The Hunt for the Òruth I - The Escape

The year of seventeen sixty-nine.

Above the summer home of the Pankratovs, located close by to a small village, and bordering a beautiful birch grove, whose leaves whispered loudly with each gust of wind, hung a dark night. The pale silver light of a rounded moon, high above the ground, barely illuminated the earth beneath it. In comparison to it, the stars seemed so bright, shining like diamonds against blue velvet. The wind was light and warm, barely disturbing the deadly quiet that, like a soft blanket, covered everything.

All the summer home’s inhabitants - the owners, servants, hounds, and even cattle - lay in their places, immersed in deep, sweet slumber. Apart from her.

She lay in her narrow bed, every second turning from one side to the other. Her long hair spilled out over the small pillow, and sweat slowly dripped down the young woman’s cheeks and neck. Her dry lips parted, desperately drawing in much-needed air. Her breathing grew faster and faster. Slim fingers tightly gripped the thin sheet, as if it were the only way for her to stay tethered to this world. “No, no…No, no, no!”

As a sudden cry escaped from lips, she opened her eyes and sat up in bed. Breathing heavily, all but deafened by the crazed thumping of her frightened heart, which at any moment threatened to burst from her chest, the wide-eyed girl looked around the room. The heat from the blazing fire she saw in her nightmare, the suffocating smell of burning, and the cries of the dying grew fainter with every moment. Finally, she was able to calm herself. Her breathing once more became even and calm, as her hands eventually let the sheet go.

She’d seen bloodied hands with sharp daggers, their blades glinting cruelly in the red firelight. She’d heard piercing shrieks, horrified by the chaos around them. She’d felt the pain - powerful, dizzying pain, all over her body.

“It was… it was only a dream… Only a dream,” she whispered to herself. After all, tomorrow was her wedding day and the appearance of dark circles under her eyes would only infuriate her groom’s whole family, including him. That was what she feared the most.

Sitting in the darkness, tightly pressing her knees up against herself, she remembered the response her future mother-in-law had given her when Mariya first told her of these nightmares: “It is all just in your head. Just do not think about it. It’s all because of your weakness and inability to control your feelings!”

Nobody, save for Mariya herself, noticed that, the closer her wedding drew, the more frequently she saw horrible, frightening dreams, thanks to which for a long time she would not sleep, scared that they would come again. But, any young and full of life eighteen year-old would have sunk into despair at the knowledge that she would soon be the wife of her thirty year-old brother-in-law. Sergei Petrovich Pankratov, the elder brother of her sister’s husband, was an extremely unpleasant man. He was all long: a long thin face, long powerful fingers, and a long hawk nose.

His dark eyes constantly looked out for everything, as if he was always calculating and reckoning. Every time he looked at her, his gross gaze eying Mariya from all sides and all but undressing her with his eyes, the young woman’s pale skin covered with goosebumps, her hair standing on end. However, Sergei Petrovich’s character was even worse than his appearance.

Over the two years of her living in the home of the Pankratov family, she often had to be present during the most awful manifestations of his rage, which left the servants with dark bruises and her teary-eyed. If she tried to turn away or leave, it only made things worse for her. Once it became so bad that, if not for the intervention of her older sister, she would not have endured.

No one in the Pankratov family, her parents’ past neighbours, besides her sister and sister’s husband, even thought about helping her. What for? What would she do and where would she run to? Exactly - nowhere.

Imagining the anger that the circles under her eyes would bring out from Sergei Petrovich, she quickly laid back in bed and covered herself with the sheet, screwing her eyes shut.

***

The next morning, the bright sun had barely managed to come out, surrounded by light white clouds, when there was a loud knock at her door and, without awaiting an answer, her room were barged into. She was still laying in bed, finally having reached much-required sleep with a calm smile on her face, when her future mother-in-law leaned over and lightly slapped her on the cheek.

“Mariya. Mariya! Mariya, wake up already! Enough lazing about, you need to get ready for your wedding, you hear me? Get up.”

Anna Gavrilovna was a woman with as strong a character as her eldest son. It seemed that in her veins flowed not hot human blood but molten steel that made even just the gaze of this merciless woman hard and invulnerable. Mariya learned that quickly.

Wiping the sleep from her barely-opened eyes, she slowly sat up, fingers tracing over her smacked cheek. This time, it did not hurt.

