Originally published in Revenants and Roses 3

"I've gotta say, Peter, you sure picked a great day to have a birthday," Ray said with a grin.

Peter looked at the TV screen. "Yeah, Tex, years ago, my folks got together with a calendar and said, "Let's have a baby so he can grow up and celebrate his birthday on the day the Berlin Wall fell. I'm gonna have to call dad and congratulate him for being so on the ball."

That made Egon smile. "It is an historic occasion, though, Peter."

"Yeah, I'm glad we're taping this," offered Winston.

It was November ninth, 1989, and the four Ghostbusters had gathered on the second floor of the firehall to celebrate Peter's thirty-second birthday. Presents had been opened--it was one of Peter's best hauls yet; his buddies were the greatest!--cake had been eaten, and now the four men were sprawled out on the couch in front of the television set watching the live reports from Berlin. Even though it was the middle of the night over there, people were still celebrating, and news commentators were still commenting. Peter thought it was a real kick to have such an historic event happen on his special day.

It had been a busy day, with an almost record number of busts, so they were content to sit around doing nothing strenuous for the evening. Ray had put away the leftover birthday cake for the next day and Slimer, disappointed to have the goodies removed, had taken himself off on his evening garbage run through the neighborhood in a state of high dudgeon and pretended starvation.

"I don't care if the mayor calls tonight, I'm not moving from this couch for the rest of the evening," Peter declared, gesturing extravagantly with his soda can. "I already had to work too hard--and on my birthday, too." He struggled unsuccessfully to look put upon.

"Poor Peter," Ray teased without much sympathy, grinning at the supine Venkman. "I can tell you lead a really rough life."

The phone rang.

"See, Pete, you jinxed us," Winston retorted, stretching out a long arm to catch the nearest extension. "Ghostbuster Central." He was silent a minute, then his face lit up in a big grin. "You bet, he's right here," he said, and held out the phone to Peter. "It's your dad."

"On my birthday?" Peter blurted in astonishment. "Dad never remembers birthdays! This has gotta be one for the Guinness Book of World Records." He bounded up, delighted, and grabbed the phone from Winston. "Yo, Dad. I don't believe it. What did you do, rig a beeper or something? You usually forget my birthday."

"Hello, Son," came his father's gravelly voice, momentarily confused. "Beeper? Birthday?"

Peter put his hand over the mouthpiece and shared a grimace with his buddies. "False alarm, guys. It's just a coincidence. He doesn't have a clue it's my birthday." He wasn't surprised. His dad just didn't have a clue about such things and never had.

"Birthday?" his dad said in his ear. "That's right, it's your big day. Happy thirty-second, son." You had to give it to the old con man. He was pretty quick on the uptake--and he actually remembered which one it was.

"What a fraud," Peter told him, still delighted to hear from his dad on the day. "You forgot all about it, didn't you, Dad? I'm wise to you."

"It's what I do, son," his father said without the slightest embarrassment. Listen, Peter," Charlie continued urgently, "I gotta ask you, this is important. Have you still got your mother's papers?"

Peter's eyes narrowed. Not another scam, and worse, one that involved his late mother. He knew he wouldn't enjoy this. "What do you want Mom's papers for?" he asked suspiciously. Something in the tone of his voice alerted Egon, who got up and wandered over to stand near Peter. Egon had never trusted Peter's dad, and it was clear from the tightness in his expression that he didn't trust Charlie not to hurt Peter.

"I just need to do some checking, son. You might say I'm setting you up for the best birthday ever. Not that it's a present you can unwrap or anything like that, and maybe you can't even use it, but I think when you find out, you'll say I got you the best birthday present you ever had."

"Yeah, right, Dad. I can't use it or even open a gift, but it's the best present ever. What is it, your back IRS bills?"

"Son! I'm hurt you'd think such a thing of me," Charlie declaimed. "Listen, I'll be in the city tomorrow. I just need to look at those papers. You know what you've got. Anything about your mom's folks?"

"Grandma and Grandpa Persion?" Peter echoed in surprise. "What about them?" He remembered his grandparents well, although they'd both died when he was a boy. He also remembered his grandpa hadn't thought very much of Charlie, but Grandma Annie always said it was because Charlie reminded him too much of himself. Since Peter's grandfather was the furthest thing in the world from a con man, Peter had always wondered about that, but he'd figured it was just one of the questions that would never be answered. Maybe now it would.

"I'll tell you about it when I get there, Pete. But I can't talk now. I'm in Paris."

"France?" Peter echoed in astonishment. "What are you doing there? They let crooks like you leave the country? What makes you think you'll be allowed back in?"

"Is that any way to talk to your old man?" Charlie replied, but the question amused rather than offended him. "Oh, and, Peter, do you still have your Grandma Annie's music box?"

Peter frowned, trying to remember. "Yeah, I've got it. Packed away but it's here. Why?"

"Oh, no reason."

"You're not selling it," Peter said firmly. "Not even if you find out it's Fabergé or something like that. It's mine in case I have kids one day to pass it on to. Grandma Annie made me promise never to part with it." He'd never mentioned the music box to his buddies; it was just something he had that would hardly fit into the masculine decor of the firehall, valuable because it had belonged to his adored grandmother, who had told him it had been a present from her grandmother when she was a little girl. Maybe it really was Fabergé. But that didn't mean Peter would sell it. Some things really did mean more to him than money.

"Just want to make sure you haven't sold it," Charlie said. "No, son, you hang onto it and don't let anybody have it, no matter who they are."

"What have you done?" Peter demanded suspiciously. "What did you set me up for this time?"

"Not a thing. I won't take your music box, Peter. I just need to see it. Gotta run. Costing major bucks. Happy birthday, son." He hung up before Peter could ask any more questions.

Peter replaced the receiver and turned to see the other three Ghostbusters staring at him. He shrugged. "Dad's got a new con running," he said ruefully. "He's over in France but he'll be here tomorrow and he wants my grandmother's music box."

"I didn't know you had a music box from your grandmother, Peter," Ray said, excited. "That's really great. You never mention her."

"Don't I?" Peter was surprised. "I'm not keeping secrets, Ray, it just never came up. She was a great lady. Course she was old when I knew her, but when she was young she had hair about the same color as yours. She was one of those old ladies who stay beautiful till the day they die. When I was four I wanted to grow up and marry her." He chuckled. "You know how kids get? We'd stay with her and Grandpa when Dad was off doing his cons, sometimes. She used to sing me to sleep at night. She had a special song.... Wish I could remember it."

"That sounds like a nice memory, Peter," Egon said with a smile.

"Mom was their only kid," Peter said reminiscently. "After they were gone, she didn't talk about them very much. I think it was rough for her, losing them. Grandpa died when I was seven, and Grandma Annie died within six months of him. Mom always said she wouldn't have wanted to go on without him. Even when I was a little kid I could tell how much in love they were. Grandma Annie said when they were both kids, not much older than me at the time, Grandpa had saved her life." He returned to the couch and flopped down on it, lost in memories. "I always wanted to hear about it. I thought it would be exciting. But they never told me. I think Mom knew. I think she was going to tell me all those stories, but she never got around to it."

"That's too bad, Peter," Egon said quickly. "It would have been something to cherish."

"Yeah, like all the stories about your ancestors who conjured up dragons and defeated witches, right, Spengs?" teased Peter.

"Well, not precisely like that," Egon responded, returning Peter's smile. He sat down beside Peter on the couch, pushing Venkman's feet to the floor. "I always am grateful to have a link to the past. Do you have pictures of your grandparents?"

"Yeah, I've got a whole box of stuff up in the storage crawlway," Peter said. "I should go haul it down before Pop shows up, make sure there isn't anything in there that he'd want to swipe. It's not his business anyway, not since he and Mom got divorced."

Ray jumped up. "Come on, Peter, I'll help you haul it down. I think it's nice, on your birthday."

