“This key is the bridge to my past. I can’t afford to lose it.” She slipped the lace through the small hole in the key, then tied it around her neck. She dropped the key under her shirt, and the metal sent a jolt of cold through her as it touched her skin.
Professor Taynov nodded, his gaze resting on Kat’s neck for a long moment. Then he turned around and said nothing more.
Kat rolled her brochure into a tube and tapped it on her leg as she listened to the tour guide explain the three-hundred-year-old icon of St. John, the Winged Precursor, painted by somebody named Filatyev. Her Russian couldn’t keep up and she tuned out the drone of the leggy guide and moved to the back of the group. She was lucky to hook up with the last tour of the day. A brown robed man, presumably a monk, had been less than helpful when she’d inquired after Brother Timofea Petrov and instead pointed to the “No entrance without a tour,” sign. She took the hint, and bought the last ticket. She could only hope God’s intervention would hold out and she’d somehow find where they kept the active monks.
“Move this way and you’ll find another chamber, dedicated to St. George.”
Kat shuffled with the group into a small room, painted orange, red, and green, with an intricate mosaic of a young man slaying what looked like a dragon. While the rest of the group moved as close as the chains would allow to the painted walls, Kat slipped out of the room, quick-walked through the three prayer chambers of the monastery chapel and out into the sunshine.
The sweet redolence of a white lilac drifted on the breeze and the low sun hid behind a scattering of pine trees to the west. Kat followed a cobblestone path past the chapel, deeper into the grounds. The chapel had obviously been one of the first buildings renovated since the Russian government began sinking money back into the church. She found the building in the brochure then read about the library and the school. The grounds were set on a hill, the fresh aroma of the Velikaya River drifting up from beyond the sandstone cliffs. The path wound around three other buildings, perhaps housing, then disappeared into the whitewashed wooden fence that surrounded the grounds. She stopped at a statue, a bust of some monk who had obviously given his life for the monastery. She read the inscription, tracing the date, c. 1007, and marveled that the monastery could be nearly a millennium old.
Kat heard the cheery carol of a robin, and a gentle breeze lifted the hair from her forehead. The early evening sun sprayed off the golden cupolas of a community of green-roofed buildings and swept a kaleidoscope of color throughout the compound, reflecting a magnificent light display off the red and gold buildings and illuminating the centuries-old icons painted on the high gables. Kat closed her eyes. She felt light years removed from her morning battle with the Russian militia and easily believed God could be found in this place.
Now, if she could only find Brother Timofea.
Maybe he lived in the back buildings, not listed on the map. The brochure did boast an “active” monastery. Curiosity and hope pressed her up the path toward the buildings. For the first time, she wished Professor Taynov hadn’t left her with a “good luck” at the train station. He’d shaken her hand, and pointed her toward a taxi and hoofed off in the opposite direction.
So maybe he wasn’t trying to start something she wouldn’t finish. She blushed, even thinking it. She might be traveling alone, but she didn’t need to suspect every person she met. A souvenir from living six years under Matthew’s hover. Or perhaps simply a scar of her painful reception by Russian customs. Shame pressed down on her chest, and it didn’t help that she’d now found the door to the first building and stood with her hand on the latch.
She sucked a deep breath.
“Zhenshina! Stop! Where you going?”
Her knees nearly gave out. She yanked her hand off the door and whirled, her heart in her throat.
“Are you lost?” She’d been nabbed by a monk, obvious from the brown robe he wore, but instead of softness, his dark eyes peeled layers off her deceitful intentions, leaving only the naked truth. She gulped, scraping up anything, even a grunt would do. Giving up on words, Kat shook her head.
He gave her a shriveling look. “Can I help you?”
“Maybe,” she squeaked. She scrambled for Russian, which had abandoned her, again. “I’m looking for…” What was that brother’s name?
“Come with me.” He reached out and grabbed her by her shaking arm.
Okay, God could make an appearance right about now. The Second Coming. Anything. She’d accept acts of nature, a finger-of-God tornado perhaps. She stumbled along, wondering how she’d managed to be apprehended twice in one day. Thankfully, the key was safely thumping against her chest instead of locked along with her bag and camera in the monastery coat-and-camera check.
She wondered if they had good food in prison. Her stomach was starting to clench.
The monk marched her into another unnamed building, down a hall, and into a wide, barren office. Two squeaky clean, tall windows peered out across a graveyard. Beyond that, dark gray limestone rose like a wall surrounding the spiritual conclave.
“Yes?” An elderly monk sat behind a simple wooden desk, clad in the standard garb. The wrinkles on his face and his wide, shiny head betrayed his age as somewhere near Ivan the Terrible. He clasped his hands on his desk, and raised his eyebrows, obviously accustomed to respect. Still, despite the reasonable tone of his low, aged voice, and his slow demeanor, Kat came up empty when she searched his face for patience.
“I found this woman wandering around the grounds.”
Kat rubbed her arm where the monk had held on and wondered how a man of God could have such a cruel grip.
“Are you lost?” The head monk frowned and a chill ran through Kat’s veins.
Looking heavenward, she shook her head.
Her own thundering heartbeat filled the silence in the room.
“What do you want?” The gravel in his voice rattled Kat’s bones.
She found her voice, hidden right behind her cowering curiosity. It emerged as feeble as her courage. “I’m looking for one of your brothers…”
The two monks exchanged glances. Kat took the opportunity to dig into her pocket and pull out the scrap of envelope which bore the return address. Like forensic evidence, it felt like the hand of justice, clearing her of her crime. “Someone from this monastery sent me something. Brother Timofea Petrov. I need to talk to him.”
She held out the paper to the elder monk. He took it and one busy eyebrow tightened, angled down. “What did Brother Timofea send you?”
Kat hauled in a deep breath. The key did belong to her, right? Head Monk and Thug Monk weren’t going to wrestle it from her, were they? “A key, Sir.”
“Call me Father, if you please. Do you have it?”
Kat scanned a look between the two monks, who seemed now less sinister than curious. She nodded.
“Can we see it?” Father Monk stood, and his voice softened.
“If you tell me where I can find Brother Timofea.” Kat crossed her arms over her chest and pushed against a betraying tremble. She lifted her chin and tried to stare down the father. A second later, she was examining the polished wooden floor, her pulse nearly too loud to hear the monk’s quiet acquiescence. The sadness in his voice, however, rang volumes.
She watched his eyes as she tugged the key from beneath her shirt. They widened, and his expression changed. “So that’s where it went.”
Kat held the key in her palm, ready to white fist it should they even sniff suspiciously. “Where is Brother Timofea?”
The Father sent a small nod to the monk beside her.
“Follow me,” he said.