Romancing the Rose (Green Movement Humor)

please click on the illustration above, for more rosy detail

The gentle rose bud

What could be more natural?

Soft soul of the earth

The Green Studies Handbook

for Down-To-Earth Romantics

Romancing the Rose

Coming back with a bike basketful of roses from the farmer’s market, I was reminded of the nineteenth century urban romantics fascination with the natural scene. I was admiring some of the great landscape art that came out of that era just yesterday in the Cantor Art Museum over at Stanford University.

Improved agricultural methods combined with the industrial revolution in places like England, and later in the Americas, sent people to live in towns and cities from the mid 1800’s on into the later part of the century. Food could be produced in greater abundance by less and less hands. Rural lifestyles for the common woman, like my great-great grandmother, Anna Sherman, and her sisters became a thing of the past as they moved off the farm and into downtown Chicago.

Fortunately for Anna, she was able to qualify as a telegrapher. Not for her the daily struggle at loom or in a factory. As they joined the new breed of white-collared workers, her descendants could romanticize the rural life Mama and Grandmama had left behind. The landscape painters and photographers whose works I was studying yesterday, captured the dreams of these new Romantics.

Forgotten was the manure pile, the backbreaking hours of pitching, lifting and straining, and the despair of drought, insect plagues and other natural elements that led to crop failure. We recalled  a fantasy world of  wide-open vistas, rolling hills and an earth of perpetual flowers, sunshine and fishing anytime we wanted it. We imagined walking out into our own gardens to harvest a head of still-growing lettuce or freeing a carrot to crunch fresh from it’s earthy compost-rich home.

Like the properly modern day Romantic I am, I carry on this fantasy tradition. On Sundays, I trot over to the farmers market on foot, or wheel over by cruiser bike. Often, of course, I  imagine that I am tripping gaily down the path on market day, with my basket dangling from one hand and my long skirts bunched up in the other. There I will buy farm fresh lettuce, rainbow hued chard and deep crimson or pale pastel colored roses cut just this morning and trucked in behind the farmer’s slow moving horse. Of course that horse is always named Old Dobbin. I think that was required.  I will feel just like I plucked these farm fresh products myself. 

And as an added benefit, I can feel smugly environmentally conscious arriving at the downtown market under my own power to buy locally grown products.

Today I stopped to talk to the farmer who sold me my roses at the downtown Farmer’s Market. The vendors are often happy to chat, especially when it’s a little rainy out and there are few shoppers taking their time. My roses came from his neighbors greenhouses in Watsonville. They are grown there in greenhouses throughout the winter months. Though these flowers came over the grade in the back of this gentleman’s truck, along with his spring greens and bok choy, the majority of the roses his fellow farmer grows are sent by big freight trucks or air plane to other parts of the country.

When the flowers arrive, still fresh in New York or Santa Fe, they must still look as though they’ve just stepped off the farm. We discussed the elaborate, expensive and resource consuming containers that are required for those shipping methods and wondered about the costs of fuel in contrast with the fuel this farmer’s Old Dobbin truck consumed on his way over from the coast. Once the flowers arrive at their destination, the florists arrive to eye these emigrants who have flown 3,000 miles away from California, or perhaps 2500 miles from Colombia.

So fresh, so natural. It’s almost as though we stepped outside our own back door and plucked the tender buds from the vine with our own dainty little fingers.

In the March Calendar- Podcasting from this Journal: Unpolished Performances

* * *

The Discussion 

or 

Time To Fly 

For a better view of the discussion, click on the picture below

* * *

Podcasting: Unpolished Performances

An Extension of The Simple Romantic

I've been publishing my monthly podcast, Unpolished Performances, since November. The podcast show is an extension of this art journal. Each month I focus on one theme that has come up here, and take it a little farther. Episode 4 for example expands on the piece I wrote about Jane Austen as the quintessential romantic. (Did you miss that? It was , Hey Even Jane Austen needed to perform!)


The first three months previewed on youtube. Episodes 1 - 4 of the the podcast are now up on the iTunes store. Click on this link to  download the show from the iTunes store or just search on the phrase 'unpolished performances' if you already have iTunes up.

Go ahead and click on this screen from the iTunes store 

for a little more detail about recent episodes

Time Travel Trip, Preparation for a PopOff: Russia Bound (part 6)

 My friend Judy Gosnell, who has visited Russia six times(!),

 took the original photo for this illustration.

