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Rosalia said when the countess asked how she liked Dr Bolecki. She meant ‘reliable’, but ‘pleasant’ seemed a safer word to use. Olga had complained, on two occasions, that Rosalia was putting on airs. ‘As if
she
were a doctor here,’ were Olga’s words.
    Today, as the examination followed its usual route – pulse, signs of fever, the usual questions about appetite, bleeding, and acuteness of pain – a lock of grey hair keptfalling over Doctor Bolecki’s left eye. This, Rosalia thought, might be responsible for his air of restlessness. The countess suffered these ministrations without a sign of impatience, but let Rosalia answer all the questions. Only Dr Bolecki’s assurance that he would bring the French surgeon the next day, restored some alertness to her face. ‘As soon as possible,’ he kept saying. He kept looking at her too, Rosalia noted, as if something managed to change about her since the day before. Her nursing skills, he said, were most impressive. Not every patient was thus blessed. ‘I trust you, Mademoiselle, completely.’ This he repeated three times in a row, adding that he was sure his high regard would be shared by Doctor Lafleur.
    There was a sound of footsteps outside the grand salon, then silence. The door opened and Marusya appeared, balancing a tray with letters and a pot of coffee with some difficulty. It was one of the countess’s whims, a pot of freshly brewed coffee at her bedside. The smell of it, she said, was enough. She could not drink any of it, but that shouldn’t stop Rosalia from having some. The maid put the tray on the table. Her eyes were fixed on the tray and her chore, as if any distraction could cause her to lose control. The tray wobbled and Rosalia half expected to hear the crash of china falling to the floor, but this did not happen.
    ‘Your son has written, just as he has promised,’ she said, spotting Bobiche’s handwriting on one of the letters. The countess’s youngest son had managed to write two whole pages instead of his usual one. L’abbé Chalenton was making progress.
    When are you coming back, Maman? We have had terrible history with dogs. Fidelle bit a Postillion and Basilkien declared that she must be mad. But she continued to drink water and came when was called, so we thought she would be all right. Then she bitBasilkien’s finger and ran wildly in the yard and bit a pig. A week later, Basilkien showed symptoms of madness and the doctor made a cut on his finger to obtain a few drops of blood. Then he mixed the blood with milk and gave it to Basilkien to drink. He is much better as I write this and has stopped complaining! The Postillion, is also well, but the Doctor said Fidelle had to be killed, for there was no way of telling what will become of her, and so she is no more.
    Everyone misses you very much. Tell Olena I’ll take her for a ride in my new carriage when she comes home.
    Nothing, yet, from Odessa, from the countess’s elder daughter, Madame Kisielev. As soon as the news of her safe delivery reached them, Rosalia insisted that Madame Kisielev should be told the truth. The baby would no longer be affected by the mother’s agitation. Besides what daughter would want to be away from her mother in her time of need.
    And so, in her last letter, the countess asked her daughter to come to Berlin.
Please hurry, my dear Sophie
, she wrote,
if
you want to see your mother alive
. Enclosed with that letter was a bank order for 50,000 roubles. Madame Kisielev could well be on her way.
Sophie
    That night, the silent servant with an unsmiling face takes Sophie to her bath. Her body is scrubbed and scraped clean with a sharp end of a seashell dabbed with precious drops of perfume. The dress that touches her skin is light as gossamer, soft like the skin of a newborn baby.
    When her nail snags the soft fabric, the servant clucksher tongue. She is shaking her head, mouth twisted in a grimace. Without a veil, she is no longer mysterious. A woman