Trust Ray to be enthusiastic. He had photo albums of his parents and looked them over every now and then. Sometimes he showed them to the guys; he'd gotten a little better about mentioning his parents since the team had started the Ghostbusters business, though he still had his wistful moments, usually on Christmas and his birthday.

"I'll get the ladder," Winston offered.

The team gathered at the kitchen table half an hour later, Peter's box placed on its surface. He undid the string that held the lid in place and opened it up. Inside were packages of letters, folders of papers, several framed photographs, an old photo album, and a small box. Peter plucked out the box first, and opened it.

"That's a music box?" Winston asked, eyeing the small but elaborate round box. It was gold with jade inlays, most of them on the lid, and encircled with a row of tiny pearls to match the design. "It looks like a jewelry box."

"Yeah, it's got a secret way to open it," Peter said with a grin. He pulled out a gold medallion on a chain and used the medallion like a key to open the lid. It rose slowly, revealing the picture of a stylized bird like a swan on the inside of the lid and two dancing figures in elaborate garb, the man a bearded figure in a white quasi-military jacket, the woman in an evening gown. As they began to revolve slowly, music played, tinny with age. "Hey, that's Grandma Annie's lullaby," Peter said with a huge grin. "I forgot it played that." He closed his eyes in reminiscence, singing along softly with the music, "On the wind, 'cross the sea, hear this song and remember. Soon you'll be home with me, once upon a December...." The long-forgotten words came back to him as he heard the melody.

"That's pretty," Ray said.

"Well, the music is, if not Pete's singing," Winston teased.

Egon dropped his hand on Peter's arm as if he could sense how far away the music had taken him. "I have never heard that song before, Peter."

"No, it was Grandma Annie's song, hers and her grandmother's," Peter said. "I think it was their special song. She used to sing it in Russian, but she'd translated it when they came to America in the late twenties. She would sing it to Mom when she was a little girl, and Mom taught it to me when I was little."

Egon took the music box and examined it. "Peter, I believe this is Fabergé. I should say it's worth a great deal of money. I suspect your father might have seen one like it, in the Louvre and realized he might have access to a small fortune."

"Well, he doesn't," Peter said tightly. "It's mine and I promised I'd never sell it. Grandma Annie was really--urgent about it, Egon. She made me promise, the whole bit, cross your heart and hope to die. She said it belonged to our family and it had to go down to my kids when I had them. She said it always had to belong to us and it was the only inheritance she had to give me." He took it back from Egon and moved his fingers over the gold-inlaid surface.

"Who are the people?" Winston asked, peering over Peter's shoulder at it. "Gotta say, that guy looks kinda familiar."

"Just a guy in a music box," Peter said, surprised. "You know, like those dancing ballerinas that show up in some of them. Generic."

"I don't know, Pete," Winston argued. "This looks special. Custom made. If Egon's right, and it's valuable, you ought to have it insured and maybe keep it in a safety deposit box at the bank instead of just up in storage."

Peter closed the lid over the dancers, turned it over, looking for a jeweler's mark. "Maybe I should let Cheryl see it, that woman I know who works at Tiffany's, remember?" Peter said thoughtfully. "I don't know where Grandma Annie got it. She wasn't rich or anything. And Grandpa said when he was little he was a kitchen boy. He used to tell me I could be anything I wanted because he'd started that way and by the time I was born, he had his own business. He put himself through high school after they came to America. He told me I was good with people and I should do something with it." He laughed. "Little did he know I'd work with ghosts instead."

"You think your pop wants to sell the music box?" Winston asked.

"Probably. Egon, how much would something like this be worth?"

"I'm no expert, Peter. But it could fetch a considerable sum."

"Like thousands? Hundreds of thousands?" Peter frowned. "Yeah, that'd tempt Dad, all right. Funny. You wouldn't think a kitchen boy would have something like this."

"No, but maybe your grandmother's family had more money," Egon theorized. "Is there anything in there to specify?"

Peter pulled out a photo album and opened it to the first page. "That's them," he said, pointing to a stiffly-posed, sepia-toned photo of a man and woman in their late twenties, clad in stiff, formal garb. He looked a lot like Peter, even vaguely like Charlie, though his nose was different, and his jawline. Peter wondered if his mom hadn't originally been attracted to his dad because he was vaguely reminiscent of her own beloved father. Peter got his nose from his father, he realized. But he hoped his hair came from his grandfather instead of his father. There was the same widow's peak, the same thick brown thatch. It had been white when Peter knew him but it hadn't receded like Charlie's. He had his grandfather's stubborn chin, too and cheekbones. "This picture was taken the day they got their citizenship. 1935. Mom was born a year later. Grandma Annie always said she was glad they were citizens when Mom was born."

He turned the page. There were more photos, in varying sizes, many of them black and white snapshots. There was Grandpa with Grandma Annie over his shoulder like a sack, looking back over his shoulder at her and laughing. There was one of her raking leaves, followed by one of them tossing huge armloads of leaves at each other. There was a formal picture of Grandma Annie with Peter's mom as a newborn baby in her arms with Grandpa standing at her shoulder looking proud enough to burst.

Peter turned the pages of the book slowly. Here was one of him as a toddler, riding on his grandfather's back.

"Is that you, Peter?" Egon asked, amused.

"Go ahead and laugh, Spengs. I've got your baby pictures where you'll never find them, from the time that time ghost reversed you down to a baby."

"I still don't believe that happened," Egon said stiffly, but he couldn't help a grin at the sight of the young Peter.

"Look at Pete," Winston said wickedly. "Aw, wasn't he cute? Wonder what happened when he grew up."

"That's not funny, Zeddemore."

"Is that your mom, Peter?" Ray asked. "Gosh, she sure was pretty."

"Yeah, she was." Peter put out a finger and touched his mom's photo. She was eighteen in that one, dressed up for her high school prom in a full-skirted formal. How had girls ever sat down with all those can cans? "She met Dad right after that, and they got married pretty quick." And Grandpa had had a fit because he'd known right off what kind of man Charlie Venkman was. Peter had a memory of himself at four, eavesdropping on a conversation between his dad and grandfather. "If you ever hurt Margaret, I'll find you and make you pay. You don't think I can? Try me, Charlie."

Peter had been scared. For a long time, he'd worried that his father was going to hurt his mom physically, and when she'd finally got to the bottom of his upset, Mom had explained that Grandpa hadn't meant Peter's father would hit her. "He'd never do that, sweetie. I know that. Grandpa meant that it makes me sad when he's gone away, and he doesn't want your dad to make me sad, that's all." It was probably the first time Peter had realized his father could be a disappointment. Not one of his best memories.

He turned the album page quickly.

"Peter. Did you know you had a letter here that has never been opened?" Egon said, pulling it out of the box.

"Huh?" He grabbed it out of Egon's hand. "Yeah, I know, Spengs. It's supposed to be opened if I get married and have a kid. Otherwise it's supposed to just stay there. I'm not sure what the deal is."

"And you never peeked?" Ray asked in surprise.

"Mom gave it to me the last time I saw her," Peter said. "She told me it was important. She died about a month after that, and...I don't know, guys, I just didn't want to let her down, so I never opened it."

"Don't show this to your father, Peter," Egon suggested. He added apologetically, "I'm sorry, but I simply feel he might exploit it."

"Don't worry, Egon, you're not hurting my feelings," Peter said, noting the worry in his friend's eyes. "Well, in a way you are, but it's not your fault, it's Dad's. Heck, what am I going on about? My dad's great most of the time."

"He really loves you, Peter," Ray put in, concerned.

"I know, Tex. It's okay. Just seeing all this stuff.... kinda makes me think about the old days a little. Guess I'm entitled, on my birthday."

"You sure are. Hey, Peter? Want to watch that Bogart movie on cable?"

