Besson was so immersed in his worries, he barely caught another mention of his name.

"While Besson stayed with us, many in the community glimpsed a spark of divine inspiration in him," Father Nikifor was saying. "Given that the boy is of the junior line of your esteemed family, the monastery bids you, Prince, to consider allowing Besson to take the monastic habit."

You asked to be a monk? Why on Earth would you do that?

Besson shifted uncomfortably. I can't marry anyway, and... it's so peaceful here while Uglich broils with strife. It seems like a haven.

Okay, so I got it. Kind of. He was scared out of his wits and wanted a place to hide away from violence, cruelty and court squabbles. But this marriage thing? Unlike me, Besson wasn't immune to girls' charms. Or at least this one girl's charms. You can't marry or don't want to?

Can't. My Uncle has two brothers, so it would be unwise to divide the lands if everyone has children.

It sounded so rational; I didn't know what to say. I dropped into the sixteenth century from the other side of the Age of Reason, while Besson believed in unicorns. I identified as an ace. But here we were, on the wrong debate teams. I—teetering on the verge of defending romantic love. He—explaining the practicalities of committing to celibacy at eighteen.

Perhaps, his mind was only too happy to cut through the tangle of shame, guilt and horror his childhood at Ivan's court left him with. The abstinence beckoned as the most expedient way to shut the lid on that baggage. And yet, and yet...

You felt this girl was special. That's what people felt when they fell in love, or so I was told.

Have you ever been in love, Grisha?

Deflecting much? If he could understand what I meant by that, he could have thrown my question right back at me.

While we wrestled with either our differences or our similarities, uncle Vasilii took a dagger from his belt and used it to clean his nails. Save for the motion of his hands, he sat completely quiet, something so strange for him, it drew attention. For a few moments, the reign of silence was absolute in the guesthouse, respecting the prince's mood.

It seemed appropriate for uncle Vasilii to break it, and he did. "If the Lord answers my prayers and gives me a child or my brother picks a suitable bride, I shall consider your request. Until then, this cannot be done."

Here it was, the ultra-rational sixteenth century staring me squarely into the face, along with the depth of sorrow I couldn't comprehend. Besson started to. His eyes widened. He's old... How did I miss that?

Lineage. Legacy. Lands. I handled these notions as they slipped through Besson's mind like relics unearthed after the untold ages in the ground.

It wasn't by choice, believe you me, since in Besson's mind they blended with a much more relatable compassion for his uncle and his aunt. The couple was getting on in years, childless, and not for the lack of trying. The latter consideration brought blush onto Besson's cheeks and made me roll my eyes, but almost immediately, his heart throbbed with a reminder of his mother's death. It echoed through me.

What amazed me the most, was that Father Nikifor's dark eyes grew solemn as well. "I will pray for you, Vasilii." He sounded sincere, and I thought he would leave Prince Shuiskii to his gloom after this promise, but the monk moved to Besson, placed both of his hands on his shoulders and maneuvered him until they stood before his uncle. "Besson could too."

"Hmm." Uncle Vasilii was still occupying his hands with his dangerous manicure. It was hard to say if his mind was elsewhere or he thought that appearing distraught would help him ignore the monk's not-so-subtle hint that he could make a deal with God: Besson goes to the monastery and Lord grants Vasilli heirs.

"Our Lord works in miraculous ways. He often guides us to the places where our talents serve the greatest purpose under the guise of chance." Father Nikifor wouldn't let the other man off the hook. "Could you spare your nephew to assist at the icon painters' shop in the mornings?"

Uncle Vasilii lifted his head, blinked, like a man coming out of a tunnel into the sunshine. "Let it be done."

"God bless," the monk said and turned to Besson. "Be at the shop with the first light. The master will expect you."

And then he left in the ripple of his black robes.

This is absurd! Drafting you into monastic ranks wouldn't help Vasilii's virility.

Besson didn't listen. Once the door closed behind Father Nikifor, he stared at it with his mouth ajar.

Okay, maybe I understood little about the period's matrimony, but I recognized a recruiter in search of talent when I saw one. He thinks you can be an asset for the monastery as an icon painter; I spelt it out for Besson.

