder and more intense, sounding more insane with each word he said. Ivan's eyes grew wide and manic-looking, as his voice became more passionate. "From this chalice, the Red Dragon will give me power, a throne, and authority over all. You and Alexander will be the next victims of my blasphemy. I shall now blot you from the Book of Life," he threatened.

Ivan raised the Samovar high with his outstretched arms. He began to chant again in that foreign tongue. More black smoke arose from the gold and silver chalice. I covered my eyes with my arm, too terrified to witness this awful spectacle. I was convinced that I was about to die a horrible death.

Suddenly, a white light enveloped the room. I looked up and was stunned to recognize the aged features of Father Nicolai, my friend and priest. He held a large Byzantine cross in his hands, and was pointing it at Ivan. I recognized the cross; it was usually attached to the wall of the chapel at the Eastern Orthodox Church on Scarborough Street in Hartford. In Father Nicolai's hands, it seemed to glow with the very power of Christ. I felt a sense of warmth and safety as I regarded this cross.

Ivan laughed at the sight of Father Nicolai. He lifted the enormous Samovar over his head, challenging the aged priest with its great power. "You are a fool, old man," Ivan said with a sly grin. "Your gods are dead, now. I represent the New Order! Your Savior couldn't even save himself," Ivan mocked the elder man. He lifted the Samovar into the air, pointing it in Father Nicolai's direction. Orange flames seemed to shoot out from the spout of the Samovar; they rose up, appearing to dance in the confined space of the room. Father Nicolai trembled, yet he somehow persevered, grasping the Eastern cross tightly and saying the Lord's Prayer as he did so.

Suddenly, the dancing flames seemed to change direction. They ignited in an explosion, blazing downwards toward Ivan Pavlovich. He was consumed by them in a matter of mere seconds. His large body was jerked up and it shook violently as he was engulfed in hellfire. Black smoke arose from the blaze; when it had finally cleared, there was nothing left of the man but sooty ashes.

I ran toward Father Nicolai, and embraced him warmly. He rubbed my hand affectionately, comforting me with his kindness. I looked over his shoulder to see what had become of the Samovar. It had disappeared, perhaps forever. Maybe it was an organic part of 69 Keeney Avenue; I really didn't care, just as long as the cursed thing was out of my sight.

"How you get here, Father Nicolai?" I asked him in astonishment. I observed the door, remembering how difficult it had been for me to pass through the entryway. But then another question occurred to me: How had Harriet and Alexander made their way into the room? Neither of them had possessed the necklace, nor had Ivan. I scratched my head with wonder as I tried to make sense of it all.

Father Nicolai patted my shoulder. He regarded me with paternal affection, his sad eyes moist with sympathy. "I know all about the necklace, Sonia," he replied to my silent question. "But you see, you really didn't need it to gain entry to the study of Vladimir Pavlovich. Ivan has been playing with your mind for quite some time. His special narcotics have made you susceptible to his suggestions. He drugged Alexander, and then Harriet dragged the boy into the room, right through that very entryway," he pointed to the doorway.

I was more confused than ever. "Why?" I inquired, my forehead wrinkling with the effort of thinking. "Why Mr. Ivan not just enter room and take Samovar? Why he needing Sonia Godunov to help him?" I asked in puzzlement.

Father Nicolai sighed with frustration, as if he were struggling to speak to a child. I had never witnessed him do such a thing before; he was usually a very considerate, patient man. But, I was intent on discovering the secret to the mystery of 69 Keeney Avenue, and so I ignored this strange behavior.

"This room is no ordinary study," he declared. "It is a gateway to a certain other place. To gain ultimate knowledge, Vladimir Pavlovich had to bargain the one thing that someone should never bargain," he shook his head sadly as he stated this.

"His soul?" I asked naively. I still couldn't believe that all of this was real. I felt that I must be dreaming the worst nightmare that I had ever experienced.

Father Nicolai nodded his head in assent. He wore an odd smile on his face, one I had never seen on him, but remembered observing on someone else. "Father Nicolai learned this on that day long ago, the day Vladimir Pavlovich disappeared. You see, I didn't tell you everything, Sonia," Father Nicolai paused, apparently wishing to examine the look on my face. My eyes opened wide with bewilderment. Then, he smiled. There was no warmth in those eyes. Just coldness.

"What you mean?" I asked with some hesitation. I was beginning to become uncomfortable in Father Nicolai's presence. Something wasn't right; I couldn't put my finger on it, but I felt that something was wrong.

"Vladimir betrayed his own master to Prince Yusupov," Father Nicolai informed me. "He was at the scene of Rasputin's assassination; he actually assisted in disposing of his body. As he dropped his former master into the river, Vladimir reached into the pocket of his cloak and stole the Romanov necklace. What was its worth to him? Not the millions of rubles to be gotten from selling it on the black market. No, it was linked to a far more valuable item."

"The Samovar!" I interjected.

"Da, Sonia, the Samovar,' he confirmed my guess. "A Romanov family heirloom, obtained from the Czarina. Of some sentimental value, to be sure; it had belonged to Czar Alexander III, after all. But its true merit lay in what Rasputin had stored in it. The culmination of his life's work," he declared.

"I am not understanding," I admitted. Father Nicolai seemed to grow impatient with me. "Foolish girl," he growled. "Don't you see? Rasputin connected all the dots! At Mount Atlas, he received the complete text of John the Apostle's Revelations! He traveled to Jerusalem to compare the Greek and Aramaic scriptures. Rasputin took his newly-acquired knowledge to the Monastery of the Caves in Kiev, in order for him to unlock the secrets encrypted in the missing text of the Bible. By using a numerical Kabbalah code, he unraveled the secrets of the Apocalypse! The End of Days! Can't you see?" he asked me.