Peter was grateful for the offer. Ray's tastes didn't run to Bogie--he was doing it because he wanted to distract Peter from his melancholy nostalgia. "Sounds like a plan, Ray. Think we can con Egon into sitting still for it? It's Casablanca. And I don't think he's ever seen it."

"Never seen Casablanca?" Winston echoed. "Egon, what's wrong with you? That movie's a classic."

Egon set the music box in its container and picked up the medallion, ignoring Winston's question as beneath his dignity. "Hmm," he said thoughtfully, reading the words on the medallion. "'Together in Paris'."

"Is that what it says?" Peter asked, snatching it away. "I don't read Russian. I suppose you do, Spengs?"

"Of course, Peter." He lifted an eyebrow at Peter. "Did you expect anything less?"

Peter nudged him with his elbow. "Paris?" he said thoughtfully. "Pop's in Paris. Suppose it means anything?"

"I assume we'll find out when he arrives," Egon replied. He heaved a sigh. "Very well, Peter, since it's your birthday, I'll consent to Casablanca. But, really. 'Of all the gin joints in the world...?'"

"Wait and see, Egon," Peter told him. "Just wait and see."

Peter was still rubbing it in to Egon about Casablanca when Charlie Venkman arrived. The team had gathered around Janine's desk after the last bust of the day when the elder Venkman burst in, full of excitement and self-importance. No fool, he was bearing for Peter a gift in one of the package sacks you could pick up if you didn't want to bother with wrapping paper and ribbons. Clearly he'd acquired it at the airport en route, but he proffered it as if it were part of a long-planned treat.

"Happy birthday, son."

Even at age thirty-two and one day, Peter wasn't proof against a treat from his father. He lit up like a candle and took it, pulling aside the tissue paper to discover a book about Humphrey Bogart. His father must have found it at an airport book shop.

"Wow, Peter," said Ray, who had been craning his neck to see. Ray was one of those nice guys who got as big a charge out of other people's presents as he did his own. "That's great. We watched Casablanca last night."

"'Play it, Sam,'" Peter said in what he hoped was a superb Bogie imitation. The grimaces of his friends proved he hadn't been quite as good as he'd hoped. "Thanks, Dad. Ray's right, this is great. I made Egon eat his words last night about that movie."

"And every second since," Egon replied drily.

"Come on, Spengs, you loved it," Peter insisted.

"I must admit the moment that Victor Lazlo started to sing the Marseillaise was quite stirring," Egon conceded.

"It was so romantic," Janine breathed, eyeing Egon hopefully. "When he made Elsa get on the plane with Victor even though his heart was breaking...." She gazed up at Egon. "Didn't you think it was romantic, Egon?"

"Well, since Rick ended up with a friend rather than--"

"Never mind," Janine said, muttering under her breath, "Sometimes I think there's no hope for that boy."

"It'd just kill him to admit outright that he liked it," Peter told his dad. Letting Egon off the hook, he continued, "So what were you doing in France, Pop? And don't tell me you popped over for the pâté de foie gras."

"Actually I had a deal going," Charlie admitted shamelessly. "Nothing crooked, for once. But never mind that. It doesn't matter. I ran into a French con artist over there--you know, the accent makes it almost sound classy. You don't suppose I--" he began speculatively.

"Not a chance," Peter said instantly. He'd learned long ago to dismiss his father's more wild fancies. The idea of Charlie roaming the country trying to lure rich widows into schemes with a phony French accent didn't bear thinking about, not that Charlie's gravelly tones could ever sound anything but American.

"Just a thought, son." Venkman abandoned the idea, at least for the moment. "Anyway, he was peddling--well, let me show you." He set his suitcase down on Janine's desk. The secretary eyed it suspiciously.

"It's not going to blow up or anything?" she demanded.

"Would I do that to you, Miss Janine?" Charlie asked, beaming at the red-haired woman.

"I wouldn't put anything past you," she said darkly.

Charlie took that as a compliment, beaming as he removed a folder from his suitcase and closed it. He then proceeded to withdraw several pages of sketches from the folder. "I had trouble getting these, son," he said. "But once I saw what the subject was--isn't this your music box?"

Peter looked at the drawings on the first sheet. Artist's concept sketches, he realized. The shape and detail looked right. There were margin notes, but since his pop's copies were clearly xeroxes, some of the words were too faint to read, and they were in French anyway in what looked like an old-fashioned hand. The sheets held different angle sketches of the music box, both open and closed.

"Where did you get these?" Egon asked, snatching them from Peter's hand and pondering them. "It does indeed look like Peter's music box. So you've clearly found the provenance for it. It should add to the music box's value, but since Peter has no intention of selling it, I fail to see how this can profit you."

"Selling it?" Charlie echoed. "But I don't want him to sell it, Egon."

"That has got to be a first," Peter muttered. "Okay, Pop, tell me where you got these."

"All right, but it's a long story. You don't have something to eat and drink, do you? I've been on that plane and all they give you to eat is French food."

"What, you don't like frog legs, Dad?" Peter grinned. "Well, it's getting on for dinner anyway. What do you think, guys, should we feed him?"

"Well, since you made sure three times there was enough for him, I think we can just about manage it," Winston said.

Janine looked wistful. "Can I hear about it, too?" It was obvious she wasn't as interested in sketches of music boxes as in spending the time with Egon, but she was curious.

"Sure, Janine," Peter agreed. "The more the merrier."

His dad didn't seem as sure, but Janine had already seen the sketches. He shrugged.

Over the early dinner, Charlie grew expansive and talked about his visit to France. "And I hadda go see the Eiffel Tower, because I knew about you guys busting all those ghosts there," he concluded. "I think the least they could've done is put up a plaque to you."

Peter thought that, too, but it wouldn't do to say so. The guys would rib him about it. "I'm sure that didn't stop you capitalizing on it, anyway."

Charlie's expression proved he'd been on the money with that one. Peter shook his head in amused tolerance. Sometimes he got a big charge out of his father. "Okay, Dad, tell us about these sketches. Where did you get them?"

"From a French guy, friend of one of my contacts. Character named Etienne Gautier. Shady type, but with style. Claimed he was descended from royalty. I think he'd run scams on it all his life."

"Good thing we don't have royalty here, or you'd probably pull the same," Peter said wryly. "Direct descendant of the Dutch throne, right, Pop."

"Not much chance of that," Charlie said, a shifty look coming and going in his eyes. "The Venkmans have been in America for hundreds of years. Used to own this whole city."

"Yeah, right, Pop, you're a direct descendant of Peter Stuyvesant, I can tell," Peter kidded. "And I'm named after him, too. Surprised you haven't tried to get them to hand over the whole city to you."

"Are you kidding, son? Do you know how hard it would be to run a whole city? Too much work for yours truly. But speaking of direct descendants...." He took a bite of his pie. "Good pie, this."

"Thanks," said Winston, who had made it. The guys had all learned to cook since they'd started the business. Take out pizza and Chinese had quickly palled as a regular diet. "There's more if you want it."

"Don't mind if I do. But later." He wiped off his hands, dabbed at his mustache with the napkin, and picked up the sketches again. "Peter, my boy, your music box is a genuine Fabergé creation."

"Told you," Peter muttered to the guys.

"And as such it would be valuable," Charlie went on.

"You were right there, too," Egon commented.

"But Mr. Venkman didn't want you to sell it, Peter," Ray reminded him.

"No, I'm sure Pop's got a much better scheme going, don't you, Dad?"

Charlie assumed an air of conscious virtue. It didn't fit him well. "You're right, Ray, my boy," he said. "I don't want Peter to sell it. I want him to keep it, along with his birth certificate, my marriage license, his mother's birth certificate, and any papers his grandparents possessed, such as citizenship papers."

"Why?" said Peter bluntly, looking at the preliminary sketches of the music box. "You want me to prove I have a right to it, don't you? What happens if I do? I inherit major bucks?"