She has, very kindly, given me permission to use her work here

Have you missed any of the

 Previous Journal entries

for this Russia Bound Time Travel Serial Story?

Part 1: Trip Planning

I found my old spiral notebook from Russian class when I was cleaning out my closet today. Gospadee Boza Moi! Isn’t that what we used to say? It’s been over thirty years and I’ve forgotten so much of what I learned. That notebook had a Peter Max design on the cover. I’d forgotten how much I loved him when we were in college. Remember the poster of his we put up when we were freshmen, and what that gross boy down on the second floor wrote on it? I’m so sure he’s either incarcerated or else working for the prison system now.

Part 2: The Samovar’s Story

 Note To Self:Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off

* Part 3: The Winter Palace  

I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.
Part 4: My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times 

I returned the stare, for a little longer than normal. What could there possibly be in a pair of eyes and a deep bass voice to make me feel a sense of immediate connection to a man I knew nothing about. The cool air of the church hammered against my lungs.

 Part 5:  A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace
I'd never before seen a table spread with as much food as that one in the Winter Palace. While the hard-working peasants were struggling to grow enough food to content themselves with black bread, and the cabbage soup known in Russia as 'shee', the imperial court of the Romanovs, were- well now I know where the expression, 'eating royally' comes from.

*  *  *
Part6: Preparation for a Pop-Off

 “You’re looking distracted.”

I studied Alina’s classic profile. Was she also a descendant of the Romanov’s, or only a half-sister to Vasily Fyodorovich?

“It’s just so much more than I'm accustomed to, imperial politics, chatting with countesses, and pastry puffs filled with grouse.” I hope my response sounded more off-hand than I felt.

Alina frowned. “Ulyana’s circle is full of gossips. You can’t believe ninety-nine percent of their tittle tattle.”  She sighed. “I should have known their tongues would start wagging the moment I got up. There’s nothing they like better than a new ear to fill up with scandal, ” She gave me a long sideways look, “whether it’s the latest crim con or just ancient history.”

It seemed like a good time to change the subject. “Where are we going now?”

“You’re going to change and then we’re sending you on. There’s a portal in the-”

“No! I didn’t even get a chance to see the empress. Couldn’t I maybe hide under the buffet table, or put on one of the maid’s outfits and take a cup of tea and a sausage roll over to her?”

“And take a chance on the tsaritsa's cousin deciding you’re a tasty little bite of sausage himself? He’s got an eye for any new treat that comes decked in a cap and apron.”

I groaned as she chortled. Her melodic laughter reminded me of the sound of the evening bells.

“There’s a reason you paid for the special insurance on this trip, you know. It’s more than my job is worth. Hurry up, Lariska. Sergei’s assisting with the service and I want to get you changed before he comes looking for me.”

“Are you still concerned about him meeting me?”

“Oh no. I told him earlier, while Vasily was helping you, that  I had a visitor, and that you are a friend of a friend,. “But we’ve got to hurry to get you to the portal on time and, “ she winked at me. “He is such a distraction once he gets talking.”

…

The bells were tolling once more as we raced along the long corridor. Still my guide was hopeful. “Father Anton likes to keep him talking.”  We slipped past a slow-moving elderly couple who were taking their time leaving. I was darting glances everywhere taking in the details of the gloriously dressed pair, still glimmering candles, burnished icons and gilded walls, as Alina dragged me into the little ante chamber.

I convinced her to loosen my laces as soon as she had the bodice of the Worth-style gown unhooked. Just as she released the final cord, the door handle rattled  followed shortly by the sound of a key turning. “Господь.”(God) Alina gasped .

“назад! (get back) Cover yourself, Lariska!”

She grabbed up the blue velvet cape that was still lying on the table and whipped it’s folds over my half uncovered torso. I was too pleased with my state of now comfortable undress, to be overly concerned about our visitor. Besides that, I half-hoped that Vasil Fyodorovich might have returned. As Alina ran to the door, I gloried in the satisfaction of filling my lungs completely with oxygen.

Just as the door began to open, Alina grasped the handle firmly and called through the crack. “м-м-да (m-m-da) Mmm, da, Sergei. A moment please. I came in to make some repairs to my friend’s dress. She’s not quite decent.”