I began to back away from Father Nicolai. He seemed to have undergone some transformation. Gone was the kindly, gentle man who had been a father surrogate for me here in America. I didn't recognize the lunatic that had replaced him, and was standing in front of me now, terrifying me with crazy talk.

"Even Rasputin, an evil-doer with no fear, was afraid of what he had discovered in the text. Vladimir Pavlovich, his servant, was there the day Rasputin dared to read aloud from John's scripture. The Eastern Orthodox chant, the ancient Jewish numerology; he combined them all with his reading of the forbidden words! When Rasputin had finished, a force arose from the ground, so horrible and dark that it appeared to come from Hell itself. A crevice opened up in the Earth, and a small, well-dressed man arose from the ashes wearing a smile on his suave face. He calmly told Rasputin that he was to receive certain knowledge of the future for his pains. He informed the black monk that he would soon die, a victim of a plot perpetrated by his friends and aided by his most trusted followers. He related to Rasputin how his patrons, the Romanovs, would soon be deposed in a revolution, then brutally executed. With much relish, he told him how his beloved Russia would soon suffer horribly under a brutal dictatorship and then collapse in ruin," he informed me.

Father Nicolai paused for a moment, observing my reaction to his strange story. He walked around me in a circle, nodding his head in an enigmatic fashion that I could swear I'd witnessed before now. But it hadn't been Father Nicolai who had done it. The priest stopped a moment, rubbed his white beard and continued his narrative.

"After he had made these predictions known to Rasputin, the well-dressed man pointed a finger at his Samovar, which had been displayed prominently on a shelf in his room. It floated in the air, until it came to rest at Rasputin's feet. The stranger lifted his arms; as he did so, a black cloud arose from the pit. A horrible stench permeated the air, and as Vladimir looked through the haze, he could observe a pale horse. Its rider was named Death. He would grant whoever mastered the power of the Samovar the ability to kill everyone in the world. The rider and his horse then vanished into a cloud of smoke; this cloud of smoke then seemed to swirl into the spout of the Samovar. The well-dressed stranger promised Rasputin that whoever possessed the Samovar would also possess unlimited power. But with that power would be a price---eternal damnation.

Father Nicolai regarded me with a hungry, almost lustful eye. I continued to back away from him, certain that he had lost his mind. But we were in a small room, the study of Vladimir Pavlovich, and I soon found myself pressed up against the wooden desk, unable to escape.

"Don't you see, Sonia?" his voice was becoming more and more agitated. "That fool Ivan didn't understand the true nature of the Samovar. He thought it would give him power over men, just as Vladimir had believed. But owning the Samovar was a curse. The Pavlovich men who possessed it were all damned. Vladimir, Peter, and Ivan as well," he informed me.

I turned my gaze away from him, frightened by the change in him. Father Nicolai reached over and gently stroked my face. Then he suddenly grabbed me by the hair, yanking it hard. I screamed with a combination of shock and pain.

"Foolish peasant girl!" he unexpectedly shouted. "You will soon understand, da? The night Rasputin was murdered Vladimir retreated to his own home bearing both the necklace and the Samovar, which he had stolen from his master. He hid both in a trunk and then took on the disguise of a hated Jew. Thus, he was able to escape Russia with his valuable possessions intact and immigrate to America, free of suspicion. He came to the town of West Hartford, in Connecticut, with his Ukrainian wife Elizabeth in tow. The Samovar he stored here in this study. However, its curse followed him to the New World, haunting him to the day he vanished. Vladimir never dared to attempt to utilize its full powers; he became insane with the forbidden knowledge of its true nature," he said.

Father Nicolai's eyes seemed to glow red in the dark room. Though it was warm in the stuffy study, his breath seemed to form little clouds in front of his scruffy mouth. There was something almost sinister about this man that I had grown to love and respect these past weeks.

Father Nicolai continued to speak. "On the day of his disappearance, Peter confronted his father, demanding to know the reason for his brutal treatment of his family. Vladimir told his son everything. For the first time, he revealed the hidden Samovar; he confided to Peter the details of his pact with the Devil. Vladimir commanded his only son to honor the covenant he had made with the Dark Lord, and to protect the Samovar. But, unbeknownst to Vladimir, Peter had already spied on his father. He had witnessed the rituals that his father had performed, learning all of the ancient spells that he had used. Peter now chanted one of these spells; suddenly, the floor opened up to reveal a deep crevice in the ground. Vladimir Pavlovich was dragged into a dark pit screaming with terror. The crevice closed up, as if there had never been any crack in the floor. Vladimir had vanished forever," the priest informed me.

"Peter Pavlovich now possessed the Samovar," he continued. "He jealously hid it in the same room, damning his own soul as his father had before him. Peter was to discover one more thing about the Samovar. Only a woman with a pure heart could allow one to access it. Anyone could enter the study; Ivan tricked you with the illusion of the necklace opening the door. Why did he need you so badly, then? He could have seized the Samovar with his own hands. However, Ivan knew that without the presence of a woman with a pure soul, the Samovar was nothing more than a tea kettle. That was why Peter needed Catherine, and why Ivan needed you for his evil purpose."