“Good morning, Mashenka. How did you sleep?” her sister asked her, sitting down on the bed beside her. In contrast to the others, she had a round, friendly face which often had a smile on it. Mariya did not even have time to think of an answer, before Anna Gavrilovna immediately spoke with her usual harshness.

“Can you not see? Look at those healthy circles under her eyes, I bet she was busy with some stupid all night long,” she said, pointing a finger at Mariya’s face, who silently sat in bed, not daring to answer. “Instead of preparing for her own wedding, as a faithful bride should, you toiled with all sorts of foolishness!”

“Do not worry, Mashenka, it is all easily fixed. Sergei Petrovic will not notice anything, do not worry,” her sister assured her, carefully stroking her on the back and bringing a faint smile to Mariya’s face. Even if he did notice them, she did not care.

“Forgive me. I truly did not want to have these circles but…,” Mariya wanted to answer but stopped. Looking at Anna Gavrilovna, who was busy with ordering the maid, her sister leaned close and whispered: “What, you saw another nightmare? About that… that night?” Mariya nodded silently. She knew that, despite her more or less calm appearance, her sister also had nightmares about that night, when they… when they were…

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you with it. Surely, a doctor knows how to heal you and-”

“Enough chatter!” Anna Gavrilovna suddenly turned around, directing her piercing gaze directly at Mariya. “Always seeing these ridiculous dreams! You could be making yourself useful, instead of sniffling and whining. Sit down already!”

Mariya instantly got up from the bed and carefully sat down at her small vanity table, where the maid waited for her with folded arms. On the table were all the necessary ointments and creams, as well as scarlet rouge, white powder, and a small vial of perfume. All that was required to beautify a bride whose young life was able to be given away into the hands of her husband.

Styling the bride’s blonde-brown hair, the maid took up the hairbrush and cautiously began to brush everything that had become tangled overnight. Not even half a minute had passed before Anna Gavrilovna tutted loudly and shook her head, impatiently noticing how slowly everything was happening.

“Why be gentle with her? Brush it how you’re supposed to and if it hurts, then all the better! Do it faster, the wedding is at midday.”

Silently, Mariya’s gaze met with that of her sister in the mirror. Her sister smiled slightly but this time she did not even attempt to pretend that it brought her any comfort. Sitting on her chair before the dusty mirror, trying not to wince from the painful brushing, Mariya decided to find an escape from this Hell. Let her become the wife of Sergei Petrovich, but she would try and make it so that this unwilling marriage lasted for as little as possible. At any cost.

***

No less than two hours had passed. The elegant coiffure upon Mariya’s head required much time and almost all the hair pins they had. Fortunately, a layer of white powder hid the dark circles from all who looked upon her, and the rouge gave the bride’s lips and cheeks a cheerful scarlet colour.

They moved on to the wedding dress, which also took quite a long time. It was of a delicate blue colour, the same as the summer sky outside, on which graceful flowers and curled leaves were embroidered in silver thread. The bride’s coiffure was laden with blue and white flowers, while the beautiful ribbons braided into her hair hung down around her neck.

Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, Mariya thought that perhaps she should smile, but she could not find the strength to pretend. Despite her beauty, her porcelain skin, and the expensive wedding dress, she was in pain. Her hair was pulled back and combed so that not a single hair was out of place, so tightly that it was difficult for Mariya to even turn her head, which was already starting to ache. In addition, her new stays - probably because of her groom’s demands - were far too tightly laced, thanks to Anna Gavrilovna’s efforts, who could not bear to watch and, shoving the maid aside, had snatched the laces herself to tighten them. Probably, so that Mariya could not escape, encumbered by her stays.

“Well, Mashenka, how do you like it? Is it not too tight for you?” her older sister asked, worriedly examining the bride’s face for signs of pain. Noticing how Anna Gavrilovna watched vigilantly with folded arms, Mariya shook her head and got to her feet. Even if the stays broke all her ribs, if her shoes blistered every single toe, and if the coiffure made her head spin, she would never show it. 

“It is all right, sister,” Mariya finally answered, taking her eyes off of her future mother-in-law when she was sufficiently satisfied with this answer. “Today is the day of my wedding. I should not complain about trifles.”
“But, stil…”
“Truly, do not worry,” she tried to reassure her, turning around and lightly patting her sister on the shoulder. Her sister wanted to say something else but there was a sharp knock at the door, moments before it opened. Standing on the room’s threshold was Sergei Petrovich Pankratov himself, Mariya’s groom and brother-in-law.