The effect wasn't quite what I hoped for. A slow, dreamy smile spread over his features, comprehensible across all ages and cultures. This smile belonged to someone who was treated as useless, awkward, unfit all their life, then suddenly hailed as valuable just as they are.

The more Besson's heart swelled, the more envy tugged on mine. The usual consolation that my moment of validation might yet to come wasn't there to fall back on. Stripped of everything except for consciousness, I watched my alter-ego wrestle with his newfound significance.

The choices were opening up for him. The monastery in Uglich or Moscow. Icons or politics. Fight or flight.

Don't let it go to your head, I grumbled, but he did the right thing. He ignored me. He was happy and... ravenous. Like, literally, he was hungry. And, for once, he went to the table and chomped down on the leftovers of his uncle's meal before cleaning it up.

Afterward, we spent a restless night.

Besson was waiting for the sun to rise with a pounding heart.

I mourned my century and all of its bright promises to me, all of its advantages, that collapsed so damn fast, it made me wonder if they ever were real. Was my age simpler, kinder and more clever only in my imagination? Or worse: was my age fine, but like all ages, it tested those who surfed it, and I had miserably failed to keep up with its tides. The answer wouldn't come into my fractured mind.

***

The icon painters workshop was housed in its own building, with its windows facing east to take advantage of the morning light. It smelled of pigments, solvents to dissolve them, freshly cut wood, water, fresh and stale, candle wax... a sucking hollow born of last night's envy, that I had soothed, renewed itself under my heart... It smelled like a studio I had frequented, in a basement in Moscow; it smelled like the students' studios at the Academy. The best smells in the world.

The workshop looked like a studio too, with cleaned up spaces for those organized and the table full of color-stained rugs, brushes and sketches with charcoal. Instead of stretched canvas, here it was wooden boards.

The master—Kirill, according to Besson's breathless thought—was already waiting, even though Besson interpreted 'at dawn' liberally. The sun hasn't risen yet, only diluted the night's darkness at the horizon. The bell hadn't yet rung to the morning prayer.

I was surprised that Kirill beat Besson to it; I thought he would unlock the doors. Kirill, in his turn, seemed surprised that anyone showed up so early. He startled from a long table crowded with jars, mortars, pestles, a basket of eggs and pouches to turn on his stool and face Besson. Pleasantly surprised, it seemed, judging by the toothless smile that gaped in his unkempt gray beard. Bushes of similar gray, unkempt hair peeked from the unlaced collar of his loose linen shirt. Judging by the stains, he loved scratching his beard and chest when thinking.

"You're back, lad." A huge bald, wrinkled forehead overhung all of Kirill's features not hidden by the beard, but there could be no mistake. He recognized Besson. So, he must have been the Master who praised the painted eyes on dead Dmitrii.

"Aye." Besson drew in a huge gulp of this special air, looked around him like he couldn't believe it wasn't a dream and grinned. "I'm back."

"If you are here, make yourself useful. Fetch me blessed water." Kirill pointed a stubby finger at a small silver jar at the end of his table. His one foot tapped the box he rested them on, and he covered with his sleeve the mix he was working on. A secret pigment, I supposed. "Quickly, quickly!"

Besson dashed to grab the silver vessel and then to the corner with an ornate vat stood—blessed water. It was tall, the rim almost at Besson's mid-thigh, and almost empty. Besson had to bend over to fully submerge his jar. The water rippled over the silver, shiny dapples.

No! Not now! Besson released the jar and stumbled backwards from the call of the past. His pleas didn't even slow the familiar gray closing in on us.

Kirill turned on his stool toward the sound of Besson's tumbling body. "Lad? Lad, what is wrong with you? Why, God, why dost thou punish me so? Just when I found someone with a lick of understanding, he swoons from a whiff..."

The last thing I saw in the year 1591—now so familiar, I almost felt affection for it—was Kirill in grayscale, limping toward Besson and me. Kirill was a dwarf, I realized just before our tangled consciousness was yanked away to transit to a different time, different place.