Unexpectedly, Alexander appeared from out of the shadows. He threw himself at Father Nicolai, yanking him hard by his shoulders. I was thrown to the floor in the struggle.

"How dare you mention my parents, you false priest," he said angrily. "They died many years ago, in a fire. What do you know of Peter Pavlovich? You were no friend to him, to betray his secrets!" Alexander accused the priest.

Father Nicolai had considerable strength for someone so old. As Alexander struggled to subdue him, the old man pulled free of his grip. He grabbed Alexander forcefully by the neck, tightening his fingers around his throat until the younger man began to choke.

"Alexander!" I cried out. I quickly rose to my feet and then leaped at Father Nicolai in order to help Alexander. I clawed at his face and hair, pulling at his gray locks and beard. To my surprise, a wig came off in my hands. I staggered back in shock, regarding the man in front of me with stunned eyes. I instantly realized that this person was not Father Nicolai.

He was Nicholas Pavlovich.

Nicholas threw his younger brother to the floor. He regarded me with a look of pure triumph. I returned his gaze with my own, one of complete bewilderment. Nicholas ripped off the fake beard that he had worn on his chin, and wiped make-up off of his face. I couldn't believe that he had succeeded in fooling me with this charade.

"Surprised, Sonia?' he taunted me. Oh, but you shouldn't be! Did Harriet neglect to inform you that in college I was an actor? My favorite part to play was that of Faust's Mephistopheles. It was a role that I was well suited for," he smirked.

I regained my ability to speak, though my tongue still felt like sandpaper. "Where...where is being real Father Nicolai?" I demanded.

I took a good look at Nicholas Pavlovich. It was him alright. There was no mistaking the round face, slightly-bent nose, and the stooped over figure. I couldn't understand why I had failed to recognize him before now. How could I ever have mistaken him for Father Nicolai? However, his eyes were now different. Before they had seemed watery and lifeless; they now sparkled with malice and evil intent. They seemed to contain a fire in them that burned red with passion.

"Oh, Father Nicolai," he said in a light, mocking tone. "Well, the good priest was always so eager to help. He visited this house one afternoon, concerned for your well-being. I convinced him that you were in no danger here at 69 Keeney Avenue. Apparently, he believed that you were on that local bridge in the dead of night. He rushed over there, determined to save your life. I was nice enough to lend him my hat and coat, seeing as it was chilly. Apparently, Ivan mistook him for me; it was after all, a dusky evening," Nicholas smiled.

I sank to my knees in despair. "Father Nicolai...no!" I cried.

Nicholas approached me stealthily. I could now see that his walk was truly that of a leopard. His body movements suggested cunning, craftiness, and deviousness. He was the antithesis of his brother Ivan. You would never hear Nicholas's roar. He would devour you before you even heard his footsteps in the jungle.

"Da, Sonia," Nicholas said, his head tilted to one side. "Father Nicolai was an unfortunate casualty in the war between Ivan and me. In the end, there can be only one beast," he declared. He crossed his arms, shaking his balding head with sadness. "Ivan used a particular sickle that night. It was one I believe you are well-acquainted with, a sharp farming tool. He hoped to kill me with it. Instead, he murdered an innocent Eastern Orthodox priest. Bad form, really," he lamented.

Hot tears came to my eyes. "He was planting sickle with blood on it in kitchen," I said with outrage. "Monster trying to frame me," I declared.

Nicholas slowly circled around me, much as he had that first day we had met. He nodded his head in the same enigmatic fashion. "Yes...you will do, Sonia Godunov," he informed me. "You are kind, but strong as well. I am very glad you came to 69 Keeney Avenue. However, you are mistaken concerning one thing," he said. "Ivan didn't plant that sickle in the kitchen for Paulie Dante to find. I did," he corrected me.

I pulled on my earlobe. I couldn't help it at this point. I was too distraught to control my actions. "Why," I asked him. "Why are you doing this? You are wanting me in prison?" I demanded of him.

Nicholas laughed in response. "Don't talk like an ignorant peasant, Sonia," he said. "That fool Dante was my puppet. That sickle was for Ivan and Harriet's benefit, not yours. I disrupted their plans, forcing Ivan to push you prematurely. He manipulated your mind with his drugs, making you believe that the necklace was possessed of some magical power. Ivan did understand that he needed you in the presence of the Samovar to utilize its powers, just as our father Peter had needed our mother Catherine. But, you are in this room because I wished it so. All this has been for your benefit, Sonia. You are the star of this play," he declared.

Alexander regained his feet. He stuck a finger in his older brother's chest. "How dare you insult the memory of Father and Mother?" he demanded of him. "This was their home! We were brought up to respect God, not to utter blasphemies against Him! You are betraying everything that our parents stood for," he accused his brother.

For a second, Nicholas regarded Alexander with something akin to pity. But then, a hard, ruthless look appeared in his eyes. He shoved his younger brother hard against their grandfather Vladimir's desk. Alexander crashed into it, collapsing with the broken chair entangled around his body. He seemed momentarily stunned, not just by the blow, but by his usually complacent brother's violence.

"Young fool!" Nicholas shouted down at Alexander's prostrate body. His face was animated with emotion. "You know nothing of our parents. Peter Pavlovich yearned for the power and the glory that the Samovar represented. He knew that after his father Vladimir had activated it by invoking Rasputin's forbidden chant, no man could touch it alone without being consumed my hellfire. He needed a pure, untainted soul to gain access to it'sdeepest mysteries," he informed us.

"How are you knowing this?" I asked in dismay.