As soon as she saw her eldest son, who could not be mistaken for any other, Anna Gavrilovna nodded resolutely and, taking Mariya’s older sister by the hand, left the room. The bride and groom were left by themselves.

Sergei Petrovich shut the door as a vile smile appeared on his long face. Mariya felt as the hairs on the back of her neck immediately stood on end. His unpleasant, sticky gaze slid all over her body before returning to the face. Despite her disgust for him, the young bride did not budge. She wanted to run far, as far away from Sergei as possible and hide some place where he’d never find her. So that she did not feel his gaze on her or hear his voice in her ear.

Sighing heavily, though he had no reason for it, Sergei Petrovich slowly approached Mariya and smoothed out the blue fabric gathered at her shoulder. She instantly wanted to jerk away from him but she managed to hold herself back. Silently looking him straight in the eye, her face gave away nothing.

“Such a beautiful bride, as if you were created for me,” he finally said, his gaze focused on her neck. “My own angel, my saviour.” Sighing heavily once more, as if he could barely contain himself, the thirty-year-old groom finally looked into the eyes of his youthful bride. Although she tried her best to appear strong and calm, Mariya’s large green eyes immediately betrayed her true feelings. In them, one could easily see the horror that she experienced more and more every day; the horror that crept into her young heart and flowed out over her whole body.

“From this day forth, you will lawfully belong to me, you hear me? You will be mine and only mine.”
“What am I, a cow, that I should belong to you?” Mariya dared to answer him.

His hand on her shoulder stilled immediately and, for the second time, Sergei Petrovich looked into her eyes. Mariya had already seen before how his face could turn pale and how his already small eyes would squint narrowly. Suddenly, out of the blue, he firmly grabbed her by the chin with his long fingers and yanked the girl closer to him.

“Remember, you will be my wife and you will belong to me!” he repeated through gritted teeth, his grip on her strong and not succumbing to Mariya’s attempts to free herself. “You’ll be my property and I will own you! Understood?”

When Mariya did not answer anything, quietly staring straight at him, Sergei Petrovich growled with rage and, letting go of her face, slapped her so hard that she fell to the floor from his blow. “Do you understand me?” he demanded, standing over her, but Mariya did not answer this time either. She nearly fainted from the excruciating pain in her face, it hurt so much.

Once again not receiving the answer he so desired to hear, Sergei Petrovich clicked his tongue loudly and, shaking his head, turned sharply to leave the room. Both he and Mariya knew that he did not require her consent or love. He did not care at all.

Before he had time to go out into the corridor, Mariya’s older sister ran into the bedroom. Seeing her lying on the floor, hesitantly touching her bruised cheek, which was already noticeably red, her sister rushed to Mariya’s aid.

“Masha, Masha! What’s the matter with you? Masha, he hit you?!” she demanded, gently picking the struck girl and helping her get up from the hard floor. “Masha, are you hurting a lot?” Mariya shook her head, though it only hurt and spun even more, so hard that she nearly collapsed onto the bed. “He… he hit me… he…,” she tried to pronounce, but the bitter tears in her eyes and the unbearable pain suppressed her words. Mariya’s sister immediately pulled her into a comforting embrace. She had the same bitter tears in her eyes.

***

Finally, the time for the wedding had arrived. All the invited guests gathered, dressed up in their newest clothes as they passed through the tall French doors on their way to quickly congratulate the family of the not-particularly-young groom. Mr. and Mrs. Pankratov greeted their guests with low bows and charming smiles, confident that everything would be exactly as they wanted. Next to them stood their eldest son - groom and heir -, Sergei Petrovich, who smugly accepted all their congratulations.

Thankfully, the weather did not worsen. The sun was still shining, even brighter than before, and the gentle breeze lent a relaxing freshness to the afternoon. Far away, the distant rumble of horse hooves and the muffled clink of swords could be heard, though no one in the Pankratovs’ house heard them.