"Really? There's money in it?" Janine asked in surprise. "I never saw the music box, but it looks like it would be pretty. Don't tell me Dr. V is heir to a fortune."

"Might be money, might not," Charlie said. "I'm still checking on that part. Peter, son, is this your music box?" He gestured to the sketches.

"It sure looks like it. What do you think, Egon?" The physicist had a great eye for detail.

"I would say yes, the music box was the product of these sketches. You know more than you're telling us, don't you, Mr. Venkman?"

"I have more papers. I have an order for the box. It was a custom design. Here." He pulled out a couple more drawings; they were quick ink sketches of the man and woman who danced in the music box. Larger and in detail, their features stood out.

Ray's eyes widened in total astonishment. "Omigosh," he gasped, turning to gaze at Peter's face as if he had never seen him before.

"You recognize them, Ray, my boy?" Charlie asked. He appeared and sounded complacent, but there was excitement in his eyes.

"I sure do. Aunt Lois has a picture of them. Our family came from Russia. That's the last Tsar, Nicholas II, and his wife, Alexandra."

"And that means what, exactly?" Peter asked warily. He'd heard of Nicholas and Alexandra, but in the vague way one did when remembering history learned at school and not needed since. "So, the couple in the box were important. What's that got to do with me?"

"The box was commissioned, Peter. See?" Charlie Venkman spread a new sheet of paper out before him, a letter, penned in an elegant hand, the xerox clear enough. It was written in French but it was dated September, 1915, and headed, "St. Petersburg".

"Well, I can't read that," Peter objected, eyeing it without enthusiasm.

"May I, Peter?" Egon picked up the xerox and perused it thoughtfully, one eyebrow lifting in astonishment as he read on. At one point, he paused and stared at Peter, as Ray had done, then he resumed reading.

"What?" Peter asked. "Have I got a spot on my nose or something?"

"No, Peter," Egon replied. "This letter was written by the dowager Empress, Marie, the mother of Nicholas II. She commissioned the music box directly from Carl Gustovovich Fabergé himself. It was intended as a gift for her favorite granddaughter, Grand Duchess Anastasia."

"Wow, I've heard of her," Janine breathed. "She's the one they thought might have survived when the Romanovs were executed. There were all kinds of rumors. There was a great movie, I think it starred Ingrid Bergman. I saw it years ago. Just think, Peter, your music box once belonged to Anastasia. No wonder your dad is interested in it. I bet it's worth a fortune."

"I believe you are missing the point, Janine," Egon told her. "But that's not surprising. You don't have the right information."

"And you do?" Peter asked. "Okay, what's the deal, Egon? My grandpa stole this? You think he was a kitchen boy at the royal palace or something and made off with it during the Revolution?"

"Your grandmother insisted you never sell it, Peter. She said it had to be passed down and that it belonged to her family."

"He's got it," Charlie said, practically bouncing with excitement. "Egon's got it worked out."

"Well, I don't," Peter said, although an idea had occurred to him, one so implausible he couldn't get his thoughts around it. "Spell it out, Pop. What con are you running this time?"

"No con at all, my boy," Charlie said, clapping Peter on the shoulder. "Don't you see. Your Grandma Annie was none other than Princess Anastasia, the last surviving Romanov. She knew it and kept the music box, realizing it was the only proof she could give you. She was insistent you keep it. Don't you see, son? She knew that someday things in Russia might change, and here you are, now that the Soviet Union is collapsing, the one surviving heir to the Imperial Russian Throne. This time, it's not a scam, it's cold, hard fact. My boy is a royal prince in exile."

Peter's mouth fell open. "Nah," he said quickly. "Couldn't be."

"Wow, Peter," cried Ray. "I bet we could prove it if we had to. DNA testing, or something. And the pictures of your Grandma Annie. I bet that's what she went by instead of Anastasia."

"Grandpa called her Anya sometimes," Peter said, struggling with memories. This was ridiculous. It couldn't be. It was just another of his father's scams, and he'd be crazy to buy into it. But the xeroxes looked like they might be authentic. They could, of course, be very good forgeries, but Charlie hadn't seen the music box for probably fifteen years. There was no way he could have faked the papers, not unless Grandma Annie had copies and Charlie had lifted them. But if she'd had copies, that might mean they were real....

Real! He was royalty! No, don't buy into it. Your dad's conned you before. But what if this time is real?

Peter could imagine it, himself dressed up like the guy in the music box. Tsar Nicholas. His great grandfather? No, it was just too weird, too far out of left field. He couldn't be descended from royalty.

But what if he was?

Not that he wanted to rush over and take over Russia. That was just stupid. He didn't know how to run a country. Not a chance. But maybe there was money in it. Maybe there was fame. Talk shows. Fancy parties. The fast crowd. The jet set. He'd have an automatic 'in' with all the right people. He'd be even more famous than he was as a Ghostbuster.

"Peter, I am highly suspicious of this claim," Egon said.

"You're suspicious of the guy who checks the gas meter," Peter reminded him. "Come on, Egon, think of it. Maybe Dad just made all this up, but I do have the music box, and Grandma Annie always said it was a family heirloom and I had to keep it and not sell it."

"She never said, 'You are the last of the Romanovs,' did she?"

"No," Peter conceded doubtfully.

Egon eyed him with concern. "Peter, I see many problems. Should this be true and you announce it, there will be distractors, doubters. There would be political problems. The Iron Curtain countries are in a state of flux. How difficult would it be for a 'pretender' to a throne to make a claim, even if you wanted to go over there? You don't speak Russian. The KGB would have their own agenda."

"KGB?" Peter's eyes widened. "You mean I'd have spies after me?"

"Don't listen to that," Charlie counseled. "You think I'd risk my boy?"

"How could it be anything but risk?" Egon argued. "The revolutionary government executed every Romanov they could find. Anastasia's entire family was shot down in cold blood."

Peter had known that, but it hadn't been personal before. Now his eyes widened with a stunned horror. What if they'd been his ancestors? Executed! What if the powers-that-be in Russia wanted to do the same to him? He hadn't thought of rushing over to Moscow and staking a claim. What would he do? Ask to see Gorbachev? 'Hey, Gorby, baby, I'm here for your job.' Yeah, right. "I'm not up for facing a firing squad," Peter said quickly. "But Grandma Annie must have wanted me to find out some day. She made a big point of it all." Eyes wide, he stared at the guys. Damn it, he was buying it. One of his dad's cons and he was buying it.

"Nobody's going to shoot you, Peter," Ray cried. "We've got the throwers. Those guys never faced Ghostbusters before. We'd protect you."

No, that was right, his buddies would protect him. He could be a prince in exile. He'd be safe if he stayed on this side of the Atlantic, right? It would be his ticket to all the best parties. The KGB never went after that woman who claimed to be Anastasia, did they? What was her name? Maybe they knew she wasn't the real thing. Maybe she was no threat to them. Would Peter be? Tsar Peter? Peter the Great! Yeah, that sounded pretty good. He could do the Carson show, Letterman, Arsenio, the whole bit. He'd have to get an agent....

"Peter, I think there's money in this, if it's done right," his father said. "You don't want to go over there and run a country. It's an economic nightmare, anyway. But I think there might be Romanov holdings and investments you could access. In Paris, maybe. That's where Anastasia's grandmother lived. There might be bank accounts for you. I don't think you should go to Russia. Not safe, my boy. But Paris.... That's the starting point for all your wealth."

Money.... Peter stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. He'd always wanted to be rich, to be important, to be famous. It would be such a kick. He was no threat to the KGB. They'd leave him alone as long as he didn't try to go to Russia, wouldn't they?

"Pete, think about this," Winston said abruptly. "Your dad's scamming you. It's all a setup."