Nicholas seemed to burn with pride. His usually placid features became animated; he took on a confident, almost arrogant manner. He rubbed his chin with gusto, as if he wore a beard there instead of a flabby white chin. Nicholas began to pace back and forth with nervous energy. For a moment, I thought he might take a quick peek at his watch.

Nicholas addressed himself to my question. "On the day our parents died, I secretly followed Mother to Grandfather Vladimir's study. She had requested that I remain in the rose garden, but I didn't obey her wish on this occasion. For you see, I felt that something was wrong. Before departing from the garden, Mother stopped and turned for a moment. She had a peaceful, resigned look in her eyes. Little Alexander was safe at Aunt Harriet's place in another part of town. Ivan was gone that day as well, probably off cheating his friends at cards. Mother's face haunted me for the rest of my life. She bore the look of a martyr, one about to sacrifice herself. She walked steadily with purpose toward the house. Then she opened the door to the little front porch and disappeared," Nicholas related.

He paused for a moment, as if the memory continued to haunt him. But then he continued. "I stalked her step, careful not to make a sound. I followed her up the narrow stairs, past the white stucco walls into the blackness of the upstairs hallway. I couldn't see her clearly; I was just able to make out an impression of her body. She had paused in front of the door to Grandfather's study. We were strictly forbidden to enter this room, though the order was unnecessary. Neither of us had the courage to venture into that mysterious room. As my gaze became accustomed to the dark, I suddenly realized that Mother was not alone. A pair of red eyes shone in the blackness. I didn't understand why, but somehow I knew that those eyes were those of Father. He was undoubtedly leading Mother into danger. I attempted to get closer to them, but a sudden sense of dread made my body feel like lead. Then, I heard the strange voice from the darkness."

"I peered into the dusk, and realized that my parents had gained entry to the study. I hadn't heard the sound of the door opening or closing, but as I crawled toward the entrance I could see that they were gone. I painfully made my way to the door, fear making my knees feel like jelly. Then, I saw the thing that I had feared most. It was the green, three-pointed clay face that guarded the entrance to the study. It seemed alive to me, like some demon from the underworld. But, I couldn't be certain if it wasn't my terror that was causing me to witness this horror. I thought that I could hear the strange voice in my head, demanding that I pay the toll to enter the room. I was alarmed, unsure of what my next move should be. I felt the urge to run screaming down the hall, away from the ghastly figurine. But then, I remembered something that I had read in the past. It was an excerpt from a book belonging to my father. It was in ancient Greek, and it translated into these cryptic words: 'But as for you, Daniel, shut up the words and seal the scroll until the end of time.' The clay figure seemed to smile, and I was able to open the door and enter the room unchallenged," Nicholas said.

He paused for a moment, licking his lips and observing our reactions to his tale. I regarded him with horror and loathing. He smiled, the glassy look seeming to return briefly to his eyes. Then he continued. "By the time I entered the study, Father appeared to have been successful in his effort to obtain the Samovar by using my mother. It rested on this very platform, shining as brightly in the haze as a brass instrument on a sunny day. Father was chanting in some ancient foreign tongue; he had an insane look in his eye, as if he had been driven mad. His arms were extended upwards as he repeated the chants. Suddenly, clouds of red and black smoke arose from the Samovar. Unexpectedly, a beast materialized from the smoke; he was more hideous and misshapen then any creature I had ever seen before. The beast had seven heads and ten horns, a foul-smelling thing that hissed with its every unnatural breath. My father placed my mother upon the back of this creature, as if it were no different than a horse. She was wearing a purple and scarlet dress, adorned with gold and pearls. She held a golden cup in her hands. And then, I witnessed the most horrible sight of all. Upon her forehead was written the name 'Mystery of Babylon.' It had been written in blood, though I couldn't determine whose blood it was. Father shouted, saying that his wife was the mother of all whores and would abominate the Earth. He snatched the cup from her hands and drank from it. It was blood that he drank; he smiled and dropped the cup on the floor, resuming his chanting."

"The room hummed. I saw locusts flying around the room, banging into the walls and falling down dead. A foul stench arose in the room, sour and pungent. I was filled with the urge to vomit. I ran to my mother and wrapped my arms around her, attempting to protect her. My father pushed me away violently. I turned on him, pulling an object from my coat pocket. It was a cross. This very cross," Nicholas indicated the one he still held in one hand. "I stole it from that church on Scarborough Street then, as I did now," he said proudly, lifting up the cross so that Alexander and I could get a better look at it.

Then Nicholas Pavlovich continued his story. "My father laughed at me," he said. "My father challenged me, asking 'What kind of good Jewish boy comes bearing crosses?' But his laughter stopped when he got a closer look at the cross. All of the color left his face; he was suddenly as white as a ghost. My father began to back away, crashing into the red platform in his confusion, and almost knocking over the precious Samovar. I repeated the words that I had learned from the New Testament, a book that I had been forbidden to read. I said, 'Whoever rejects Jesus Christ will be blotted from the Book of Life.' Suddenly, smoke and fire arose from the spout of the Samovar. Devilish spirits flew from it, encircling my father and covering him with their foul dust. He screamed, reaching out to my mother in desperation. My mother tore herself from my grasp, reaching out a hand to her beloved husband. They touched fingers for the last time, the tips just barely making contact. Then they were both consumed by massive flames. I had to shield my eyes from the huge conflagration. When the smoke had cleared my father and mother were dead. I had lost them forever," Nicholas related with sadness in his countenance.