Standing hand in hand with her older sister and the top of the long staircase, of beautiful polished wood, that led to the second level of the house, Mariya thought only of one thing: Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Her hand held tightly on to the thick wooden handrail, so tightly that she couldn’t even feel it anymore. If she were not holding on to it so tightly and if not for her sister holding her up, Mariya would have already fallen down the stairs. So sickly pale was she - her face, her hands - that she actually looked grey. It seemed that at any moment she would vomit or that her head would spin. Each breath in, each breath out, was a huge effort for Mariya thanks to the tight stays and, from each turn of her head, everything around her spun for a long time before eventually settling down. The noise from the delighted guests below in the hall was barely noticeable to her. All their conversations, exclamations, and congratulations merged into one big incomprehensible sound. The only thing she heard at that moment was the deafening pounding of her own heart.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Noticing the terrible expression upon Mariya’s face, her sister sighed heavily and, taking her by the shoulders, looked her in the eyes and said: “Mariya, Mashenka, what’s wrong with you?”

“What’s… what’s wrong with me?” Mariya looked at her sister in bewilderment. “They’re giving me away by force to that… that monster! I am frightened, Tanya, do you understand? Oh, how I am frightened!” Silent tears sparkled in Mariya’s eyes, though they were not tears of despair but tears of anger. Of the rage she felt at her inconsolable situation. Of the rage that she could not help herself and that her sister, who was supposed to be her guardian, could do nothing either.

“Masha, listen to me,” began Mariya’s sister, taking her thin face into her hands and looking into those green eyes. “Listen, if you truly wish it, if you truly could, then I-”

Suddenly, they heard Anna Gavrilovna’s measured steps on the stairs and soon she stood in front of them. Immediately, she noticed the tears on Mariya’s cheeks and, rolling her eyes, took out a handkerchief from her pocket, which she then handed to her future daughter-in-law. Mariya, surprised by such a small act of kindness, hesitated briefly before taking the handkerchief and wiping her tears away with it.

“I advise you not to cry,” Mrs Pankratova said unexpectedly. “Nothing will change. If you cry about every little thing, then you will always remain this weak.” With those extremely distressing words, Anna Gavrilovna turned around and headed back downstairs, gesturing for them to follow her.

Still gripping on to the handrail for dear life, as well as on to her sister, Mariya slowly began to descend the staircase. With each uncertain step she drew closer to her death. Holding her head high and easily supporting the young bride, Mariya’s older sister whispered in her ear. “If you are really ready to escape, if you really can do it, then I will help you, in any way. Do you hear me? I will save you.”

Mariya said nothing and just squeezed her hand tighter. She could hardly hear her own voice over the noise of the assembled guests and the beating in her chest. Suddenly, the chatter of the guests stopped as they all turned to face her, the bride. Some of them looked with compassion. Some judged the wedding dress and some, staring with disgust, quickly turned away, concerned with their own business.

But, to poor Mariya, whose head spun with every step and whose feet were in hellish agony from the narrow shoes, it seemed as if everyone was looking at her. As if everyone present was watching her every single step and breath. However, no one was watching her more closely than Sergei Petrovich. It looked as if he was going to drool at any moment. Mariya could feel his hideous gaze all over her body.

The clatter of hooves and the clinking of swords grew louder and louder, passing through one village after another, never ceasing in the inevitable approach towards the Pankratov home.

Having reached the bottom of the stairs, Mariya reluctantly let go of her sister’s hand after she saw Anna Gavrilovna’s malicious look and held a hand out to her groom. He hurried to accept it and, grabbing a firm hold of her hand, refused to let it go.

Turning to the soon-to-be newlyweds, joyful smiles stretched across their wrinkled faces, the groom’s parents began their speech. “Dear guests, we would like to say a few words before we go to the church,” began Pyotr Pankratov, a mustachioed old man with surprisingly calloused hands and small eyes. “On this joyful day, the wedding day of our eldest son and the youngest daughter of our… closest friends. Oh, such a pity that the Lord took them from us, for that is why they cannot be here with us at the wedding.” Pankratov stopped for a moment, with supposed respect for the bride’s dead parents showing on his broad-cheeked face. “I would like to tell the groom and bride that Anna Gavrilovna and I are so happy, so happy, to have such a daughter-in-law as our Mariya Alekseyevna!”

Mariya didn’t hear a single word. Her gaze stared off into the near future - into that day’s night. Though she did not know everything, she could imagine what horrors awaited her in the marriage bed. Sergei Petrovich, smirking smugly, did not pay any attention to his bride, who grew paler and paler.