"No, Winston," Peter argued. "For once, I think he's on the level. I think this is true. I think Grandma Annie really was Anastasia. It'd never have occurred to me without all this--" he gestured at the xeroxed material-- "But it fits. Don't you see, guys, this might be my big chance. The break I've always waited for. And it's what she wanted. She didn't tell me, but she gave me hints. She wanted me to know some day. I bet that's what's in the sealed letter I've got."

"Peter," Egon said gravely. "If this is true, she knew who she was. Yet she never made a claim. She wanted the knowledge to pass along, perhaps, but she didn't want you to act on it. Did she ever try to teach you things that a member of the royal family would need to know?"

Peter frowned. "No, she never did," he confessed. "But her entire family was butchered. She probably couldn't bear to go back herself."

"Do you think she would wish that on her grandson, Peter?"

"You don't want me to do this, do you, Egon?" Peter demanded. "What's the matter? Afraid I'll actually be somebody?" It wasn't a fair question, but he couldn't help it. All that fame and glory tempted him. He wasn't a Romanov, he was a Venkman. But what if he was part Romanov? It was just too big to ignore.

"You are somebody now, Peter," Egon said quietly. "You are Peter Venkman. You are a Ghostbuster. You are very good at that."

"Hey, thanks, Egon. You think I want to give that up? No way." It was true. The idea of not being a Ghostbuster made him feel cold inside. But maybe he could be something more. Maybe he owed it to his grandmother to find out.

"Peter, I have never trusted your father," Egon said without hesitation, winning a frown from Charlie. Egon continued before the elder Venkman could say anything. "It may be that his theory is true, and from the look of this information, it could well be true. But the idea of doing something with it is a very bad one. You may not perceive yourself a threat to the present government over there, but it is highly possible they would perceive you as one. The country might well be hungry for someone to follow, for a dream. No matter what the Romanovs were just before the Revolution, those days are long gone and no one alive now remembers them well. When people want a change and a dream, even the memory of a bad time, assuming it's different from the present time, might inspire people. You could be used, become a figurehead, or you could be a threat to those in power. Even if you stayed in New York, doing talk shows, you could be a threat."

"I'm not a threat to anyone--except maybe ghosts," Peter argued. "It's just--didn't you ever want to be....something special, Egon? Ray? Winston? Somebody everyone else would look up to?" Somebody everyone else would love. He couldn't say that part aloud. There were things you just didn't admit, even in front of your buddies. "Maybe you don't get it, Spengs. I mean you always had Spengler Labs there, waiting for you, if you ever wanted it. You had it good."

"I never wanted it, Peter," Egon reminded him. "Being forced to return there with Uncle Cyrus was not exactly being 'heir to the throne'. I was never more grateful than when you guys came to rescue me. And I was safe from the KGB."

"Yeah, Peter," Winston said suddenly. "You think I wanted to be the living incarnation of Shimabuku? No way. It's better just to be yourself."

But Peter saw a golden lure in front of him and nothing the guys could say would dampen that. "You guys don't get it," he burst out.

"No, Peter, you don't get it," Egon replied. "There's nothing for you here, nothing but a daydream. It's fascinating, of course, and I'd want all the information I could get, were I in your position. But I would not want a throne your grandmother evidently abandoned."

"She had to, Egon," Peter argued. "People wanted her dead. She had to stay alive. And she loved Grandpa."

"So she gave it up. I think she wanted you to know about your heritage, but she didn't want you to go after it."

"You can't know that." Peter thought of the sealed envelope upstairs. It hadn't been for him, it had been for him to pass on when he had children. Maybe Egon was right; maybe she had only wanted them to know the truth. But it wasn't fair, not to dangle a prize like this in front of his eyes and then yank it away again.

"Pop," he said, turning to his father. "You've got a scam, I know you have. What do you want to do? Because even if all this is true, I don't trust you. Who have you told about this?"

"No one," Charlie said with such sincerity that Peter couldn't help doubting him. "Well, the guy in Paris has an idea of it. I didn't tell him anything, but near as I could tell, his father was a buddy of Dimitri, your grandfather. They were in on a scam together. They were going to find a likely girl and coach her--sort of a My Fair Lady scam--then take her to Paris to pass her off as Anastasia."

"Yeah, right," Peter said skeptically. "Grandpa wasn't a con man. He didn't trust you a bit."

"No, he never did," Charlie admitted. "But that was because it takes one to know one. Only Dimitri struck it lucky. Not only did he find the right girl, the actual Anastasia, but he fell in love with her. My contact said he passed up the reward when he could have walked off with the bucks--rubles, francs, whatever. He took the girl instead. Your grandma Annie. The guy in Paris knew the whole story. He just didn't know where they'd gone, other than to America. He didn't know what I knew, because I played it close to the chest. I said I might know a lead or two, or could follow something up when I got back to the States. He fell for it. He didn't know I knew the other side of the story. He only thought I could get my hands on the music box and fake it from there. I didn't want to hang my boy out to dry."

"Yeah, right," Peter said skeptically. He could see his three friends watching him with worried faces. Were they afraid he meant to take off and go for the gold? Did they think he was in danger? Did they doubt the story? Peter would have doubted it, but there were too many things going for it, all those memories, every one of them valid under Charlie's interpretation. And it was so tempting. Peter thrived on recognition. More than any of the other Ghostbusters, he relished signing autographs, appearing in the newspapers, guesting on talk shows. Maybe he was born to be a public man. If he could get a handle on the situation, maybe he could really score. Even if it wasn't money--heck, even if there wasn't a secret Romanov stash for him to collect, he could sell the story to the networks, the scandal sheets, clean up that way. Big bucks would sure help the business. Egon always needed expensive equipment, the money spent on utility bills each month would probably feed a whole Third World country.

"I think there's money in it, Peter," Charlie said. "But this is your choice. If you want to go for the bucks, I've got a whole list of ideas. I planned them all the way back to the states. You can really clean up here."

"But what if it really isn't safe?" Ray worried. "Peter, you might be a target for an international hit man."

That seemed so unlikely Peter couldn't imagine it. "Come on, Ray, they've got better things to do than mess with me. Besides, this could be my big chance."

"Peter, consider seriously before you make any decision," Egon told him gravely.

"What's the matter, Spengs, you afraid I'm going to let it go to my head?" Peter asked. "You've always had the bucks. Maybe now it's my turn."

"Money has never been important in its own right," Egon replied. "At least not to me. Yes, I would value a freedom from financial worries, as would anyone. But don't do it for the money, Peter. I'm not sure there is any money. That woman who claimed to be Anastasia, Anna Anderson, I believe the name was, has surely not amassed a fortune."

"She didn't start out a Ghostbuster," Peter said. "We're already famous."

"Your name is a household word already," Egon insisted. "There's no need for more."

"Afraid I'm going to take off, or get too full of myself to do the job?" Peter snapped. Again, such a question wasn't fair to Egon, whose motives were never so petty, but he didn't take it back. The guys all stared at him as if he'd become something different, a stranger. He suddenly felt defensive. For two cents, he'd have stuffed the music box and everything back in storage. He didn't want to go this route, did he?

"That's not fair, Peter," Ray cried, and there was disappointment in his eyes as if Peter had let him down. Peter hated that, but a part of him couldn't help wondering if the guys were envious of the great opportunity.

"Stop it, all of you," said Janine abruptly. "You don't even know it's true, and here you are, fussing about it all. Peter, you've only got your dad's word for it. He conned you about that Hob character. He used you for his scams. I'm sorry, Mr. Venkman, but it's true. Think about it. Egon's trying to make you see that."

"She's right, homeboy," Winston concurred. He grabbed Peter's arm and shook him lightly. "Think about it. Don't let it go to your head. It might be true, but even if it is, what difference does it make? We're a team. We've got a good life here. You don't need that fortune and glory like Indiana Jones. You don't need more than what you've got. Sure the bucks would be good, but I think the cost would be way too high."

