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Turning to the men who waited in the car, he said, “Ten minutes.” Then he sat down cross-legged by the crowbar, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin in the palm of his hand.
    Both men stared out the window at the figure of Pekkala, his dark shape like some ancient obelisk out in the blankness of that desolate land.
    “What’s he doing?” Kirov asked.
    “Making a compass.”
    “He knows how to do that?”
    “Don’t ask me what he knows.”
    “I pity him,” said Kirov.
    “He does not want your pity,” replied Anton.
    “He is the last one of his kind.”
    “He is the only one of his kind.”
    “What became of all the people he knew before the Revolution?”
    “Gone,” replied Anton. “All except one.”
     
     
    “She is a beauty,” said the Tsar
.
    Pekkala stood beside him on the veranda of the Great Ballroom, squinting in the sunlight of an early summer afternoon
.
    Ilya had just led her students through the Catherine Palace. Now the dozen children, holding hands in pairs, made their way across the Chinese Bridge
.
    Ilya was a tall woman with eyes the blue of old Delft pottery and dirty-blond hair which trailed over the brown velvet collar of her coat
.
    The Tsar nodded approvingly. “Sunny likes her.” That was what he called his wife, the Tsarina Alexandra. She, in turn, had given him the curious name of “Blue Child,” after a character in a novel they’d both enjoyed by the author Florence Barclay
.
    Once across the Chinese Bridge, Ilya steered the small but orderly procession towards the Gribok gardens. They were headed for the Chinese Theater, its windows topped with gables like the mustaches of Mongol Emperors
.
    “How many of these tours does she give?” asked the Tsar
.
    “One for each class, Excellency. It is the highlight of their year.”
    “Did she find you sleeping in a chair again, with your feet up on one of my priceless tables?”
    “That was last time.”
    “And are you engaged to be married?”
    Flustered by the question, Pekkala cleared his throat. “No, Excellency.”
    “Why not?”
    He felt the blood run to his face. “I have been so busy with the training, Excellency.”
    “That may be a reason,” replied the Tsar, “but I would not call it an excuse. Besides, your training will soon be complete. Are you planning to marry her?”
    “Well, yes. Eventually.”
    “Then you had better get on with it before someone else beats you to the finish line.” The Tsar appeared to be wringing his hands, as if tormented by some memory jostled to the surface of his mind. “Here.” He pressed something into Pekkala’s hand
.
    “What is this?” asked Pekkala
.
    “It’s a ring.”
    Then Pekkala realized that what the Tsar had been doing was removing the signet ring from his finger. “I can see what it is,” he said, “but why are you handing it to me?”
    “It’s a gift, Pekkala, but it is also a warning. This is no time to hesitate. When you are married, you will need a ring to wear. This one, I think, will do nicely. She will need a ring as well, but that part I leave to you.”
    “Thank you,” said Pekkala
.
    “Keep it somewhere safe. There! Look.” He pointed out the window
.
    Ilya had seen them standing in the window. She waved
.
    Both men waved back and smiled
.
    “If you let her get away,” the Tsar said through the clenched teeth of his grin, “you’ll never forgive yourself. And neither will I, by the way.”
     
     
     

9
     
     
    ANTON GLANCED AT the white face of his oversized wristwatch and leaned his head out the window. “Ten minutes!” he shouted.
    Pekkala climbed to his feet. The shadow of the crowbar had drifted to the right. He withdrew the second pebble from his pocket and laid it at the end of where the shadow had now reached. Then he dug his heel into the dirt and carved a line between the two pebbles. Positioning himself at the end of the second shadow, he held his arm out straight along the line he had dug in the sand. “That