The overturned bucket lay on the ground next to Besson, drenching him in frigid water. Since the winter chill haunted this May's night, he yelped and rolled away, wriggling, trying to peel the shirt away from his belly. Below the belt, his situation was hopeless.

Reality pieced itself back together, like the droplets of quicksilver. He finally clued in to get up, retrieve the bucket, pull his clothes off and wring them out in the questionable concealment of the retreating darkness and the well's structure.

Yes, the darkness was thinning.  Dawn spread its wings over the Eastern sky. The normies invented too few words—red, orange, gold, scarlet, vermillion, pink, silver, bronze—for the abundance of color that shifted and glowed there.

As a city dweller in the twenty-first century, I rarely had a chance to enjoy the sight, so I gawked with an additional benefit of giving Besson his privacy.  

Before long, he joined me to watch the sun rise over the monastery's walls and the trees, foaming with blossoms. I could almost imagine us sitting shoulder to shoulder on a hill somewhere, content that there was finally someone to fully share the sight with. 

You aren't going to sleep? I asked, fighting the itch to find out what had happened to my body five hundred years into the future. 

Nay. He brought his hands up, intertwining his fingers into a grid to shield his eyes and look directly at the sun. Let Heavens rejoice... this is it, before us, Heavens rejoicing in the glory of God's creation.

Laetentur Caeli, I echoed, scanning the sunrise. Say what you will, but Latin has a wonderful gravity to it. Yup, that's maximum rejoicing.

The pettiness, the evilness of humans can't touch it, and neither can anything wrought by a mortal hand.

Mortal hands built this wall; they planted these apple trees. To me, landscapes became more interesting when man-made objects blended in with nature.

It's so peaceful without humans. Besson gathered his knees to his chest, hugged them, and planted his chin on top, trying to keep warm in his damp clothes. Do you think Andrei could have miraculously escaped after killing Dmitrii the way he had escaped from Novgorod?

Hmm. It was so frustrating to have no teeth and hands... Can you chew on a blade of grass, Bess? It will help me think.

His eyes rounded, but he leaned forward to break off a stem of grass. The tufts grew tall next to the stonework of the well, so it was of a satisfying height and tasted fresh when his teeth bit into it. Comforting.

Besson, listen. I know you like Andrei for Dmitrii's murder, and so do I. I do! That cross is super-suspicious, and the guy... he looks like trouble incarnate. But...

What?

He was at least sixteen in 1559. Okay, even if we push it, and say he was fifteen, he would still be in his forties by now.

Aye, Besson said.

He also got banged up pretty good in Novgorod. It ought to have hampered him for the rest of his life.

I waited for the penny to drop. Besson didn't move or said anything. I had to press my argument home. Andrei wouldn't be climbing any ladders, let alone roofs, to make a miraculous getaway.

Besson shook his head. Gennadii said he had special abilities.

Would you at least allow for the possibility that the girl—

He spat the blade of grass onto the ground, pushed to his feet, and brushed off his pants.

"They are opening the gates," he said, ending our conversation. "I should be there to meet Nikola. By the way, he is almost as old as Andrei, but strong as a bear and devilishly fast."

I streamed in Besson's wake, staring at the curls at the back of his head, as if it could help me get deeper into his thoughts.

When did you become so stubborn? The answer was actually rather simple—Besson became obstinate whenever he thought something threatened the girl—and I didn't like it a single bit. Was he lying to Uncle Vasilii and Matvei that he couldn't remember her face? Or, since I lodged in his head rent-free, was it even worse and he was deluding himself? Protecting this suspicious character, hate-love thing he had going with Andrei, calling me a demon... I worry about you.

His lips curled into a baby snarl as he positioned himself by the monastery's gates. Normally, I wouldn't let him get away with it, but the wait wasn't long enough. The first visitor to come through was Nikola Telega, who must have shouldered the grocers and workers aside. Or maybe they let the tall Muscovite jump the queue out of their own volition.