Winston was right, he was talking common sense, but Peter didn't want to hear it. He wanted to be Peter the Great, at least for a while, to revel in the glory of it all. He wanted beautiful women to fling themselves at him, talk show hosts to plead for him to appear on their shows, and to know once and for all that he was valuable and that he mattered.

"I have to find out, Winston," he replied. "I can't let it go, not now."

"I think you will regret it, Peter," Egon told him. "I don't think it's worth what you might lose."

Peter didn't like the sound of that. "Lose? Lose what, Spengs?" He got to his feet, as if he were at bay. "Just what am I going to lose?"

"Peter, you could get in trouble," Ray put in hastily.

"No, I want Egon to tell me," Peter said. He'd been so sure Egon would understand, would be excited for him, and Egon wasn't. Instead Egon was frowning. Okay, if he wanted it that way, Peter would insist on having it clear.

Egon paused a moment. "Peter, think about it. Even assuming this isn't a scam or a coincidence or that the music box could have come from somewhere else, you have to think of what you would be giving up. Yes, we have a mild fame now, but it isn't serious enough for us to lose our privacy. We can sit around here at night relaxing without invasions from reporters and curiosity seekers, as we did last night. Should this be true, such evenings would likely be a thing of the past. I don't want to limit you or force you to deny your birthright, but I do want you to weigh your choices reasonably. I don't believe that is too much to ask."

"Okay, so I'm supposed to give it all up so you can have your privacy?"

An expression Peter couldn't quite read came and went in Egon's eyes. "That is not what I said, and you know it very well. Peter, what is wrong with you? Are money and fame really more important to you than the life you have now?"

"This might be my big chance, Egon," Peter insisted.

"And it might destroy you," Egon returned.

"Hey!" Ray bounded to his feet. "Guys. Listen. Let's let all this ride for now. We don't have to make any major decisions tonight. It'd be stupid anyway. Think about it, Peter. That's all I ask. Make sure there's any truth to it before you throw away Ghostbusting."

Cold panic twisted Peter's stomach. Throw away Ghostbusting? That wasn't what he was doing, was it? He'd turned down the chance to become a rock star once because he didn't want to give up his life. Of course deep down inside where he'd never dream of admitting it to anyone, he knew he had no real music talent. That choice hadn't been a hard one. But this choice.... He saw the other three Ghostbusters and Janine staring at him as if they didn't know him any more, and he was scared. They were trying to hold him back--weren't they?

"Okay, but back off and give me space," he said. He started for the stairs.

"Where are you going, Son?" his father asked.

"Away," he replied succinctly, and trotted down the stairs.

He heard his father speaking as he went. "Don't hold him back, boys. My son can be anything. Give him his chance."

And Egon replied. "You mean, give you your chance at a potential fortune?"

Peter didn't stick around to listen to any more. They all had their agendas, and he had one, too. Only he didn't know quite what it was. Better get out of there before he said something really unforgivable, or Egon did. Winston and Ray wouldn't fight with him over it, they'd just be disappointed, and he didn't want to see that either. As for his pop, that was easy. Charlie genuinely believed he'd done his son a big favor but it was a favor he hoped he could capitalize on. If Peter shrugged the whole thing off, he'd have to work really hard to keep Charlie from making a buck or two off the scam--and potentially messing up Peter's life in the process.

But could Peter turn his back on it? Even putting aside the fortune and glory that he couldn't help craving, maybe he owed it to Grandma Annie to follow it up. Yeah, that was it. He owed it to her. All that other stuff, the fame, the money, well, sure he wanted that. He'd always craved adulation, and even if the psychologist part of him had a pretty good handle on his reasons for it, that didn't make the need go away. He'd be doing something for Grandma Annie, and something for himself.

And he could do that and keep on being a Ghostbuster, couldn't he?

What if he had to give up Ghostbusting?

Peter let himself out of the building and set off down Mott Street, looking for answers. He didn't find any, but he found a cab and flagged it down. He had no idea where he was going, so he said, "Rockefeller Center," to the cabby, and sat back, brooding in the seat, as the cab started on its journey north.

Charlie Venkman had departed soon after his son left to return to his hotel for the night, leaving behind--at Egon's insistence--the xeroxed blueprints and the letter from the Dowager Empress. Once he had gone, Egon fetched the music box and studied it thoughtfully, while the others watched him. He could feel Janine's eyes on him, and he said, "We're keeping you late, Janine."

"Yeah, it's okay." She hesitated. "Egon, are you all right?"

Janine could be very perceptive. "Of course I am," he replied. It might not be an honest answer. If Charlie's scam proved reality, if Peter chose to pursue it, Egon's life--all their lives--would change drastically. Even if no reasonable person believed the story, the tabloids would be all over it. Egon suspected from the xeroxed papers that the originals might well be sufficient proof to open an investigation. Naturally Peter would not expect to step into position as a Tsar. Even if such a possibility actually existed, Peter was no more qualified to run a country than Slimer was. He couldn't expect--or want--that part of it. Whether there was actually a Romanov fortune somewhere, the Tsar's mother had evidently survived him and may, as his only known surviving heir, have inherited the money. But if she had known of Anastasia's survival, she may have set aside money for her descendants.

If Peter chose to act upon this in any way, their lives would change. And Egon didn't want his life to change.

He knew that might be a selfish response, but he also knew how much Peter loved his life. He might think he'd enjoy the fortune and glory, but he wasn't cut out for a jet setting life. He loved playing at it occasionally, going to glamorous parties, but half the fun had always been the ability to brag about it afterwards, sprawled out on the couch in front of the TV in his grubby old sweats, his feet up, scarfing down popcorn. He had always loved the camaraderie of the four of them hanging out together. Right now, he wasn't thinking clearly. But if he chose to pursue the fame, he might be putting an end to the best part of his life. Egon didn't want that, for his own sake, of course, but also for Peter's.

"You don't look all right," Janine pointed out.

"I'm fine, Janine, really. We just have a lot to digest. Go on home. I appreciate the thought."

"Well, if you're sure...." She went reluctantly.

The evening was an uncomfortable one. The three Ghostbusters didn't talk about it much. There was nothing they could say. Clearly Winston thought Peter was making a big mistake. Ray couldn't seem to rid himself of the idea that Peter was about to make himself a target of the KGB. Egon doubted that. There was no possibility of Peter becoming Tsar of Russia. That was too ridiculous even to contemplate. The KGB would surely have better problems with which to occupy itself. No, Peter was not in danger from an assassin. He was in danger of a lifestyle change he'd regret once it was too late to change it back.

His grandmother had never made any claims. Egon thought that a telling point. She clearly wanted her heritage known in one form or another, but by all accounts she had been happy. She had chosen American citizenship, had married her husband, the former kitchen-boy, and loved him her whole life. Had she wanted Peter to go on to her former life, she would have started grooming him from the time he was born. She and her husband would have chosen a blue-blood husband for their daughter, not allowed her to marry a con man because she loved him. Dimitri, who had once tried to scam the world by producing a 'fake' Anastasia, would have had Charlie's measure in the first ten minutes, yet he had allowed her daughter to follow her heart. Surely that meant it was only the knowledge of his heritage Anastasia had wanted to share with her grandson.

Egon wondered what she had said in her letter, the one Peter had never opened, the one he was supposed to open only if he had children. Egon suddenly thought he knew. Grandma Annie hadn't wanted Peter to be the Tsar. She had simply wanted the knowledge to pass along. If Peter died without children, the knowledge would die with him. If he had children of his own, he would have the opportunity of passing the information along. Of course Spengler might be wrong. The letter might contain detailed instructions about how to behave like a Tsar, although Egon doubted it.

"What are we going to do?" Ray asked worriedly, midway through the evening. Peter had not yet returned.