A man’s whispered response came through the opening. “ш-ш! (š-š-š)shhh!, shh! Alinochka.” It was a tenor voice, not the deep bass one I’d been hoping for. “I don’t want Father Anton to hear me down here.”

“It will be OK,” Alina whispered back to me. “I just remembered that that the engineers set the time back an hour on that portal, the last time they came through.” She opened the door and a dark-robed figure slipped through.

“What a relief. He harangued me for an hour before the service. If it’s not one thing it’s another. Would you believe he won’t let me-“ He broke off, having only then made out my blue-swathed shape in the dim light of the candle.

Alina sighed and assumed a formal tone. “Larisa Aleksovna, make you known to my fiancée, Sergei Ivanovitch.”

I smiled at the novice. “I understand you’re planning to enter the priesthood, Sergei Ivanovitch.”

The man had a smile that spoke of innocence coupled with a great understanding of the sins of the world. I thought it would serve him well in his chosen profession. “Yes, I am training to be a priest. First, of course we must be married.”

I looked questioningly towards Alina.

“You see the church here, Lara, feels it is important that the father have a wife. And, if a priest plans to marry, he needs to do so before he is ordained.”

“Oh, I see,” actually I didn’t quite see. I still associated the Russian Orthodox Church vaguely with the Catholic Church.

“Besides,” Alina tossed her head, “I must marry Sergei as soon as it is possible, to keep the women who pretend that they come only to pray from admiring my Sergei too much!”

“Do you expect to be married soon then?”

“We are looking forward very much to being married but there are a few complications.”

,

“Da, complications!”, Alina nodded knowingly and rubbed the fingers of her left hand together in the universal sign for money. Sergei reached out, took the  hand in his own and dropped a kiss on her fingers.

“So, you are this mysterious visitor of Alina’s - from America I think she said? I very much admire your Populist Party. Such exciting times for your country right now, I wish I could visit and see things there for myself!   Are you supporting William Jennings Bryant for president?”

I’m sure I looked as stupid as I felt. I had a vague memory of hearing some family story about my midwestern great grandmother having been heavily involved in the populist movement.

“Well, I certainly hope he’ll win. I wish even more that I were enfranchised to vote in the election. I hope you’ll get your wish to come and visit. We can always put you up on the family farm in Deerfield Illinois. Just ask anyone in town where to find the Jost Farm.” I knew for a fact that the family farm had been well stocked with Josts from before the Civil War, up until World War II. My mother’s entire family, as well as an assortment of cousins, aunts and uncles had returned to live and work there during the depression, when her father and various other relatives had lost their jobs.

He laughed. “I don’t think I will ever be able to afford to go to America. Besides, Alinochka always says I’m not a good traveler. “

My guide gave me a knowing wink.

“Why are you hiding from Father Anton, Sergei? You said he chewed you out earlier.”

I wondered in what era Alina had picked up this piece of slang, but Sergei seemed to understand her perfectly.

“Oh, it is only that he does not like me feeding Mishenka and Borya.”

“But Miska is a real help around here! This place would be overrun with mice if it weren’t for him. And Borya, well,” she paused.

“Everybody loves that dog,” Sergei concluded. “Well everybody but Father Anton. And he lays on my feet to keep them warm when I have a lot of reading or writing to do.”

“So that, could be considered as important a service to the church as catching mice,” I added.

Sergei gave me a friendly smile. It was clear the man was a charmer and I could see why Alina was taken by his obviously gentle character.

“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you ladies.” He moved towards the table and reached underneath to draw out a large meaty bone wrapped in greased paper. “But I managed to get this from the kitchen. Borya is waiting for me by the gate. What Father Anton doesn’t know won’t- Say what is this?”

‘This’ was the pince nez that Vasil Fyodorovich had removed from his breast pocket while helping me with the hooks on my frock. I recalled now that he had dropped the spectacles, on top of the table.  They had probably been caught in the folds of the blue velvet cape, which had also been lying on the table, and then fallen to the floor when Alina had tossed the garment over me.

“Bozeh moi,” Alina retorted. “That’s Vasily’s glass. I hope that the poor boy hasn’t needed to read anything since he was in here. He can’t survive without them.”

There was a sudden plaintive sound of mewing and the door rattled again. I recognized the sound of a cat’s paw attempting to gain entrance.

