“They look delicious. The tea set’s so pretty.”

Carlyle didn’t crack a smile. “It’s Russian porcelain, very old.”

“Oh. I’ll be careful.” She waited until Carlyle and the server left to roll her eyes. “You shouldn’t put things out, then make people feel intimidated to use them.” As she spoke she laid the tea strainers over the cups, lifted the pot to pour.

“I don’t want any damn tea.”

“Well, I do. It smells nice. It’s going to be worth the wait, Ash, you’ll see. And when you get rid of the stupid egg that’s caused all these problems, we can go on our trip.”

She sent him a wicked smile. “That will definitely be worth the wait. Relax, baby. Have a cookie.”

When he shook his head, scowled at her offer, she only shrugged, nibbled on one herself. “I’d better keep it to one if I’m going to look good in the new bikinis I’m going to buy. Can we rent a yacht? You always see pictures of celebrities and royalty hanging out on some big white yacht. I’d love to do that. Can we?”

“Whatever you want.”

Though the boredom in his tone was heavy as a brick, she beamed. “You’re so good to me. As soon as we get back home, I’ll be good to you. Why don’t we—”

She broke off as a section of the wall opened. Hidden door, she realized, cleverly concealed with molding.

She got her first look at Nicholas Vasin.

Gaunt was her first thought. Remnants of the film-star handsome remained, but had been hollowed out to a husk. He wore his hair in a white mane, too thick and full for his emaciated face so it seemed the weight of it should bend the thin neck to breaking. The eyes above the sunken cheeks burned black, a hard light against skin so pale it nearly glowed.

Like Ash, he wore a suit, his in a buff color, with a vest and tie all exactly the same hue.

The result was colorless, but for the black shards of his eyes—and, Lila thought, very deliberate.

A griffin pin accented with diamonds sparkled on the lapel. A gold watch circled his thin, bony wrist.

“Ms. Emerson, Mr. Archer, welcome. Forgive me for not shaking hands.”

His voice, like the whisper of spider legs over silk, sent a chill up Lila’s spine.

Yes, all very deliberate.

He sat, laid his hands on the thick arms of his chair. “Our cook always made pryaniki for tea when I was a child.”

“They’re delicious.” Lila lifted the plate. “Would you like one?”

He waved it away. “For myself, I use a macrobiotic diet. Guests, of course, should be indulged.”

“Thank you,” Lila responded when Ash sat in stony silence. “You have an incredible home, and so many beautiful things, even in just the little of it we’ve seen. You collect nesting dolls. They’re so charming.”

“Matryoshki,” he corrected. “An old tradition. We must always honor our roots.”

“I love things that open up into something else. Finding out what the something else is.”

“I started the collection as a child. These and the lacquer boxes are the first of my collections, so I keep them in my private sitting room.”

“They’re the most personal. Am I allowed a closer look?”

He gestured magnanimously.

She rose, walked closer. “I’ve never seen . . . matryoshki so intricately made. Of course, most of what I’ve seen have been in souvenir shops, but . . . Oh!” She glanced back, pointed, being careful not to touch the glass. “Is it the royal family? Nicholas, Alexandra, the children?”

“Yes. You have an intelligent eye.”

“Such a terrible thing. So brutal, especially the children. I had the impression they’d all been lined up and shot, which is horrible enough, but after Ash found . . . That is, recently I read more about what happened. I don’t understand how anyone could have been so cruel and brutal to children.”

“Their blood was royal. That was enough for the Bolsheviks.”

“They might have played with dolls like these—the children. Collected them as you did. It’s another bond between you.”

“That’s correct. For you it’s stones.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A stone from everywhere you travel, since childhood. A pebble?”

“I . . . yes. It was my way of taking something with me when we had to move again. My mother keeps them in a jar now. How did you know?”

“I make it my business to know my guests and their interests. For you,” he said to Ash, “it’s always been art. Perhaps the cars and dolls boys play with as a child, but these things aren’t worth the keeping. But art—your own, or others that draw a response from you—that’s worth the collecting to you.”

He laced his long, bony fingers together for a moment as Ash remained silent.

“I have some of your work in my collection. An early piece called The Storm. A cityscape, with a tower rising high above the rest, and in the topmost window stands a woman.”

He tapped his fingers together, a precise steeple, as he spoke. “The storm rages—I found the colors extraordinary in violence and depth, clouds illuminated by lightning so it became alien, unearthly. Such movement. At first look you might think the woman, a great beauty in virgin white, is trapped in that tower, a victim of the storm. Then, look closer, you see she rules the storm.”

“No. She is the storm.”

“Ah.” A smile flitted around Vasin’s mouth. “Your appreciation of the female form—body, mind, spirit—fascinates me. I have a second piece, more recently acquired. A charcoal, with a mood that strikes as joyful—a joy in power as a woman stands in a moonstruck field playing a violin. Who—or what—I wonder, will her music call?”

The portrait from Oliver’s apartment, Lila thought, and went very still.

“Only she knows,” Ash said coolly. “That’s the point. Discussing my work won’t get you what you want.”

“Yet it’s entertaining. I have few visitors, fewer yet who truly share my interests.”

“A mutual interest is a different thing.”

“A subtle distinction. But we also share an understanding of the importance of bloodlines, how they must be honored, revered, preserved.”

“Families and bloodlines are different things.”