"If he chooses to go public, you mean?" Winston asked. They were sitting in front of the television, although none of them had been watching it. "Man, you'd think Peter would be the last of us to want to give up Ghostbusting."

Ray's eyes were wide with alarm. "Gosh, it wouldn't be the same without Peter here, would it?"

Nothing would be the same. Egon bit his bottom lip. "No, everything would change."

"But don't you get it," Winston persisted. "Peter doesn't want to give up Ghostbusting. He loves it. He only thinks he wants this Tsar thing. All his life, his dad's made him think the big bucks, the fame, all that stuff is important. Peter knows better inside, but he's always gone through life acting like that matters. He might even think he believes it. If we push him, he's going to have to defend that kind of attitude."

"But if we act like it's all okay, he might think we don't want him any more," Ray blurted out. "And we do."

"Of course we do," Egon replied. "But we can't make Peter's decision for him. He has to make it himself. He'd resent it afterwards, no matter what he chose."

"But if we just stand back and don't do anything and let him dig himself in deeper--" Ray began.

"We can't do that either," Egon replied. "I think I will need to talk to Peter. He thinks I'm holding him back deliberately. I'm not sure why, but he does. Does he resent the fact that I came from a well-to-do background? He's never before indicated such a thing."

"He doesn't resent it, m'man," Winston replied. "Maybe sometimes he's just a little envious, though. I mean, he really had a rough childhood, not all the time, but a lot more than the rest of us realize. Sure he had his mom, and she was great, that one time I got to meet her. But imagine growing up with Charlie for a dad."

"I like Mr. Venkman," Ray put in. Clearly there were times when he envied Peter and Winston because their fathers were living. "But I bet it was rough for Peter. Look how he used to be about Christmas. Egon! Do you think maybe he wants this because he can look back on all the rotten stuff his father pulled on him and think, 'never mind, I'm the Tsar of Imperial Russia, and none of that matters any more'?"

"A distinct possibility, Raymond. Peter needs to feel valued and important, perhaps more than the rest of us. It's one of the reasons he thrives on our mild fame. He views it as a validation of his worth."

"But we need him," cried Ray. "He has to know that."

"I'm sure he does, most of the time," Egon replied. "But how often do we tell each other we're appreciated? People don't, as a general rule, nor do friends speak of their love for each other. Most of us find such displays of emotion rather embarrassing."

"You called that right, homeboy," Winston replied. "So Pete walks in and we tell him we love him? He's gonna think we're putting him on or that we've been drinking."

"No, we can't do that," Egon replied. "At least not in so many words. We must play it by ear. And I think he would do better one on one."

"Yeah, big fella, you can always get to him when he's on his high horse," Winston replied. "When something's really bugging him, he only listens to me and Ray after you've worn him down. I think you should go for it."

"Gosh, yeah, Egon," Ray agreed. "I mean, I don't want to hold Peter back or deny him his heritage or anything like that, but I sure don't want him to get in trouble or mess up his life because he thinks he wants something he really doesn't."

"In the end, just knowing inside will satisfy Peter," Egon replied. "I suspect he'd forget about it most of the time."

"Or use it as a line when he meets a new woman," Winston put in. Imitating Peter's voice, he said, "Hey, babe. Did you know I'm really the Tsar of Imperial Russia? Wanna play with my scepter?"

Ray and Egon cracked up. "Yes, I can hear him saying that," Egon replied, wiping away tears of mirth. "In the long run, that kind of thing would be the most enjoyable for Peter. But he has to come to that realization himself. Perhaps he will have done so before he comes back."

And perhaps not. When Peter did not immediately return, Egon sent the other two up to bed--or at least up to the third floor. He doubted they would sleep before Peter returned. Bringing down the most recent copy of Who's Who and What's That he sat in the wing chair, perusing it absently, while he waited for Peter.

Venkman returned a little after eleven. He came up the stairs softly as if he hoped he could creep into bed without disturbing anyone, jerking to an abrupt stop with ludicrous dismay when he saw Egon watching him over the top of his book.

"I didn't think anybody would still be up."

"You knew I would, Peter," Egon told him.

The psychologist gave a little, throwaway shrug. "Yeah, guess I did, Spengs. Waiting up to read me the riot act, huh?"

"Not exactly. Why? Do you feel you deserve it?"

"I've gotta hand it to you, Egon, you just love pushing my buttons, don't you?" While he sounded wry and mildly frustrated, he didn't sound as tense as he had before he had left.

"You make it easy, Peter," Egon replied. In actual fact, there were occasions when Peter made it nearly impossible. Taken on the surface, Peter did not appear an enigmatic man, but Egon had stopped making that mistake about him back in college. Peter Venkman was one of the most complex men he knew, as well as one who was prone to making life as hard for himself as he possibly could. The friendship took a lot of work, but Egon never grudged a second of it; the rewards had been well worth every bit of effort he had put into it.

"Yeah," Peter said wryly. "Especially when I make an idiot of myself."

"Especially then," Egon agreed with a faint smile. "Peter, tell me honestly. Why did the idea appeal to you so much?"

"Did?" Peter quirked an eyebrow at him. "God, you're good."

"I do try. Answer the question."

Peter hesitated. "Come on, big guy, fame and money? You know how much I get off on stuff like that."

"Do I? I know how much you claim to. Peter, you're a psychologist. You're a very good one. Your desire for fame and money have always been symptoms, rather than actual reasons, and you know it."

Peter heaved a great sigh. "A guy's gotta believe he's worth something, Egon," he said, and Egon knew that answer was all the way from the soul. Peter had been engaged in a lot of heavy-duty thought that evening.

"How can you not believe it, Peter?" Egon asked involuntarily.

"How can I not? Come on, Egon, you know the answer to that," Peter said. He flopped down on the couch, out of Egon's direct line of sight, forcing him to abandon the wing chair and come to sit next to Peter.

"If you mean your father taught you all your life that you would come in second to his scams and deals, yes, I do know that. But you have a healthy ego, Peter. You've come to terms with that. You learned to accept Christmas. You've made a name for yourself and in many ways become a household word."

Peter grinned, but it was a sad little grin. "Yeah, Spengs, and that means a lot, believe me. I know I've come a long way. But some things you never quite get over. I've always got to have the proof I'm somebody special. I know it's a character flaw and I understand it--I'd have to be stupid and a failure at my profession not to understand it--but that never quite makes it go away."

Egon was prompted by a fierce urge to put his arms around Peter and hug him for all he was worth, but such gestures weren't automatic to him, and Peter wasn't ready. His other urges, involving doing violent and possibly illegal things to Peter's father, were quickly squelched. He said instead, "I feel a rather fierce need to beat your father to a pulp."

Peter's eyes widened and for the first time he looked directly at Egon. The hollow expression in his eyes eased a bit and warmth trickled in to replace some of the coldness there. "Thanks, Egon," he said, understanding the spirit of the words without effort. "But it isn't worth it. The thing is, most of the time he honestly means well. I know that. And most of the time I'm fine with it. I'm not even upset with him now. I think I'm more upset with me."

"Why?" Egon asked, although he was sure he knew.

"God, I did it, Egon. I fell for one of his scams. And I know better."

"It most likely isn't a scam, Peter," Egon replied. "I've studied the material this evening and compared the drawings to the music box. I'm no expert, of course, but I would say there is a good chance that, for once, your father's scam is not a scam but actual truth."

"He'd act just the same if it was," Peter said with a laugh that caught in his throat.

"Yes, Peter. I know that. And I'm very sorry." He put his hand on Peter's shoulder. The tensed muscles relaxed fractionally under his touch.

"The thing is," Peter said, his eyes holding Egon's, "I realized I didn't need all that. The fortune and glory, like Winston said. That was an old conditioned response, and I'm too smart to fall for it. You think I'd rather have fortune and glory than you and Ray and Winston? Than my life here? God, Egon, I love my life. The last thing I'd ever do is mess it up. I just couldn't help be tempted for a little while, that's all."