“And now, dear guests, we ask you to follow us to the church!”
“Mariya, let us go,” the groom told her, leading the young woman after him and his parents. Her older sister, carefully observing Mariya’s face, though it was difficult to make out under the snow-white veil, hurried to follow them from the hall to the yard outside with her own husband. She frowned deeply. The bride said nothing. She had only one thought in her head. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Stepping outside, the wedding procession stopped by the three convertible carriages that stood out by the front doors. The elder Pankratov couple sat down in one carriage, after which Sergei Petrovich helped his young bride into the second one. He himself was about to follow her, when suddenly a group of horsemen rode into the yard. All of them, save for the man who led their detachment, were dressed in the blue and dark red uniform of the police chief’s office. They had sabers hanging from their belts, and loaded heavy guns dangling from their shoulders.

The entire wedding party and guests froze immediately, since no one had expected a detachment from the police chief on such a festive day. Mariya, who had already climbed into the carriage, however, like all the women present, watched with excitement as the horsemen drove through the gate and headed towards the festive crowd at the house. All the men perked up noticeably, ready to prove their fearlessness.

The group of horsemen rode up to the house’s front porch, after which their leader jumped down from his horse and, accompanied by two wardends, strode up to the head of the Pankratov family, who reluctantly got out of the carriage.

“Are you Pyotr Vasilyevich Pankratov, the mayor of the town of Zaraskaya?” saluting, the leader asked the head of the family. “I am indeed. What do you want, sir?” in response demanded Pyotr Pankratov, self-confidently adjusting his caftan. He was absolutely confident in the untouchability of his title. “For what reason do you rush into my home, into my yard, and interfere with my son’s wedding?”

“In the name of the Empress, I arrest you, Mr. Pankratov for misappropriation and embezzlement of the money entrusted to you,” the chief detective declared matter-of-factly, taking a written arrest order out from his inner pocket. “I ask you to follow us.”

“What… What are you talking about? How dare you? Who are you to arrest him?!” Sergei Petrovich immediately objected, his face paling and then flushing with anger. Mariya already knew what would happen next - she could tell by his piercing gaze, that seemed as if it would at any moment destroy the policeman and vanish him. Following the groom, all the other men also grew indignant about what was happening, threatening the detective with their fists and demanding what right he had for the arrest. The ladies, excluding the stunned Anna Gavrilovna, whispered loudly amongst themselves about everything they saw. As for Mariya - she just could not believe her luck.

Up until now, still sitting in the carriage, the eighteen-year-old bride couldn’t believe her eyes and ears. God himself, it seemed, had sent these policemen with their arrest to save her. At just the thought of it, Mariya felt much better - she did not feel dizzy, her legs didn’t hurt. And, most importantly, she could think of something else besides just breathing as her gaze regained its former sharpness. Now, Mariya just had to make use of the presented opportunity.

Looking down upon the commotion, she did not even notice how her sister discreetly walked around the carriage and climbed up into it next to her. When it seemed that the noise and indignation had reached their peak, she leaned closer to Mariya and whispered to her. “Màshà, are you… are you ready? Come on, while they’re distracted, you and I… Are you up for it?”

Turning to her sister, Mariya nodded quickly. She was ready to make a run for it, now that her former spirit had returned. A spirit that almost all the Pankratov’s had tried, with all their might, to exterminate, trample, and totally destroy. If not for this arrest, they would have succeeded.

Her sister took the reins into her hands, not taking her gaze off of the indignant Pankratovs, except for her husband who pretended to not see what she was doing. Then, when it looked like everybody was thoroughly distracted, she clicked her tongue, flicked the reins, and the horses leapt forward into action. The guests and policemen were so carried away by their threats and shouts that they only noticed when the escaping sisters had reached the gate.

“Stop! Stop! Grab them! Stop, Mariya!” Mariya heard, over the noise, as Sergei Petrovich cried after them. She looked back, hardly breathing from worry, and saw how her middle-aged groom, with his red face, jumped into the nearest carriage. Pyotr Pankratov, wanting to follow his son, also tried to jump into a carriage but he was dragged back by the scruff by one of the policemen taking advantage of the chaos.

