Chapter 7: Back at the Château

The afternoon began to draw long shadows across the estate — dark, slender ribbons that stretched like fingers over the sloping lawns and crept toward the old château on the rise. From where I sat in the cool stone belly of the kitchen, I could see the world outside soften into gold; sunlight filtering through Knysna pines and yellowwoods, turning their needles and leaves into stained-glass silhouettes. A warm, lazy haze settled over everything, as if time had exhaled and the estate paused mid-breath.

The château held court above the tree line — tall gables and slate-grey roof catching the last of the day’s heat, windows glinting amber like watchful eyes. Ivy wrapped around its western walls in slow emerald spirals, climbing toward carved balconies where shadows pooled like ink. Beyond that, the forest shifted and rustled with late light, ancient yellowwoods standing like pillars of some forgotten cathedral. High above, the sky burned copper along the edges, clouds stretched thin and pink as if brushed across the horizon by a careless hand.

Inside, the kitchen smelled of rosemary, browned onion and butter where Giles worked at the stove, sleeves rolled, knife tapping a steady rhythm against the board. The space around us felt lived-in yet grand — pale marble counters veined like river maps, copper pots suspended overhead catching dull flecks of fading sun, and terracotta tiles holding the day’s warmth beneath my boots. Lena sat beside me at the island, elbows on cool stone, the small wooden box between us like a heartbeat waiting to be acknowledged. The Royal Coat of Arms stared up at us from its lid — gold leaf worn with age, edges softened by time and secrets.

Even without touching it, I felt the weight of the object in the room — heavier than its size allowed, as though it carried not only contents, but history. The light shifted again, longer shadows crossing the kitchen floor, reaching toward the island where we sat. Outside, a breeze moved through the pines, and their shadows shivered across the château walls like the brush of unseen hands.

The estate seemed to hold itself very still in that moment — the hills, the trees, the stone and silence — as if the land itself was watching, waiting for the inevitable moment when the lid would lift and the past would uncoil into the present.

“It has been waiting for eighty years,” Lena whispered, her fingers hovering over the gold leaf of the Falcon.

“Then let’s not make it wait any longer,” I said. Giles stopped chopping. He wiped his hands on a cloth and moved to the end of the island, standing sentinel. The kitchen went quiet, save for the low hiss of the gas burner. There was no keyhole on the box. It was a puzzle box—smooth wood with invisible seams, crafted by masters who knew how to keep secrets.

Lena ran her fingers along the edges, feeling for a catch. She pressed the eyes of the Falcon on the lid.

Click.

The lid sprang up a fraction of an inch. The sound was small, but it echoed in the silence like a gunshot. She lifted it. Inside, resting on a bed of faded red velvet that had turned almost brown with age, were two bundles of papers wrapped in oilskin, and a heavy, leather-bound journal. She picked up the journal first.

The leather cracked softly as she opened the cover. “Dnevnik Tatiany,” she read softly. Tatiana’s Diary. She flipped through the pages. They were filled with handwriting that started neat and Cyrillic, then became jagged and rushed as the dates moved toward 1945.

“She writes about the Château,” Lena said, her voice catching. “About the rain. About the children. She writes about the fear that she will never see Volynia again.” She set the diary down, her hand trembling, and picked up the first bundle of papers.

She unwrapped the oilskin. They were old parchments, heavy with wax seals and ribbons that disintegrated at her touch.

“The deeds,” she said, her voice strengthening into something regal. “The original land grants for the Lunovar province. Signed by Tsar Nicholas II.” She unfolded them on the marble counter. “It says here ... the land is granted to the House of Valeriy in perpetuity. It is ‘Crown Land’.” She looked up at me, triumph blazing in her face. “Zoryanovich claims his family owned it before the Soviets. This proves he lied. He is squatting on my land. Every drop of oil he sold ... he stole.”

“That bankrupts him,” I said, leaning in.

“But it doesn’t kill him. He still has the army. He still has the narrative.”

“Then look at this,” she said, opening the second, smaller bundle. It was a single sheet of paper. Cheap, yellowed wartime stock. The ink was faded, turning sepia, but legible. I leaned in. It was written in Russian.

I started to read aloud, my voice rough in the quiet room. “To Comrade Beria, People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs...” I stopped. Giles drew a sharp breath. Even in South Africa, that name — Beria — carried the weight of blood.

“Keep reading,” Lena commanded.

“I, Ivan Zoryanovich, humble servant of the People’s Revolution, offer the following intelligence regarding the location of the fleeing Aristocrats...” I looked up. The silence in the room was deafening.

“Ivan Zoryanovich,” I said. “That’s his grandfather?”

“Yes,” Lena hissed.

“He didn’t just survive the Soviets,” Giles said, tapping the paper. “He was an informant. He sold out the Royal Family to the NKVD to save his own skin. He traded your great-grandfather’s life for a position in the new regime.”

“Treason,” Lena whispered. “In Volynia, this is not just a crime. It is a bloodstain that never washes out. If the Army sees this ... if the People see this...”

“The Thorn Regent falls,” I finished. We stared at the papers. It wasn’t just history. It was a loaded gun sitting on my kitchen island.

“Ruan, the NKVD or Narodnyy Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del, was the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs during the Stalin era from 1934 to 1946. Later to be superseded by the KGB,” Giles explained. “After the Russian Revolution, the NKVD was tasked with hunting down the “White Russians” or Royalists and remnants of the aristocracy who had fled to Europe. They ran the forced labour camps where millions died.

“The NKVD,” Giles said, his voice dropping an octave. “Stalin’s butchers. They were the ones who hunted the aristocracy in the thirties and forties. They arrested, tortured, and executed ‘enemies of the people’, the aristocrats, intellectuals, military officers often without a real trial.” Giles went quiet for a moment then he spoke again:

“To write to Beria ... to offer up a King to the man who ran the Gulags? That isn’t just betrayal, Sir. That is selling a soul to the devil.”

“Bastards!” I whispered.

“Ruan, you joked earlier about ‘Vlady’s KGB kindergarten’. Lena replied. “The NKVD was the brutal grandfather of the KGB. While the KGB was known for Cold War spying, the NKVD was known for mass bloodshed and terror during WWII.”

“In the letter you just read,” Giles elaborated. “Ivan Zoryanovich addresses ‘Comrade Beria’. Lavrentiy Beria was the head of the NKVD. He is one of the most feared and monstrous figures in history — a man who personally oversaw mass executions.”

“And Zorynaovich betrayed your great grandfather?” I asked, looking at Lena.

“He tried to betray him. When the NKVD hunting party reached the place, my great grandfather, and the family with him, had already slipped across the border to Poland and later on to England.

“But the current regent, this, Vladimir Zoryanovich, how did he become a Duke?”

“Ruan, look at these deeds,” Lena said and handed me a few of the old yellowed papers. “The land was given to my great grandfather by the Tsar The original land grants for the Lunovar province, that later to become the Kingdom of Volynia. Now look at the land deeds to Lunovar. There is no Dukedom of Lunovar. Lunovar was a Russian Province until it became the Kingdom Of Volynia. A portion of the land was given to Zoryanovich. He was a farmer not a Duke! He is of no Royal blood.”