"No! You lie!" Alexander screamed at his older brother. He charged at him, throwing his lean young body against the pudgy body of Nicholas. His brother lifted his arm into the air. Some strange unseen force threw Alexander against a table. He collapsed to the floor, apparently unconscious. I turned to rush to his aid, but was stopped by the iron grip of Nicholas. He pulled me violently, seeming to be even stronger than his late brother Ivan. He dragged me to the Russian Samovar, forcing me to kneel in front of it, as if I were at Church praying. I tried to lift my head and spit at him, but my dry mouth had no moisture left in it.

"Yes, Sonia," he said with a sadistic smile. "You will do! You are the pure girl that I need to control the Samovar. You will be my Black Virgin Mary! You represent the ardent search for the soul. Only those who learn the nature of God can understand suffering. And you understand; I saw that in your eyes that first day you came to this house. I will use you, Sonia Godunov, just as my father Peter attempted to use my mother that horrible day years ago," he declared.

"But why?' I asked him in a pleading voice, hot tears running down my red flushed cheeks. "Why you do this? Why repeat father's mistakes?" I begged of him. Nicholas raised his hands to the ceiling in response. Streams of black liquid flowed impossibly from his eyes, ears, and mouth. Then, he spoke in his leopard voice:

"It is my destiny. We Pavlovich men have been biding our time for this very moment. You are the harlot, Sonia. You will help me to build a temple in the land of Babylon. The nations of the world will be deceived by us, then become enslaved by my sorcery. On the plains of Armageddon , the final battle will be fought. All the cities in the world will be destroyed," he announced, his eyes red with passion.

I stared at him, dumfounded. Nicholas lifted the graying brown hair right off of his head, revealing a skull that was as bald and shiny as his brother Ivan's had been. And then I saw something horrifying. I blinked my eyes to ensure that I wasn't imagining what I was seeing. But it was there, right on his scalp. The number 666. And then I finally understood.

"No!" I screamed. I tried to avert my eyes from the mortifying sight. Nicholas laughed; he then began to stalk me like an animal he had cornered. He reached out his hand toward me. His fingers were claws, ugly and sharp. He smelled of death itself. I couldn't bear it anymore. I covered my face with my hands.

But then, something strange happened. A white light appeared from the ceiling. Roses began to fall steadily upon the floor. A wonderful aroma, like that of fresh flowers, permeated the tiny study. I suddenly observed an image materializing in the center of the room. It was a pale young girl with milky-white skin and ivory-blonde hair. She wore an equally white sweater and skirt. It was Becky.

And she was smiling.

"Becky!" I called out. I wanted to run to her side. But Nicholas quickly grabbed me by the wrist, his fingers tightening so hard that I cried out in pain. He grabbed my other wrist and roughly spun my body around to face the ghostly apparition in front of us.

"Run home little girl, before you get hurt," he taunted Becky. He scowled, but I could tell from his increased rate of breathing that he was alarmed. His leopard voice slightly broke as he spoke, his confidence shaken a bit.

"You should never have left the Rose Garden, Nicholas Pavlovich," she replied. "Someone needs to protect the roses," she calmly said.

Nicholas roared with laughter. It was a repulsive sound, like some kind of sick hyena. He pointed one of his claws in the direction of Becky.

"I know what happened to you," he told her with a smirk. "My grandfather Vladimir caught you snooping around his yard. So he broke your little neck for you," he said with relish.

I stared at Becky. Her paleness, the mysteriousness surrounding her. It all made sense to me now. I was grief-stricken. "No, little Becky...no," I pleaded. She regarded me with those beautiful sad eyes of hers. Then she suddenly smiled and waved at me.

"Thank you for teaching me how to cook," she said. Her voice sounded faint, as if she were calling out to me from far away. "I really did enjoy the bird's milk cake," she added.

Becky lifted a ghostly hand. Unexpectedly, she appeared to be astride a large white horse. And she was not alone. A tall, thin man was holding her by the waist; he sat behind her on the horse, seeming to protect her as she waved once more to me. The man had a kind face; he smiled at me as I observed the two of them upon the beautiful animal. I couldn't help smiling back at him he seemed so gentle and nice. The horse spun around, then disappeared into the mist that enveloped it.

From the floor, a crevice suddenly opened up. It was as if an earthquake had torn the ground apart, creating a large, dark pit. An odd noise arose from this crevice. It was soft and musical, like some tender lullaby. It captivated me, making me feel like I was in some sort of trance. I wanted very much to go into the pit and meet the source of the music.

Nicholas released his grip on my wrists. He remained silent, simply ambling over to the large hole in the floor. He paused at the edge, as if he too were in some kind of trance, unable to control his movements. Then he looked back at me and smiled. But his eyes weren't smiling. They were like they had always been, glassy and dead.

"That picture in the living room, Sonia," he said, quietly and sadly. "It is Russia. A mighty river going nowhere, with a rickety old bridge across it," he said with sadness in his voice. Then something impossible happened before my eyes. The top half of his body fell off, like a Matryoshka doll. From within the hollow exterior of Nicholas emerged a dark-haired, bearded man. He resembled Ivan Pavlovich, but was somewhat older and more sinister. He glowered at me with a look of pure hatred. I suddenly realized that I was regarding the soul of Vladimir Pavlovich. Then the man unexpectedly evaporated, his smoky remains blowing down into the pit and disappearing.