To show up early, Nikola had to be up before sunrise. More alarmingly, he seemed completely sober, crisp. Though, with a guy this huge, yawning on a couch would appear alarming, and don't ask me how I know.

Nikola eyed Besson the way a cherished household cat eyes a barn mouse. "So, the wet-nurses and nannies didn't spoil you and you're up with the sun."

The latter separated himself from the wall he was leaning against. "Good morning to you, Nikola."

Nikola's jaws opened in a yawn that would make a hippo proud. "Let's go see if anything I taught you have also stuck."

Besson winced. That's right—what Nikola taught him was fisticuffs and weapons—so his invitation didn't bode well.

"Ah... that's kind of you to suggest, Nikola, but Father Nikifor wanted to speak with Uncle Vasilii and me after the first prayer. We... we don't have the time."

Nikola made a rude noise, then remembered he was on the sacred grounds and covered himself with a generous sign of the cross. "Last I heard, you weren't a novice to be at some monk's beck and call."

"But... but we must put our heads together and reckon out the assassin. Tsar Fedor could be his next target!"

Good one! The whole of my incorporeal self grinned. Besson would invent anything to get out of a beating disguised as sparring. Then my grin sloughed right off.

Maybe you're onto something. Until we find the motive for Dmitrii's murder, there is a probability that Fedor can be in danger, as well as the probability that he had ordered the deed.

Besson didn't care for any validations from me. With his mouth slightly ajar, his arms bent at the elbow by his sides, his head rolled back a bit, he stared into the face of doom towering over him.

"Aye, we need to flush out the assassin. That's why you're coming with me to speak to the slippery Englishmen. On Prince's orders. I reckon it's necessary to stiffen your spine afore we go."

The monastery grounds oozed peace, even as the monks and laborers filed outside. Surely even Nikola wouldn't dare disturb it with fisticuffs?

As if reading our thoughts, Nikola chuckled. "I found the perfect place too yesterday." He crooked his finger with a hair-rising smile.

To be fair, he was right. The place he marched unresisting Besson to was perfect for dunking it out.

Right below the monastery, Volga made one of its countless bends, gnawing at its shore. Undermined, the bank gave out, splitting into a steep bluff and a half-moon beach a few yards long.

Mist still billowed over the water, but ditzy swallows darted around, digging replacement nests into the fresh outcrop. They filled the air with their chirping, and each chirp jolted Besson's nerves like a high voltage current. His boots sunk into the smooching sand at every step. The sand that would cushion his inevitable falls better than grass...

Yes, Nikola found a perfect place. Lord help me. There is a fallacy that all large men are lumbering or benign. Nikola is neither.

I bet that Andrei, old as he is, would beat Nikola. Okay, it was cheesy, this vice versa, but my goading plucked a string inside Besson.

The memory of the bloody bank and the dark river resurfaced in his soul. Andrei lost, and he didn't shy away from Malyuta. Besson didn't close his eyes for fear of heavy blows and cowed. He stepped towards his juggernaut and swung. Flaccidly, I must add in the interests of accuracy.

Nikola guffawed, parrying what he must have seen as an ineffectual flail, but instead of scoring a hit—which would have been like hitting Mount Ararat—Besson whirled away just before their arms connected.

Then he did it again with a war growl that sounded more like a wail. He danced on the balls of his feet. Nikola's boots sank a few inches deeper into the wet sand every time he moved, but he grinned and shouted encouragement.

With every dodge, Besson's fisted hands trembled worse with excitement and exhaustion. It would have been easier to get knocked out already, instead of delaying the inevitable. He didn't, drinking the heady brew of actually being in a fight that he had never tasted before.

Neither did I, so I watched the duel with bated breath. How long could a painter last versus a Goliath in hand-to-hand combat?

Nikola's eyes gleamed whenever Besson eluded plowing sand with his face. Any moment, I thought, any moment now, Nikola would grow frustrated, call Besson a coward, throw him against the many-layered cake of sand and silt... but no. Even in Besson's clumsy execution, he respected the will to fight. Andrei's will.

