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Now comes the explanation of why he and Vlad were in the palace, and it lets him revisit the past a bit, whether he wants to or not. (He's still 17 here.) You'll be seeing a certain wall.... Keep reading!

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There was something about St. Petersburg in winter. Most cities looked sad in winter, like sort of a hibernating creature, all but dying so as to avoid the cold. St. Petersburg, on the other hand, was already sad throughout the year. Winter seemed to rejeuvenate it in a way; to bring it to its full, if modest, potential.

Dimitri pulled his overcoat tighter around him and bent against the wind as he strode up the street toward the old palace. An inch or so of grey snow crunched under his feet with every step, and he greeted a few townsfolk he recognized along the way.

"Staying out of trouble, Dimitri?"

"Doin' what I can, Comerade Pavel."

"Good morning, Dimitri."

"Madame Comerade Lebanov, how are you."

As he approached the decrepit building's gate, he couldn't help but wonder for the thousandth time just why Vlad had insisted on meeting here. And at eleven in the morning, no less.

Vlad had said he'd found a place for them to stay at night---a place with no rent, no fees and no worries. It sounded promising enough---ever since old Marta Proletsky had followed her husband Ivan to the hereafter, there had been no guarantee of shelter in the cold months. Still, revelations like this were often too good to be true.

Dimitri stepped into the cavernous ballroom and looked around at the monument, seven years abandoned. Dust particles floated on boxy rays of light that streamed in through the windows, casting stripes of illumination over tables still set with cobweb-strewn china. The walls, carved and adorned with painting after painting, gave way on either side to two grand staircases that curled from the floor above.

His mind flashed to the last time he'd seen this room, aglow and packed with the priveleged in their finery. He'd seen it from an entirely different door then.

Dimitri actually had to shake his head to get the vision to go away. He made a point never to think of that, of then.

"Vlad," he called, and the echo bounced back at him from the ceiling. "Vlad!"

"Dimitri!" boomed a voice to his right. "Good, good!" Vlad descended the enormous staircase and steered Dimitri toward the opposite one.

"Why this place?"

"In time, in time," Vlad hushed. "I have a proposition for you." He seemed eager, like a child with a secret and a big mouth. "I have found us a place to stay."

"Yeah? And where is that?"

Vlad spread his arms wide, indicating the vast expanse of fallen luxury that surrounded them. A devious, clever grin enveloped his face.

Dimitri was in disbelief. "Here?"

Vlad nodded. "Here."

"You're suggesting that we...live. In the old palace."

"Mm-hmm." If Vlad was mysterious before, he was a salesman now. "Think about it, Dimitri! Private rooms, real beds, working fireplaces, no cost whatsoever....And no one has come here in ages. Government or otherwise."

Dimitri thought about it. It did make sense--a logical living arrangement if ever there was one---but he heard himself say, as if from several feet off, "It should be left the way it is."

"We'd only need one room," Vlad persisted, dangling the bait.

One room. The proposition hung there in midair. One room. It would be unnoticed; it would be insignificant to the leviathan that was the palace. A substitute for a home.

"All right," Dimitri relented.

"Yes?"

"Fine."

"Yyyyyeaahooooo!" Vlad threw on his coat and backpedaled toward the doors. "I'm going to the market. There'll be good food tonight, my boy!" he hollered, gleefully re-entering the cold. "Put the fire out if you leave."

Sure, what was he going to do, burn it down? Vlad's shadow seeped away from the doorframe, and Dimitri was alone with the Winter Palace once again. "Just when it can't get any odder," he muttered, and wandered toward the residential wing.

He walked down the hallway, carefully for some reason, and opened the first door at random with a creak. His breath caught in his throat, and he instantly regretted the impulsive decision.

So much for forgetting the past.

Dimitri put one foot after another through the untouched room, across the marble floor, past the dollhouse, until he stood in front of the framed photograph of the Standart. Bending down, he put a hand against the dusty wooden wainscotting and gave it the slightest push.

The obscured hinges squeaked their complaint, and it swung inward. The small, black corridor didn't seem to want to receive any of the windowlight. Somehow Dimitri didn't blame it.

A puff of grey-brown dust rose as the panel met the wall, and Dimitri walked from the room, shutting the door behind him.