This was too much. I collapsed upon the dusty, wooden floor. I immediately lost consciousness.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

The cool air gently washed over us as we walked down the busy sidewalk in West Hartford Center. It was a very sunny late spring day, and many families were taking advantage of the weather to go shopping. Alexander held my hand tenderly as we made our way past young sweat-stained ladies in baseball caps walking their dogs, groups of teenagers munching on ice-cream cones, and businessmen in dress suits and ties, hurrying to gobble down their sandwiches. We walked past a greeting-card store on Farmington Avenue that caught my eye. It had the façade of an old German house bordering the top edges of the building. Brown lines crossed over a beige background, and there appeared to be seven gables on the roof. I gazed into the window and was saddened to find the shop empty. Alexander confirmed that the store had recently closed due to a lack of business.

We took a quick peek down LaSalle Road, the next street over. Several bustling restaurants greeted us as we ambled down the hectic pavement. There was a Jewish delicatessen, a Japanese sushi bar, and a hip new burger joint. There were jewelry stores, high-end clothing boutiques, and several large banks. As I crossed the hustling boulevard, I spotted a familiar figure in the middle of the street directing traffic. To my surprise, I saw it was my old foe, Paulie Dante. We had complained to the West Hartford Police Department regarding Dante's conduct during the investigation of Nicholas's disappearance. Apparently, we weren't the first to complain about his methods, for he was soon demoted to foot patrol. Dante held his right hand up to stop traffic, and motioned us to cross the street. From my vantage point, he appeared to briefly stick up one middle finger for my benefit; it was possible that I had imagined it, as I had imagined so many things over the past few weeks. We didn't cross, choosing to cut through an opening between buildings, traversing a back parking-lot to get to South Main Street.

As we strolled across this parking-lot, Alexander pointed out sights of interest from his youth to me. He indicated a narrow alley behind the La Petite France Bakery, where he used to climb the fire escape to make his way up to the roof. He laughed as he recalled naming it the "Temple of Doom," presumably taken from the famous movie. Alexander and his friends used to sneak up to the roof every Thursday evening and throw water balloons upon the unsuspecting people below whom they contemptuously referred to as "Yuppies." Alexander told me of great changes made to the center, located right here in the heart of West Hartford. Formerly, there had been an old-fashioned movie theater, a bowling alley, and several small family food markets and drug stores. The Center had been completely transformed, becoming an upscale metropolis of fine dining and real estate. There were only echoes left of the old Center he had known as a child.

Alexander and I passed through a driveway, entering South Main Street via the busy sidewalk. We paused in front of Himmlers, a classy shop specializing in lamps. "Himmlers?" Alexander remarked with a sly grin. "That's a German name. I wonder if any of those lampshades are all that's left of my Jewish relatives?" he joked.

I slapped him playfully; I then linked my arm with his own. We were now engaged to be married. I wore his gold engagement ring on my finger, a small, simple piece of jewelry, free of any history or curses. We rarely spoke about that horrible night at 69 Keeney Avenue. After Ivan had died, it was determined by the courts that he had no other legal heir than Alexander. After some litigation, Alexander inherited all of Ivan's real estate holdings and money. These holdings included property in the newly-built development called Blue Back Square. It lay in an area of West Hartford Center between Raymond Road and South Main Street, adjacent to both the town hall and the public library. Standing in front of the library was an impressive statue of Noah Webster, the man who had written the first American dictionary. To me, he appeared to be reaching down to implore people to read. Alexander laughed at my naïve observation, promising to bring me to visit the Noah Webster House Museum which was just down South Main Street.

"If Mr. Alexander can put smart phone down for moment, maybe he can enlighten Sonia more about his hometown," I teased him. He had been ignoring me for a moment while he stared at his Blackberry screen and typed into his phone. Alexander smiled apologetically, turning his phone off for the moment and returning it to his pocket. "I was just texting my brother's lawyer to say we would be at the apartment soon. And I don't have to enlighten you about anything Sonia. If anything, you've enlightened me about a great many things," he said with a smile. He placed an arm around me and gave me a small hug. I kissed him in response, returning his smile with one of my own.

"Speaking of lights," I mentioned. "Please to explain something to me. That night we come to house on Keeney Avenue and lights being out, why you not use cell phone instead of lighter? I not that knowledgeable with technical stuff, but sure that your phone give off better brightness than lighter," I said.

Alexander was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. "You are so much more clever than my brothers or aunt gave you credit for. Yes, of course I could have used the light from my phone. It would have been a smarter, more efficient thing to do at the time. But I didn't for a very good reason," he said.

"What being reason?" I asked.

His voice was quiet, almost sad. "I didn't want to show off, like I usually do. I wanted you to look at me in a different light," he whispered.

"I do," I whispered back, holding his hand tightly.

Despite my hesitation, I actually was catching up with the technology of my new home. Alexander had been teaching me about Twitter and other computer wonders. I could now text myself, and send messages to Russia, keeping up with the gossip back there. The world was getting smaller with all of these new social networks. But it made me sad to think of the old world that was quickly vanishing because of this.

As we approached the outskirts of Blue Back Square, a first-class restaurant greeted our arrival. It was one of the hottest new eateries in Connecticut. It was called 'The Cupcake Factory'; I had never consumed such desserts as this particular factory produced. Rich, exquisite cupcakes that tantalized the taste buds; my mouth watered just walking past the place. But it had a special meaning for me personally; I was to apprentice as a pastry chef there soon. Alexander had gone to school with the owner, and though I hesitated to benefit from any more Pavlovich connections, the opportunity was too good to pass up. I was to start in only two more days. Two days...then my American Dream would start to come true.