“Help me, will you, Alinocka,” Sergei wrapped the bone loosely in it’s greased paper, and extracted a small glass bottle and chipped saucer from the same box beneath the table. “You catch up Mishenka and put him out the hall window with this, before anyone hears him. I’ll take this out to good old Borya, before Father Anton notices him out in the garden.”

With a hurried murmur that she would be right back to help me finish changing my clothes, Alina slipped out after her fiancée.

I hadn’t really had much time to take in the details of the room, and later on I might wish I’d taken the trouble. Though it was relatively bare, there were a few dark prints on the walls. I walked the room, peering into the dimly lit faces of long-gone saints and sacred babies, but the room’s minimal lighting didn’t really do much in the way of visibility. Besides that, the pictures needed cleaning. I looked around for something else to do.

There was an old piece of newsprint lying on a heavy box bed built into the wall, and I carried that over to the table, where the candlestick was sitting.  There’s something delightful about reading something that still looks relatively new, when, in my own times, it would be a crumbling piece of antique ephemera. By the candle’s light I could now see that the page of paper was primarily dedicated to an advertisement for some kind of household cleaning product. The words, however, were so small that I couldn’t read them in the low light. The pince nez were laying there as well, where Sergei had put them after retrieving them from the floor. I picked up the glasses and held them over the tattered piece of print, wondering idily just how blind Vasily was without it.

The words swam before my eyes. Over and over in my head, I heard the advertising slogan from the paper my dad used to take. ‘Timely news for modern times.’   The newspaper office had long since closed its doors. No, of course it hadn’t. It might not have even opened its doors yet. Let’s see what had the banner proclaimed about the origin of the business? Time travel isn’t quite like dream travel, but there’s a similar quality to it, a sense of floating up and away and also a sense that the physical is no longer important. At least, it’s not important until you come back to your body. And at that point, the physical is really important because you can feel pretty lousy.

I leaned my head back onto the rococo wall trying to get my insides to subside. I was sitting on the floor in a welter of pink lacey skirts and blue velvet cape. The bodice of my gown was hanging down around my waist and my underpinnings were about to become utterly unpinned. I shrugged my arms back into my garments as best as I could, wrapped Alina’s cloak around myself and staggered to my feet.

I’d heard that unexpected time displacement pop-offs could happen when people were traveling, but I’d never expected to go on one myself. So, where was I? That was the first thing to figure out. When was I, would also be nice to know.

* * *

What if I didn't score every CrackerJack Prize Ever?

Please click on the illustration above 

to enjoy something that even beats finding the decoder ring

 in the CrackerJacks box.

What if I haven't scored 

every prize in life's CrackerJack box?

It's still a pretty good ride!

Bird Song: Well it Ain't Rainin' Today!

Please click on the robin above to see all the joyful detail
. . .

Bird Song


Well it Ain't Rainin' Today!

I didn't have the nerve to tell Mr. Migratorius, that it's only a brief respite between storms. 

Could you rain on his parade?

Baylands Refuge

Please click on the picture above, and see if you can spot  this refuge seeker

. . .

Baylands Refuge

Hidey-hole or secret spot 

Humble as a ground squirrel, or wealthy as a Silicon Valley billionaire, everybody needs a place where they can hide out and keep a low-profile

I'm glad to know that these are protected lands for Spermophilus beecheyi.

Time Travel Trip, A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace: Russia Bound (part 5)

Have you missed any of the

 Previous Journal entries

for Russia Bound Time Travel?

Part 1: Trip Planning

I found my old spiral notebook from Russian class when I was cleaning out my closet today. Gospadee Boza Moi! Isn’t that what we used to say? It’s been over thirty years and I’ve forgotten so much of what I learned. That notebook had a Peter Max design on the cover. I’d forgotten how much I loved him when we were in college. Remember the poster of his we put up when we were freshmen, and what that gross boy down on the second floor wrote on it? I’m so sure he’s either incarcerated or else working for the prison system now.

 * Time Travel Trip, The Samovar's Story: Russia Bound (part 2)

Jan 13, 2011

Part 2: The Samovar’s Story

 Note To Self:Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off.

* Part 3: The Winter Palace: Russia Bound  

I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.

*  *  *

 Part 4: My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times 

I returned the stare, for a little longer than normal. What could there possibly be in a pair of eyes and a deep bass voice to make me feel a sense of immediate connection to a man I knew nothing about. The cool air of the church hammered against my lungs.

