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“The Naronaya Volyaka,” Davy said. “The Volya, for short. I have been associating with the
students who claim allegiance to its cause and one of them introduced Orlov as a high ranking
member. The ballet dancer who was killed was one of them too. You know, Sir. The boy, Yulian
Krupin.”
An almost agonizing silence followed. They were telling the man his business, Trevor knew.
Telling him that he and his police force had allowed not one but two revolutionaries close access to
the imperial family. One of them even within the tsar’s private guard. But now that his brief spasm of
reaction at the name “Volya” had passed, Prakov was once again completely composed. What sort
man hears bad news so calmly, Trevor wondered. He is either an idiot or a saint.
“If Krupin and Orlov got in, we think there may be others,” Davy said, perhaps pouring
additional salt into the wounds of the man’s pride, but it was hard to tell. Prakov did at least finally
answer.
“If what you are telling me is true, then Orlov must-” Prakov said. “There is a grand ball
tomorrow night, with hundreds –“ He broke off and took a slow breath. “Why should I trust you?”
“We have no reason to lie,” Davy said.
“What we have learned,” Rayley added, quietly and with extreme courtesy, “I assure you we
learned only in service to our Queen.”
Prakov looked toward the far door, the one he had indicated led to the private stables. “If what
you say is true, Orlov must be arrested immediately.”
“Perhaps not quite yet,” Trevor said. “For you see, we have come to you with a plan.”
The Winter Palace – The Private Rooms of the Orlovs
5:52 PM
Women would be the death of the revolution.