Alexander had inherited another piece of property as well. Apparently, Nicholas had willed 69 Keeney Avenue to his youngest brother. I had mixed feelings about this inheritance. I was glad for Alexander's sake that he would get to keep his old family home. However, I was still haunted by the terrible things I had seen in that house. Alexander had brought me to the hospital upon my collapsing that night. After a day of observation, I had been released to his care. We had stayed at a hotel in downtown Hartford, the two of us really having nowhere else to go. Although I had suffered multiple traumas, I marveled at the strength of Alexander Pavlovich. He had twice been drugged, physically assaulted, and had witnessed the deaths of several members of his family. How he was able to bear these misfortunes and still support me I was unable to understand. But here he was, with an arm around my waist, and that silver cross around his neck. But his appearance had changed somewhat. Instead of jeans and a plaid shirt, he now wore fashionable trousers and a smart dress shirt. His black mane of hair was now cut short, and to my happiness he had shaved off that horrible mustache and goatee of his. Altogether, he cut a much more dashing figure than the rough, unkempt Bohemian I had met on the stairs that day so long ago.

We were to be married soon at the Orthodox Church on Scarborough Street, the same one that I had been worshipping at all spring. We had attended a more somber event there recently; the funeral of Father Nicolai. Alexander had been impressed with the spirituality of the place. To my surprise, he seemed eager to attend services there with me; it certainly had been no struggle to get him to agree to be married there. He would only have to take some religious classes; his iconoclastic heart had seemingly balked at this initially. But in the end, he assented to the classes to please me. I now felt confident that we could launch our new life together with the support of my church to help us through the tough times ahead.

As we walked down the steps that led past the Criterion Cinema, I admired the Blueback speller letters that adorned the brick wall of the building. They were colored shades of blue, gold, and black; they seemed to have been inspired by Noah Webster's own Blueback speller, thus the name of the development. We strolled past various clothing boutiques, restaurants, and specialty shops. Everything about Blue Back Square suggested modernity. In contrast to the old-world charm of 69 Keeney Avenue, our new living quarters here would surely be contemporary and more agreeable. I would have no fear of hearing the dogs howl every night in this chic plaza.

I had discovered a new strength in myself these past few weeks. I found that I was no longer afraid to speak up for myself. When interviewed by my prospective employers, I didn't hesitate to show confidence. Harriet had taught me to believe in myself. It made me sad to remember her betrayal and death. And the fact that she had not believed in herself.

As I peeked around the corner of one of the civic buildings, I spotted the police station where Alexander and I had been previously detained. The day after my release from the hospital, the two of us found ourselves back there for more questioning. We had related a slightly-altered version of what had really occurred on that horrible night. Alexander had testified to the fact that his brother Ivan had kidnapped Nicholas in an attempt to wrest control of 69 Keeney Avenue away from him. He told the police that Harriet, Nicholas, and Ivan had all died tragically in a fire upstairs. Strangely enough, the investigators had discovered evidence that suggested that they had indeed been incinerated. The investigators had been surprised by how little of the house had actually been touched by the blaze. It was as if the fire had risen up in the one little study, and perished itself without spreading to the rest of the house. To tell the truth, I got the impression that the Police Chief was more than a little glad to be rid of Ivan Pavlovich, and really didn't care to dig too deeply into the details of his death. The case was closed shortly after our testimony.

Alexander had put the house on the market, putting a 'For Sale By Owner' sign in the front yard, and placing various advertisements on the Internet. It would still be a few months until Alexander himself would become licensed to sell real estate. He was taking classes at Hall High, his old school, and within a few short months he would hopefully become a salesperson. Becoming a Realtor like his brother Ivan would take him a little longer, but Alexander seemed determine to follow in his older brother's footsteps. Secretly, I hoped that he wouldn't be quite as successful as Ivan. In Alexander, confidence didn't cross over into arrogance and ruthlessness as it had in his older brother. I wondered if that gentle soul of his was indeed the legacy of his mother, Catherine. I wished that I could have met her when she was alive; I think that we could have been friends.

We met the lawyer at an apartment building called 'The Lofts'. It possessed various one to two-bedroom apartments, each with brick accent walls, granite kitchen countertops, and beautiful hardwood floors. There was even an underground parking garage, with an elevator leading to a spacious lobby. When we stepped into Ivan's former condo, I was overwhelmed by the exquisiteness of the furnishings. Ivan had furnished the dining room with items from John Widdicomb. There were Queen Anne Baroque-style arm and side chairs, a golden-finished Biedermeier extension table, a Russian China tip cabinet, and a Staffordshire dining table. The lawyer furnished this information; I only knew that it was the fanciest stuff I had ever seen. Magnificent Persian rugs lay on the beautiful wooden floor. In the living room, was an Essex-style leather sofa with a matching chair and table. The leather was soft to the touch, and very graceful in style. The lawyer informed us that it was all Stickley furniture, which was apparently an expensive type to have.

"This is all eclectic in style," Alexander remarked. "One might think that Nicholas Pavlovich had decorated it, not Ivan Pavlovich," he said with irony.

"Is beautiful," I replied.