* * *

Part 5: A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace

The high drawing room walls were covered with pale green silk brocade and there was gilt everywhere: mirrors, picture frames, and on every kind of bibelots imaginable from clocks to vases. Normally I would have stopped to take in the beauty of the glittering decorations against their background of undersea color, but my attention was drawn to the massive table that dominated the center of the room. I'd never before seen a table spread with as much food as that one in the Winter Palace. While the hard-working peasants were struggling to grow enough food to content themselves with black bread, and the cabbage soup known in Russia as 'shee', the imperial court of the Romanovs, were- well now I know where the expression, 'eating royally' comes from.

This was, my new friend explained, with an airy wave of her hand towards the enormous table, "just a simple evening tea". I did indeed see tea, being dispensed from a very familiar-looking samovar nearby. That genial beverage was nothing more than a side note, however, though it was a pretty elegant note.

The silver samovar had acquired a nice polish since it had left my possession. In current times, the vessel had that nice new look of a recent wedding present. The intertwined initials "N" and "A" stood out in clear relief. The insignia on the pot was easier to make out now. It was a fearsome pair of crowned, birdlike creatures with rather horrid humanesque limbs. They were holding various nasty implements with strongly royal characteristics. I recognized the emblem from a vague memory of a class worksheet pertaining to the arms of the Romanovs. No wonder the samovar had proved to be such an excellent vehicle for my travels back to the palace.

The urn sat on a small, but very elaborate, boule table shaped like an elaborate fiddle. The marquetry work was lovely, consisting of inlaid mother-of-pearl against an ebony and red background

But it was what was laid out on the thickly patterned damask covered tablecloth that really attracted me. Despite my whale boning, my travel experience had made me frankly hungry. The board was spread with the most delicious looking viands. In the middle of the cloth was a huge pyramid of sparkling crystal platters heaped with absolutely prime looking apples, pears, grapes and mandarin oranges. I've never wanted a piece of fruit so much in my life. Our modern day marketing technicians could learn a lot from whoever configured that display. Off to one side footmen were just lifting the white napkins off silver serving dishes, filled with napoleons, slices of babka and chocolate gateau, small sweet rolls, meringues, almond, raisin and fruit cookies, ginger biscuits, and three other kinds of pastry I didn't even recognize.

There were tiny crystal bowls filled with molded butter, and a colorful medley of jams and jellies, lumps of sugar and cut orange segments covered in a fine dusting of sugar. Nearby were concentric circles of bread platters that seemed to be graded by contrasting colors. There were artfully arranged pieces of black bread, dark and light ryes, steamed bread, french rolls, and slices of light brown wheat bread standing at attention. Opposite the breads where platters arranged, again, in concentric neatly arranged circles of sliced ham, chicken, tongue, turkey, beef, and something I thought might be grouse. There was also cream cheese, grated white cheddar, Swiss cheese, and green wedges that could have been cheese. Off to one side were trays of  sausage rolls and filled savory pastries, absolutely oozing with meaty filling. These were laid out on long platters made of delicate bone china, set three tiers high.

At a nearby small table a party of beautifully outfitted young women were drinking tea out of delicate green and gilt porcelain cups. A dark haired beauty in pale blue was sliding her fork into a piece of glazed babka thick with candied fruit and raisins. My mouth began to water and I looked desperately at Alina. "Do we just help ourselves?"

She answered by thrusting a plate with one of the delicious-looking chocolate laced Napoleons towards me. "Gospedee, bozhe moi, the tsarista has descended on us! Here take a mille-feuille, head over that way, and just blend in before she notices you." 

I managed to snare one of the golden pears and a piece of black bread as she hurried me across the floor towards a table by the far wall, occupied by three elderly ladies. “Why are we running away from the empress? I’d love to at least get a chance to see her. I promise not to ask for her autograph or anything!”

“She's unpopular in St. Petersburg because she's so suspicious of everyone in it.  And that just makes her even more suspicious. If she thinks you're a newcomer she'll wonder what you're doing here. We could both get the boot.

I moved my plate up so that it partially covered my profile. "So what do I do to blend in?"

"Oh Grafinja Ulyana will likely take you under her wing. If you want to get an idea of typical court gossip, you can't do any better then to join Ulyana Marovna's party. I'll introduce you." Alina kept an eagle eye on the gilded main doorway as she hurried me across the room. As much as I'd have liked to spot that ill-fated granddaughter of Queen Victoria, I was even more interested in getting through the evening without losing access to my tasty little meal, even if I didn’t manage to score some of that babka.

