The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 9. Turnabout Is Fair Play

Extra musketeers from Moscow hanged out by the white stone porch--an arched affair, likely added to the brick facade to impress the citizens—when Basson and his uncle exited the Prince's Palace. The setting sun rays colored the escort's uniforms far deeper, glowing crimson than the man-made dyes of the period.

The ringing of the church bells accompanied Uncle Vasilii's ponderous descent down the five steps. I barely paid attention, despite the sound carrying far more through the atmosphere free of traffic noise. Just a part of the sixteenth century ambiance.

Uncle Vasilli, however, lifted his chin, straightened his shoulders, even rolled his chest forward, slowing down, as if the peel was a ceremony, not a mere coincidence. Once his boots touched the ground, Besson dropped to his knees to thank his uncle for protection.

Still beaming after his grand exit, Uncle Vasilii grumbled, "Enough, enough..." and yanked Besson back to standing by his collar.

"Who this might be?" he said right after. Did he not recognize his nephew, I wondered for a split second, before following the direction of his gaze. Duh.

A woman hurried across the courtyard, hiking her dark skirts for more speed. Matvei trotted in her wake, wiping the sweat off his brow and wheezing. Funny thing was, the woman looked older than him, maybe around forty, so short and plump, she should have rolled toward us not run. If that is what it takes, the woman's determined gaze reported. She bore on the porch unerringly.

"Uncle, this is Eudoxia, Osip Volokhov's mother. Ah... Dmitrii's nanny," Besson said not a second too early.

Eudoxia sprinted the remaining yards, hit the brakes and dropped to her knees so suddenly, I was worried she had swooned and Uncle Vasilii would have to catch her.

However, her shrieks left no doubts: she was conscious. "Sire! Good Sire, the hand that feeds us, hearken to me, I beg of you!"

With a woman, Uncle Vasilii didn't use a collar as a crank. He crouched with a slight wince and a creak in his knees, to peer into Eudoxia's face. "What do you wish for me, Eudoxia?"

"Justice and righteousness, my Lord Prince." Her eyes were dry, but red and sitting shallow in their sockets. "Harlot-Tsarina had killed my son—an innocent boy!—to cover up her corruption."

"Maria's son also lays dead in the Resurrection Monastery." Uncle Vasilii grabbed his chin, pondered a second. "She cries for vengeance and accuses your Osip of killing her Dmitrii."

Eudoxia's face froze into a bitter, determined mask. "She would, wouldn't she? But the shameless harlot lies."

"Aha!" Oh, sure, Eudoxia was the first person to alert Uncle Vasilii to such a scandalous possibility! Seriously?

But Eudoxia was unskilled in reading people, or she was happy to go along. "How could she know? She was inside, and I was in the courtyard with Dmitrii. Your nephew was there as well. Ask him!"

For the second time this afternoon, a woman pointed her finger at Besson's chest. The nanny's finger didn't have rings on it, but that didn't make her digit any less regal than the Tsarina's. Perhaps all bereft mothers had this tragic power. Maybe even my mother had it, if she existed in some spacetime. Sadness tugged at my gut, making it harder to focus on who killed whom among all these long-dead people.

Mother! Besson echoed with the same wistfulness as before. The guy had a lot to unpack in his past, but for now he had an urgent problem.

"Tell you uncle the truth, Besson, or may the Lord strike you where you stand!" Eudoxia demanded. "Osip ran off when the rest of you did. No one stayed in the courtyard with the unfortunate Dmitrii."