Upon hearing his name called, Besson nearly choked on the heel of bread he swiped from the table and was covertly sending crumb by crumb down the wailing pit of his stomach. He stared at Matvei wide-eyed. How can he smile at me, feed me kvas while waiting to point an accusing finger in front of Uncle Vasilii?

Look, I'm on your side, but not going to lie, I also want to know how you survived when other guys didn't. Why don't you just explain the whole thing?

Besson only wailed internally. Uncle Vasilii—surprise, surprise!—bailed him out of his misery.

"There'll be time to investigate Besson's mysterious disappearance, for he had the acumen to stay alive, Matvei," he said. "Three other lads lay dead, as well as Prince Dimitrii. We must focus all our efforts on questioning the citizens of Uglich, not my household."

Matvei bowed, flexible at the waist like a snake. "Yes, My Lord Prince."

Of course, he bows low. He's a Muscovite, Besson responded to my observation.

So are you, or at least your uncle thinks so.

He didn't protest.

"Run and fetch the nanny, the one who was with the boys that morning, for I want to speak to her above all else," Prince Vasilii ordered Matvei, who bowed even lower, despite his clever eyes flickering to Besson. "Naturally, I have to visit Harlot-Tsarina first, to see if her ramblings are anything besides womanly airs and hysterics. Besson, you're with me to scribe."

What was left of the bread, tumbled out of Besson's hands to the floor. He threw himself after the crumbs, onto his knees, groping for uncle Vasilii's hand. "Thank you, my benefactor, my Sire... thank you for your trust!"

The Prince yanked his hand out of Besson's grip. "Since you have such a penchant for menial labor, I was about to add!"

Matvei sniggered at the old man's dig, but Besson didn't care. He was too giddy with relief: uncle Vasilii placed him under his protection.

I didn't see it, but if he was sure, good for him! Sixteenth was his century, after all.

I tagged along, as all three men stepped outside.

The monastery's bell-tower threw a long, blue shadow. Purple tinged its edges, charcoal shot through the middle. The bells were ringing again, in a stately fashion, either marking the hour or calling to prayer. Prince Vasilii frowned at the westering sun.

"Where did the day go? The ninth hour prayer draws near. Lord willing, things will proceed swiftly."

Initially, they did. Prince Vasilii's group ferried across the Volga with extreme haste, thanks to the enlarged escort of musketeers looming on the other bank. Nikola's doing, no doubt.

Matvei scurried off in search of the nanny and uncle Vasilii said to Besson, "I wish to take a gander at the courtyard while the Harlot-Tsarina is getting ready for us. Lead the way."

Besson measured his steps to his uncle's dignified gait. The musketeers shadowed the two Shuiskiis—uncle and nephew—at a discreet distance. One man ran to the only brick building in the kremlin—the Prince's Palace—to announce Shuiskii's arrival. The rest of the escort parked in a shady corner, out of the earshot.

Someone had already pounded a cross into the ground to mark the exact spot where Dmitrii's body lay on the morning of May 15th 1591.

Besson walked around it twice, but there was no need. It was a crude construct of wooden planks hastily nailed together. Without a doubt, it was a typical Russian design with three arms: a long, vertical one; a shorter crosspiece; and the last, the shortest, lower on the staff, at an angle. It signified the spear used to pierce Christ's liver.

Whatever happened to that Greek cross? Besson wondered, as he circled wider.

Where his memory placed the Greek cross, all he found there was a tuft of grass. Many feet that rushed through the courtyard since Dmitrii's murder, stomped out the seasonal vibrancy from the turf. It looked pretty dead, except an unyielding sprig of shepherd's purse. The weed waved its cross-like flowers, like it was mocking us.

Besson knelt to rummage the dust with his fingers. He lifted his face to glance at his uncle. Swallowed. "There's no cross."

If someone took it, was it our assassin or just some servant?

"Of course, there is no cross. Forget the cross!" uncle Vasilii snapped. "Stop staring at the dirt and tell me where is this ladder you spoke of?"

"No ladder," Besson blurted.

He mentally pulled his hair after this dumbfounded admission escaped his lips, clenched his jaw and dashed to the kremlin's wall. "There, the ladder was right there, Uncle!"

Points for trying to be helpful!

He shrugged me off and jammed his finger into a crow-wing pattern on the log. "They propped it against the wall. See how it scraped the wood? Here and here."

The fresh scratches blazed at me from the wood's weathered surface, but Prince Vasilii squinted for a while, then sighed heavily. "I can't make out anything, but you have sharper eyes."

Warmth spread through Besson's chest: he was good for something. Nice!

Uncle Vasilii wasn't done playing detective yet. "Imagine that the ladder is still here. How far could you reach by climbing it?"

Besson nodded eagerly, tore his gaze from the scratches and looked higher up.

I did the same.

"There is a branch within reach from the ladder, but it looks too thin to hold up anyone much bigger than a squirrel," Besson described for his uncle, as if he were blind.

"Go on."

"A tiny fiend like that could have jumped onto the roof of the gallery. From there, he could have climbed to that tower and..." Besson swiveled his glance over the walls and roofs. The possibilities were endless from there. "I'm not sure where he could have gone next."

"Hmm."

"Uncle, forgive me, but this is impossible! The nanny would have seen him climbing the wall, let alone attacking Dmitrii. It makes no sense!"

"Nanny would have seen someone, you say." Uncle Vasilii clicked his tongue, scratched his beard. "So would Osip Volokhov, Mikhail Bitiagovskii, Simeon Oliaba and you. Hmm?"

These three names punched Besson in his gut as solidly as the first. The crowd tore Osip down. The vigilantes dragged Bitiagovskii out of a church, despite the priest's protests. Simeon's fate was just as hideous. Besson stood in the courtyard where the four of them played with Dmitrii every damn day.

Breathe! I clamored, don't forget to breathe!

My good advice was in vain.

"Did they, Besson? See anything? Hmm?" Uncle Vasilii advanced on his nephew and hooked his chin with his fingers. Rings cut into Besson's skin. Guilt flared under the ashes of shame so hotly, it nearly burned holes through his cheeks.

"We... We got distracted that morning. Osip said he'd seen a witch, a heathen... We gave chase, clueless that Dmitrii wasn't following us, of that I swear!"

Vasilii's eyes... I had no idea eyes could have claws, but they dug so deep into Besson's face, they might as well have had.

"Please, believe me, Uncle..."

I wanted so badly for someone to believe Besson, no matter how absurd his story was, that the bond between us twanged.

Sinful, criminal, shameful, yet not absurd, he corrected me.

Sure, witches in Uglich! Sounds really rational to me.

Besson winced at my outburst, way ahead of his times, and focused on the man he could convince. "There was a heathen woman in the kremlin that day. I know that, Sire, because she—"

"Satan and be-bother! No time again!" Uncle Vasilii covered himself with a wide sign of a cross in penance for blaspheming. "Save your tale for more opportune times!"

Besson turned to look in the direction his uncle was facing. A squad of local guards marched out of the stone palace, the Muscovite musketeer obvious by his red coat among them. The Shuiskiis and their increased escort went inside the ancient Prince's Palace without exchanging further words.