Sergei Petrovich, followed by his close friends, invited as guests and groomsmen to his wedding, grabbed some horses and galloped as quickly as he could after them. But it was already too late. Mariya’s sister, who had been fond of horses in her youth, easily led the stolen carriage through the gates out onto the street. From there, they tore down the hill on which the house stood and off into the distance.

Mariya spread her arms wide. Feeling the cool wind blow over her face, her styled hair, Mariya’s lips stretched into a huge smile. The first real smile over the last two years, a smile of joy and unrestrained happiness. “Hurray! I’m free, do you hear me? Free!” she shouted with all her might, pleased that her cheerful cries had brought a smile to her sister’s face. Over the past two weeks, she’d also developed dark circles and new wrinkles, for Mariya was not the only one who’d been discouraged by the upcoming nuptials. “I’m free!”

Suddenly, when they had already passed by Zaraskaya, with its wooden houses and narrow streets, believing that they were already safe, Mariya heard a man’s voice cry out. Sticking her head out and looking back, she saw, to her great horror, Sergei Petrovich and his friends chasing after them on horseback, his face purple with anger. As soon as he saw Mariya glance back at him, the older Pankratov son grinned wolfishly and shouted loud enough for her to hear him.

“You won’t get anywhere! You hear me, Mariya? I won’t let you get away from me!”

“What should we do? They’ll catch us this way!” Mariya exclaimed, turning to her sister, who looked straight ahead as she confidently maneuvered the reins. Without answering, she urged the horses to gallop as fast as they could, barely touching the ground with every seven-league step they took. Losing their pursuers for a moment, they flew down the road until Mariya’s sister noticed a small clearing amongst the birches to their left, to which she instantly directed the carriage.

Slowing the horses, she pulled off her hat and turned to Mariya. “Take off your veil,” she said, holding out a hand. “What?” Her sister repeated herself. “Take off your veil.” She looked around. “I will distract them, so take it off!”

Doing as she was told, Mariya hastily yanked off the white wedding veil and hurried to put it on her sister’s head. The hairpins slipped from her weak hands and her fingers shook so hard with excitement that she was afraid of making a false move, but was eventually able to pin the veil in place.

Then, her sister, trying to cover her recognisable face as well as she could, handed off the reins and was about to jump out of the carriage when, suddenly, unable to hold back, Mariya pulled her into a hug. With all her strength she held on to her sister - her blood -, wrapping her trembling arms around her, as if time would stop and let them enjoy at least one more moment. Mariya had tears in her eyes. Painful tears, through which all the resentment she had ever held against her flowed out. Resentment for not intervening on her behalf this morning or the one before it, for not saving her from the Pankratovs. For everything, Mariya forgave her and released her.

“It’s time, Mashenka,” finally uttered her sister, forcing Mariya to let her go.
“What will happen to you? After all, they have to punish you because of me.”

“I know, Mashenka, but I am not afraid of them, really I’m not. And don’t you be scared either,” she told her, getting out of the carriage and jumping onto the soft grass. Although the veil was thick enough to completely hide her face, Mariya thought she saw a tear streaming down her sister’s face. “Run, do you hear me? Run. All the way to St Petersburg - run away from here! Run, Masha, run!” her sister screeched, running out onto the road and waving a hand at her to leave as she looked back. “Run!”

Barely seeing past her tears, Mariya grabbed hold of the reins and, whipping the horses with them, rushed away without glancing back. Her sister didn’t have to wait for long; soon, the pursuers rode out from around the corner and, to make sure that they noticed her, she rushed to run in the opposite direction, through the birch grove. Sergei Petrovich chased after her as soon as he spotted the white veil, whistling triumphantly as his friends followed.

Mariya continued down the road, as far as possible from Zaraskaya and the Pankratovs; from the death of her parents; from her own wedding, and from her past life. Now that her sister wasn’t by her side, she was completely alone in this cruel world. But, just as the wind dried the tears pouring down her face, Mariya was certain that she could forget her worries and start afresh. But she didn’t want to. Oh, if not for that damned fire!

Riding for Moscow, Mariya herself didn’t even notice how her hands had stopped trembling, how her tears had stopped, and how her gaze turned to stone. The sun was no longer shining upon Zaraskaya - there were only clouds and grey skies above it. It shone over Moscow now, its bright rays illuminating every nook and cranny of the city which awaited Mariya.