Killing Eve: Bloodline (8)

The eighth episode of a new Killing Eve adventure, published exclusively on Substack

            Descending the stairs before lunch, Eve hears male voices. Nikolai Dominik is talking to one of the Russian security men. There are always at least two of these in the house, usually dressed in over-tight Tom Ford suits, and Eve finds their presence unnerving. Although unfailingly courteous, they carry around with them the hint and promise of violence. And slightly too much cologne.

            'I'm sending the women with him tonight,' Nikolai says.

            'Very good, Sir.'

            Eve slows her pace on the stairs, and arranges her face into a guileless smile.

            'I'm not expecting trouble, and if anything did happen, I'm confident they'd be equal to the situation.'

            The security guy glances meaningfully at Eve.

            'Don't worry, she doesn't understand Russian.'

            'Maybe Dimitri and I should follow at a distance? Just in case.'

            'All right, Pavel. Do that.'

            Pavel nods and slips away, leaving a lingering trace of musk.

            'Eve, would you let Oxana know that lunch is being served? Afterwards I want to show you both the Romanov room. I think you'll be impressed.'

            The room in question turns out to be a cavernous, gloomy dining hall on the ground floor. Damask-curtained windows admit a thin light, and there's a faint, waxy odour of furniture polish. On a long oak table, dully gleaming, are silver candlesticks, goblets, tureens and samovars, all inscribed with the double-headed eagle of Imperial Russia. The walls are hung with early twentieth century portraits of aristocrats in formal dress. Nikolai points to them in turn. 'Prince Igor Konstantinov, Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich, Grand Duchess Elizabeth Feodorovna...'

            Eve, not greatly interested, and vaguely regretting the white wine she drank at lunch, stares into an antique looking-glass hanging above the fireplace. Its foil backing is speckled and faded, and Eve's reflection is dim, as if she's gazing at herself from another era. A photograph of five young children, informally posed on a chaise longue, stands beneath it on the mantelpiece. The five look startlingly alive, gazing from their tortoiseshell frame with bright, enquiring eyes.

            I don't often think about children. Oxana and I have so far to go as a couple, and such a hazardous voyage to navigate, that I can't imagine introducing a squalling, helpless being into the picture. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to need every ounce of my experience, everything I've ever learnt, to keep the two of us safe and together. By safe I don't mean free from physical danger - I know I can lean on Oxana for that - I mean safe from ourselves, and what she and I are at our worst. I had a dream, which I didn't tell her about, where we had several tiny, perfect children (brought to us, no doubt, by a stork), and Oxana ate them. I think that 'us' is our child. Our relationship. It's demanding, it needs constant feeding, and it keeps us up at night. Love is exhausting. It's certainly not for the faint-hearted.

            'The Romanovs,' Villanelle murmurs. 'Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia and Alexei. When this photo was taken, they had, what... ten years to live?' She glances at Nikolai.

            'Twelve,' Nikolai says quietly. 'That photograph was taken in 1906. The children, and the Tsar and Tsarina, were murdered in 1918.'

            'The whole family died?' Eve asks.

            Nikolai nods. 'The immediate family, yes.'

            'Weren't there rumours that one of the daughters survived?'

            Exasperation flickers across Nikolai's face. 'There have been pretenders. Imposters. In particular there was a woman - deluded, deranged, whatever - who claimed for decades to be Anastasia. But she wasn't, and DNA testing conclusively proved it. As it proved that those five children all died with Nicholas and Alexandra in Ekaterinburg.'

            Eve turns. 'And the people in those paintings?'

            'All relatives. All Romanovs. All killed on the orders of Lenin.'

            Eve gazes at the portrait of the Grand Duchess Elizabeth. 'She looks such a gentle soul.'

            Villanelle's face is expressionless, but her hand fleetingly squeezes Eve's.

            'She was a gentle soul,' Nikolai says. 'And a very brave one. But you know what Lenin said, after she was murdered? Virtue with the crown on it...'

            '...is a greater enemy to the world revolution than a hundred tyrant tsars,' says Valentin, sauntering into the room. He smiles at Eve and Villanelle. 'Dad bending your ears about the Romanovs?'

            'It's so sad,' Eve says. 'Those poor children.'

            'What do you think, Oxana?' Valentin asks. 'Was Lenin a monster for having them killed?'

            She shrugs. 'I think he miscalculated. The Romanovs are more powerful as martyrs than they ever would have been as living people. Weren't they made saints by the Orthodox church?'

            'They were,' Nikolai says. 'People pray to them for deliverance from the corrupt regime in the Kremlin today.' He takes a crystal beaker from the table, holds it up to the light, and looks at Valentin. 'Tonight.'

            'Yes.'

            'You're going to a party.'

            'I am. It's Nate Paget's birthday. The party's at Poodlefaker, I think, or Storch. Maybe Grey's. One of the Mayfair clubs, anway.'

            'I was going to suggest to Eve and Oxana that they accompany you.'

            Eve notes the quick tightening of Valentin's jaw. 'They would of course be welcome. But... any particular reason.'

            'I wish you to take them. We're agreed?'

            'Yeah, I mean... sure. Whatever.'

            Nikolai regards him for several seconds, then nods to Eve and Villanelle and leaves the room.

            Valentin stares at the closed door. 'What the actual fuck?'

            'I think we've all had our orders,' Eve says.

            'I'm sorry, I'm being hideously rude. I'd be delighted to take you both as my guests. It'll be a very clotted cream crowd, I'm afraid.'

            'Clotted cream?' Villanelle asks.

            'Thick, white and rich.'