"Anyone would have been tempted, Peter. Any one of us. And you know, don't you, that if you honestly believed pursuing this was the right thing to do, we would support you?"

"I know. Thanks," Peter said, his smile expanding slightly. It was still a pretty halfhearted one, but he was trying. "The key point is 'right thing'. It isn't. And here I am, the only one who needs to buy a bigger hat size. I got all excited. I was thinking, 'now I'm really gonna be somebody'. And then, when I was at Rockefeller Center looking up that the Prometheus statue, I suddenly knew, I'm somebody now. And I like what I've got. Give up Ghostbusting? Not on a bet." This time the smile lit his face. "As soon as that hit me, I knew I could come home, Spengs. I knew this is where I belong."

"And where you are wanted," Egon replied firmly. "Wanted and needed."

Peter's eyes suddenly grew too bright. "Thanks, Egon. I really needed to hear that," he said. All of a sudden he lunged at Egon and hugged him around the neck. "I was kind of afraid I'd pushed you guys too far," he said into Egon's ear. "But then I realized. You might get on my case, but you wouldn't give up on me, because you guys are my friends. My family. And there isn't anything out there that could ever mean more to me than that." He tightened the hug for a moment, then he let go. There was no longer anything halfhearted about the smile on his face.

"Then let's go tell the others you're home," Egon urged and led the way to the steps.

"You want to what?" Charlie Venkman stared at his son with horrified eyes. "But, Peter, it's true. You really are the last of the Romanovs. This is not a scam. It's real. My greatest score."

"Dad." Peter rested his hands on his father's shoulders, conscious of the other three Ghostbusters at his back, feeling their support. "I know it's true. I believe it. But it doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" Charlie's eyebrows shot up. "Of course it matters. There's fame and fortune just waiting for us."

"I'm gonna be a big disappointment to you, Pop," Peter said. "Because for once, that just doesn't matter. I've got all the fame I need as a Ghostbuster. That's what I am. Not a Tsar, not the last of the Romanovs. I'm Peter Venkman, and I'm a Ghostbuster. I don't want to change that."

"But, son...."

"No, Dad, that's the way it has to be. You start making claims, I'll deny every one. It might be a nine days' wonder but it will blow over. And that's my last word."

"But I've worked on this, Son. You can't deny your heritage."

"I don't want to deny my heritage," Peter said. "It won't stop being true even if it's a secret. But my life and my friends are more important than my heritage. What I'm doing now, I'm doing because I'm Peter Venkman, because I'm me, what I've made of myself. The other thing--it doesn't have anything to do with me."

"I don't understand, son."

Peter glanced over his shoulder at his friends. They all beamed at him approvingly. "That's okay, Dad," Peter said. "I do." He frowned. "Now listen, Pop. I don't want you trying to make a buck on this. You hear me? You can't get me to confirm it, so forget it. I don't want you trying to sell movie rights."

Uh-oh, that was a mistake. He could see his father's eyes light up. "No way, Pop. No movie rights," he insisted. "If I see anything, ever, about me being the last of the Romanovs, I'm gonna come after you, and the whole world will be too hot to hold you. I mean it."

Charlie spread his hands pacifically. "Son, you have my word, since it means so much to you. But I still think you're making a terrible mistake."

"No," Peter said, for once completely comfortable with himself, his life, his worth. "I've finally got it right."

"My dearest Peter," the letter read. He had decided to open it anyway. He'd seal it up again afterwards and save it for his kids if he ever had any. But with his father's dubious promise hanging over him, Peter wanted ammunition, and perhaps a chance to validate himself in his grandmother's eyes. He'd gathered his friends around him and chose to read the letter aloud, sharing the information with all of them. They deserved to hear it.

"'I know this will be hard for you to believe, but once, long ago, I was a different person and lived a different life. It was oh, so long ago that now I am old, I can scarce remember it. My father was Nicholas II, Tsar of all Russia, and I was his youngest daughter Anastasia. Before you think I am demented, hear me out. I escaped the massacre of my family through the intervention of the palace kitchen boy. For years, I did not know who I was, until I met him again. He did not recognize me, either, but he thought I resembled the lost Anastasia. My grandmother in Paris had offered a reward if I could be brought to her. He meant to pass me off as the princess and collect that money. I wanted only to get to Paris, where I believed I had family. We fell in love. And he discovered I was really Anastasia. He brought me to my grandmother but declined the reward. I knew I loved him, and when Grandmother told me he had not taken the money, I knew he loved me. Instead of returning to the life I was born to, I went to Dimitri, and I have never, not for one instant, regretted it. What a life we have had! I could never have had it, had I been the Princess Anastasia to the world.

"'Peter, my music box was commissioned by my grandmother as a special present for me. It is possible there may be records of it to be found, and they would serve as proof, should you ever wish to claim your birthright for yourself or for your children.

"'But before you do, think well, my dear Peter. A glittering dream is not reality. I found more joy with my stubborn, roguish Dimitri than I could ever have found in a palace. If you have a happy life, please, Peter, do not throw it over for this. I fear your father will instill a love of larceny in you, a love of money for its own sake. Your mother is a fine woman, and like me, she chose to love a rogue. Your father can be charming, but he lacks my Dimitri's strength of character. You, however, have much of your grandfather in you. He was not royalty but of good peasant stock. Yet he is a man of great honor. You could do no better than to model yourself upon him. If you choose to proclaim your identity, it may be possible, even now, for handwriting analysts to determine this letter was written by the lost Anastasia. Or you may use the music box. But my own grandmother understood my need to be me, Anya, and to find happiness and she freed me from the ties royalty would have imposed upon me. I never lost touch with her, Peter. But she did not force me into a life I no longer wanted.

"'Please, Peter, consider this with your heart. And choose the right thing.

"'Your loving Grandma Annie.'"

Peter put the letter down and looked up at the guys. "I guess I better seal this up again," he said. "Maybe I shouldn't have read it, but I'm sure glad I did."

"I'm glad, too, Peter," Ray said. "Wow, your Grandma Annie sounds like she was really great. And your Grandpa Dimitri, too."

"They were, Ray. Just wish I could've known them longer." He slid the letter into the envelope again, then he picked up the music box, keying it open with his grandmother's medallion. For a few moments he stood letting the music box play, the dimly remembered words of the old lullaby echoing in his head. 'On the wind, cross the sea, hear this song and remember.' "I'll remember, Grandma Annie," he said under his breath before he gently closed the lid of the music box and returned it to its storage container. "Guess I'd better put these things up in storage again," he said. "I won't be needing them, after all."

"I think you did the right thing, Peter," Egon told him.

"Yeah," Ray agreed. "It's really cool, though. I'm glad you found out."

"Yeah, homeboy," Winston agreed. "But you gotta promise us, no airs and graces now. You're still a Ghostbuster, remember, Pete?"

Peter nodded, then grinned wickedly. "Oh yeah, I promise," he said. "But none of this 'Pete' stuff. You guys can call me--Peter the Great."

The other three lunged for him, grabbed him up in unison, and carried him upstairs, where they threw him in the shower fully clad and turned the water on full blast.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I wanted to see Anastasia because the early pictures of Dimitri reminded me of Peter Venkman. When I saw the movie, I realized he was a little more like Peter in the still pictures than he was in animation, but there was still an occasional resemblance. This story percolated in the back regions of my brain but it took Mary Orwig to give me that shove to bring it to the surface with a comment in an e-mail message. Thanks, Mary.

Having done some earlier research on the subject of Nicholas II and the end of the Romanov dynasty, I realize the movie has some glaring historical errors. But this crossover is with the movie, not with cold, hard history. If a giant marshmallow man can walk through New York, then I can go with a story that plays fast and loose with history.

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