Besson's heart pounded faster than the maddened birds in his rib cage. His mouth tasted salty. His throat burned and his breath came out in hoarse wheezes. He moved like an overcooked spaghetti flushed down the drain. But he was contesting the man he had feared since childhood!

And who wouldn't injure his master's nephew—unless this master had ordered it.

Where Andrei's stakes were life and death, Besson's were limited to the ringing in his ears after catching a practice blow. They rang so badly, though, he had a hard time telling it from the churches' bells ringing on the both shores of the Volga. Uglich was waking up to the new day.

Nikola didn't pay attention to the call to prayer. He used his student's lapse in attention to hook his foot and yanked.

There was no effort behind that move, but my guy tumbled to the ground and rolled a few times, ending at the water's edge.

Nikola seemed surprised by the momentum he had imparted. "Besson?" He rushed over, crouched by Besson, and shook his shoulder. "Get up, get up. Are you able?"

Besson sat up and spat out grit for a bit.

"Good, good. I worked up a bit of a sweat today." Nikola climbed to his feet, grabbed his student's hand and pulled him to standing as well. "Merciful Lord, look at those stains!"

Besson's breeches sported long rusty streaks of muck. He glanced at them dazedly and let it go.

Nikola wouldn't suffer such indifference in his charge. "Get changed before we pay a visit to the Englishmen or the foreigners will say princes here write like scribes and wear rags. Oh!" He slapped his forehead. "Bring your writing trinkets along. Prince Vasili wishes to see the record."

Besson's lungs labored to restore his breathing to normal, where his throat and side didn't hurt. "I... Aye."

Oblivious to how unsteady Besson was on his feet, Nikola clapped him on the back, nearly propelling him into the neatly layered river sediments.

"Told His Lordship, you won't always be a mite! After all, your father was a cur, aye, but held his own. Loved an honest fight, sword to sword. Might be that what foiled him in the end..."

Besson staggered until he had his back to the outcrop. It seemed the enthusiastic Nikola scared him as much as an angry Nikola. He slumped for a bit in his sand shelter, hands on his knees, head down, after waving the weapon master on his way. Nikola left still glowing like a polished candlestick.

I didn't think his condition was all thanks to Nikola's horseplay. What's the deal with your dad? I asked. Why are you so rattled by someone speaking well of him?

He fled to Livonia, Besson replied. His eyes looked glazed over. Dead. Uncle Vasilii and other noblemen had to pay a fortune for his disloyalty.

His debts or something?

No. They vouched for his loyalty to the Tsar. He betrayed Ivan by defecting, so his friends and family had to pay out the bond. Besson looked up, face scrunched—what's so hard to understand? Everyone vouches for everyone else's loyalty.

Oh. Collective responsibility! I'd once read about it. He lived it. That made all the difference.

Besson wiped his face on his sleeve, but more sweat poured down his forehead and his nose wouldn't stop running. He didn't cry though, not a single tear.

A compressed pill of misplaced guilt and shame and a childhood steeped in it, slipped to me along our link. Besson grew up with the stigma of a traitor's son, while my dad would rather see me dead than be labeled a traitor's father. Funny, how Besson and I were so similar in almost everything, but the exact opposite in this.

I cleared my non-existing throat.

Maybe your dad is still alive? You said Tsar Fedor is a just ruler, so perhaps one day he could return and you'll get from him why he'd left?

Frankly, I doubted the reasons would be particularly mysterious. Tsar Ivan culled the nobility by drowning babies in a river of blood and ice, boiling men alive and feeding women to the dogs. The tsar was—surprise, surprise!—terrible. It was staying put that was crazy.

He left us behind, and my mother was pregnant. They say grief is why... Besson pursed his lips into an unyielding line and refused to repeat even to me that his mother had perished in childbirth. But I knew it anyway. He finished with a toneless, final: He is dead, Grisha. He is dead.

For the first time, he didn't call me a demon—and I couldn't summon any joy to celebrate. So, I just said, Let's go see the Englishman.

And we did.