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to just anybody. She’s royal.”
    Nick turned to her. “I am also. Prince Potrovskov, at your service.”
    The woman stared at him for a moment, then ran up the ward, scrabbled under a mattress, and came back waving a dog-eared mag azine.
    “It was me,” she said. “Clara Peuthert, you remember that, Your Highness. It was me recognized her.”
    Other patients were gathering around the bed, their eyes avid.
    “Sure, Frau Peuthert. I’ll remember.” Nick took the magazine, an old edition of the Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung that had been turned back to a full-page family picture. The accompanying story on the opposite page had a headline: “The Truth About the Murder of the Czar.”
    Clara jabbed her finger on one of the pictured faces. “See? That’s Ta tiana.” She transferred the finger to the quiet shape on the bed. “And that’s Tatiana. Recognized her right off. You remember that. I been writing to every bit of family that’s left. The czar’s poor mother in Den mark and the czarina’s sister, Princess Irene of Prussia. ‘I found the Grand Duchess Tatiana,’ I told ’em. Been waiting and waiting for one of
    ’em to come. Knew they would. Sent you, did they? Supreme Monarchy Council?” “Sure.” Nick was turning pages, his eyes going from the magazine to
    the woman on the bed. “You want to look at this, Esther?” “No.” He shrugged. “She ain’t the believing type,” he told Clara. The big woman transferred her attention to Esther, grabbing one of
    Frau Unbekkant’s unresisting hands and waving it like an exhibit. “You can believe this. See this? How fine is this? That’s a grand duchess’s hand. See mine?” A thick, raw fist was brandished. Clara was getting angry. “Common, that’s a common hand, and it can punch your snotty nose, miss. Who’re you, you ugly thing, coming in here and telling me—”
    The rising voice was an alarm bell, and Nurse Klausnick was at Frau Peuthert’s side. “Calm, now, Clara. Calm yourself. You don’t want soli tary again.” She led her off.
    Nick jerked his head at Esther. Everybody to be kept away; this was private. Esther approached the women gathered at the end of the bed. “Tell me, ladies, have you been here long?”
    Gently, she shepherded them up the ward, listening to the answers. One tiny woman could make only inarticulate sounds but made them with such urgency that Esther had to turn to Nurse Klausnick.
    “What’s wrong with her?” “Nothing much. She’s just deaf. Never learned to talk.” “And she’s in here how long?” “Forty-two years.” Esther said, “There are ways to help the deaf now.” “Too late for her.” Klausnick hurried away. Clara Peuthert was crying into her pillow. At the end of the ward,
    Prince Nick had his head close to the unknown woman’s. He’d given
    her a piece of paper and a pencil. On the way home, he was subdued. “What do you think?” “Sad. Horrible.” “Know why Unbekkant covers her mouth like that?” “No.”
    “She had toothache. They pulled some of her teeth out. Cheaper. But we can fix that, good dentist, nice dentures, all dandy.” He shot a look at her. “You think she’s the grand duchess Tatiana?”
    “No.”
    “You’re right. Know who she thinks she is? Feel in my left pocket.”
    He smelled of pomade and the artificially scented carnation in his buttonhole. She pulled out a piece of paper.
    He yelled, “I wrote down the names of the four grand duchesses. Told her to scratch out the ones that weren’t her. Look at it.”
    She looked. Three names had been struck through. The one that re mained was “Anastasia.”
    “Shook me,” he said. “I was expecting Tatiana. Know when Unbekkant was born? Hospital register says 1901. Know when Anastasia was born?”
    “In 1901?”
    “That’s right.”
    They stopped for lunch at a Spiesehäuser. He liked plain eating houses. The weeks of starvation that he’d endured trying to get out of Russia while dodging the