Grafinja Ulyana was happy to accept any friend of Alina Fyodorovna without question. It made me wonder just who Alina’s daddy Fyodor had been, when her comrades Grafinja Kseniya  and Baroness Theodora, ("She's an Austrian," Alina whispered,) made a fuss over me as well. A neatly aproned woman came around to refill my new companions teacups and deposit brimful cups for Alina and me. Porcelain cups, not tea glasses, I noticed appreciatively, despite what I'd read in my well-worn copy of Elena Molokhovets' A Gift to Young Housewives. I made a mental note to add this important historical tidbit to my travel journal.

It wasn't too long before the ladies left off complimenting me on the color of my hair, the tone of my voice, the luster of my complexion, and returned to what they'd obviously been discussing when we arrived. The Baroness was having her brand new dacha redecorated and Kseniya Grigorevna had quite a number of suggestions to make. Ulyana Marovna disagreed with most of what her friend proposed. I yawned, thinking that their conversation wasn't that all different from one I'd listened to at the neighborhood New Years Eve party, except that where I lived no landless peasants were evicted when Joy and George who lived down the street, had bought their "little place in Carmel".

Alina didn't seem much impressed by the conversation either. She jumped right up when I finished my napoleon and looked longingly towards the center table. "I'll go, Lariska. Chocolate gateau? Babka?" I indicated that a little of each wouldn't go amiss. The thought reminded me of an old joke of my father's, something about 'a little of ich, that's what we always said in the Russian army.' I wondered if my American grandfather was already hearing that joke from his father across the ocean back home. I wouldn't have been the least surprised.

I managed to slip a few piece of cheese, and one of the meat filled pastries off the Baronesses plate while the ladies heads turned to follow Alina's form across the floor.

"So, are you a member of the family too?," Grafinja Ulyana demanded once Alina had passed out of earshot.

I swallowed the rather large bite of pastry I’d just popped into my mouth. It was filled with what I thought was grouse, and was extremely tasty. I hoped that the napkin I quickly applied to my mouth made me look like I was delicately bred, and not like a glutton who'd bitten off more than she could properly chew.

"Family?" The word, coming on the heels of the grouse, was a little croaky.

"Yes, the family. One of Fyodor's um- connections?"

I suppose I looked as stupid as I felt. "I never met Alina's father. We're not related. I don't even know-"

"Himmel, Grafinja! The girl isn't one of these morganatic connections of which your Russian aristocracy has so many. Anyone can see she's German or Prussian. Our men marry their wives properly!"

Ulyana snorted. "The Teutons are the worst when it comes to morganatic marriages, what about The  Countess of Merenberg?"

Kseniya nodded. "It's true, Baroness. My mother always said-"

"Are you trying to tell me that Alina's parents are Romanov's?"

All three women turned in my direction. Ulyana raised one eyebrow. "No one really knows for sure, but the Tsar's father was very friendly with Alina’s mother before he was engaged to Maria Fyodorovna, when his brother was still alive. And then she married rather quickly and had Vasily. And that marriage wasn’t even recognized. It was all very irregular. Well I mean, look at his name, Vasily, what it means in the Greek!"

The name was starting to ring a bell, all right. I wished I had my cell phone. I was dying to look up the Greek connection for "Vasily".

"I’ve heard that rumor, but I’ve never believed it. Everyone always said that Tsar Alexander remained faithful to Maria Fyodorovna," Kseniya insisted.

"Well, of course they would say that. Though I don’t actually know if there was any gossip after the marriage itself.” Ulyana tapped her front teeth thoughtfully. “I mean Vasily and Alina’s mother married Maria Fyodorovna's cousin, even if the contract couldn’t be acknowledged legally, it gave her children a father. And those children even have the same patronymic as the dowager empress, because it's a family name. These things can be kept in the family. You know that as well as I do.”

I didn’t need my cell phone anymore. I’d remembered the connection. Alina's mother had planted rather a strong hint when she gave her son the Russian name derived from the Greek word for royalty.

“There's no doubt that Vasily has the Tsar's ear.” Ulyana added. “Well he would, if they're half-brothers, wouldn't he?"