And it was. I especially liked the paintings that hung on the walls of this apartment. While the pictures at 69 Keeney Avenue had been mysterious, even creepy, these were not so. There were reproductions of Renoir, Chagall, and even Monet. An exception was a large oil painting displayed prominently in the living room. It was enormous; it must have been at least eleven feet tall and about twenty-five feet wide. It struck me more as a mural than a traditional painting. What really drew me to it were the suffering people and animal portrayed in the painting. In the center was a horse in the act of collapsing, apparently mortally wounded. He had a gaping hole in his side. Perhaps he had been struck by a spear; I really couldn't be certain. On the left-hand side of the painting, a bull stood over a crying woman who had a dead child in her hands. Under the horse was a dead soldier, his severed arm seemed to be holding a shattered sword from which a flower was growing. Something about this reminded me of the rose garden back at the house on Keeney Avenue. On the palm of the dead soldier was the stigma of Christ. On the right side of the picture was a figure, his arms raised in fear and endangered by fire. To the right of this figure was a dark wall with an open door. This painting struck me as being as terrifying and enigmatic as anything I had experienced in the past few weeks.

"Pablo Picasso's Guernica," Alexander informed me as I stood transfixed in horror and wonder at the painting. "Picasso painted it in 1937 to protest the horrors of war," he told me. "Interestingly enough, that was the same year that my Grandfather Vladimir built the home at 69 Keeney Avenue. They say that if you stare at the picture long enough, you can identify an unseen Harlequin overcoming death," he wryly commented.

I gazed very hard at the surface of the mural. To be honest, I was pretty much fed-up with haunted paintings that contained hidden mysteries. As I examined the picture, I could actually make out the outline of a face and head. The Harlequin appeared to be crying a diamond tear for the victims of the bombing. To my astonishment, the face seemed to resemble that of the man on the horse who had ridden off with my friend Becky. I felt that this man must have been a true Makari, an ascetic hermit who understood the nature of human suffering and came to Earth to end it. I thought I felt an urge to pull on my earlobe; it was simply an itch that I chose to ignore. I somehow knew that I would never need to pull on it again.

The lawyer departed, and Alexander and I had the apartment to ourselves. In my moment of happiness I was saddened to consider what price had been paid for it. Alexander had lost his entire family; not simply lost it to death, but also to treachery and betrayal. I remembered my own dead father and brothers. Though they were gone, I would always remember them with fondness. How would Alexander remember his brothers? As his siblings or as monsters?

Alexander took me by the hand. He had once been seemingly afraid of physical contact. But now, he appeared to be comfortable with me; he seemed relaxed in a manner which he had never before had. On my own part I felt an intimacy with him that no other person could ever make me feel. He was the man that I wanted to share my life with, someone to tell all of my inner secrets to. And strangely enough, I even felt that the horrors we had experienced together had made the bond between us eternal.

"You're frowning, Sonia," Alexander observed. "Are you thinking of my family? We've never really spoken of that night at the house, have we?" he said.

I was silent for a moment. Finally I spoke. "Da. I was thinking of first impression of you and brothers. I think of you as Troika, a Russian team of horses. One main horse in middle, two supporting ones on each side," I informed him.

Alexander smiled, though there was sadness in his eyes. "And who was the brother in the middle? Ivan? Nicholas?" he asked.

I shook my head, looking him straight in the eye. "It is turning out to be Alexander Pavlovich. You are the third eye in my mind," I told him.

Alexander shook his head with a slight look of disappointment in his eyes. He put his hands around my waist, embracing me in his arms. "I think that I have had enough Rasputin to last me a lifetime," he commented. "We need to let go of the past, you and I both. I never want to see either that Samovar or that house on Keeney Avenue again. Once the house is sold, we will be free of its dark legacy forever," he declared with a look of steely determination.

I wasn't as certain. When the police had searched Vladimir's study, no mention of either a Samovar or a necklace had been made in the official report. Had they been destroyed in the fire? Had much of what I had witnessed there been simply the result of the drugs Ivan and Harriet had plied me with? I somehow suspected that some of the mysteries concerning 69 Keeney Avenue would never be explained. And I thanked God for this.

Alexander attempted to change the subject. "So, little Sonia is going to become American chef," he said with a little devilish smile. "I hope the Cupcake Factory is ready for your Russian desserts," he said, tilting his head to one side as he did so.

I gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. "You marry me, you get just desserts, Mr. Pavlovich," I told him half-mockingly.

Alexander tenderly took my hand, kissing its knuckles. "We're engaged now, Sonia. Please to call me Mr. Alexander Pavlovich," he said playfully.

I kicked him in the shin lightly. He chuckled in response, and we strolled out upon the porch. It was small, with wooden trellises attached to the sides. Roses were growing out of a small, tan rectangular pot. They were blood-red, much like the ones at the Pavlovich home. We gazed out at the view afforded us of West Hartford Center. It was rapidly approaching sundown; the street lights shone brightly in the twilight of the day. I glanced down at the street and happened to spot a yellow taxi cab. It looked much like the one that had brought me to 69 Keeney Avenue. I wondered if it was ferrying another immigrant to her dream. I looked up, regarding the diminishing sky. As the sun sank, it seemed to me to turn black. The moon glowed with a reddish hue. A swarm of insects suddenly flew by the porch. They resembled horses marching off to battle.

"It's getting dark, Sonia," Alexander said with a gentle smile. He held me tight in a loving embrace. "Aren't you going to pull on your earlobe?" he mocked me playfully.

I continued to gaze out at the city lights reflecting in my eyes. "I am not being afraid of the dark any longer," I declared with confidence. And I meant it.

And we both regarded the beautiful rapture of a West Hartford street filled with walking dead souls.

###
