Golden Paradise

Chapter Seventeen

He woke her by lying down beside her on his large bed and pulling her into his arms, where he held her for long minutes, her body warm from sleep. At leisurely intervals he murmured, "I love you," as though the phrase were verbal confirmation of his happiness.

Lisaveta responded with kisses and her own whispered love words, and miles of Russia passed by the darkened bedroom window as they savored their quiet joy. The birch-paneled room was lighted by a single bedside fairy lamp, its pale glow illuminating a limited golden circle hardly reaching the limits of the bed. The dresser, the photos of Stefan's parents on the wall, the black leather campaign chair that had been his father's, were all in shadow. Stefan was still dressed with the exception of his uniform tunic, discarded in the parlor beside his rolls of maps. His long lean body stretched beyond the brilliance of the crystal lamp, the turquoise silk coverlet crushed beneath his boots, his bare torso and arms and slender hands swarthy against Lisaveta's paler flesh and primrose gown. She was tucked close to him, like a small child still half-asleep, her feet covered by the folds of her nightgown. Nestled in the strong curve of his arm, she was thinking she would tell her grandchildren someday how the entire world seemed to be laid at her feet that night in the rushing train traveling south across Russia.

"I've always been lucky," Stefan softly said, touching the delicate sweep of her jaw, trying to put his feelings into words.

"I believe in Gypsy fate and jinns," Lisaveta breathed, her quiet voice imbued with a solemn intensity, understanding what Stefan meant. "I think I always knew you'd appear someday."

His gaze altered minutely and a teasing infused his words. "It took me longer to realize."

"You loved me," she finished with a surety he admired.

"Yes," he agreed. "Although," he went on, irony prominent in his tone, "my timing could have been better."

"We've time now," she said, and reached up to kiss him.

"Three days," he murmured against the softness of her mouth.

"For our honeymoon…"

And for mapping the last details of the attack, he thought. "For our honeymoon," he affirmed, and kissed her very gently.

He undressed her slowly then, untying ribbon bows and undoing small pearl buttons with a delicate slowness. He was in no hurry. In fact, he felt a rare and uncommon drama as if his wedding night should be approached with a kind of leisured sensitivity so it wouldn't end too soon.

Lisaveta sat tranquilly in his lap, absorbing the tactile pleasure of Stefan's touch, the gentleness of his fingers, the brushing sensation of her gown slipping from her body, the strength of Stefan's legs beneath her, the warmth emanating from his powerful frame. Extraordinary feelings of possession overcame her. He was her husband, the word and the sentiment that went with it ones of potent pleasure and startlingly aphrodisiac. It surprised her she would feel that way, that having married him she would want him more, she could love him more, she could feel the heat of his body, his touch, even the sound of his voice, with increased intensity.

But she did, and desiring him beyond the serene lethargy of Stefan's motivations, she began undressing him.

He smiled, a knowing understanding smile because he was familiar with her impatience, could recognize when her breathing altered, could feel the heat of her fingers on his skin. She unbuckled his belt with mild speed and slid it from its loops. The silver buttons on his breeches came loose next, and he stood then to pull off his boots and strip off the white leather breeches.

"I like the train," she said, kneeling nude and graceful on the bed, her hand on his hip, her smile heated from within. "Don't you?"

It was perfection: the isolation, the small and intimate proportions of the room; the starlit night sky visible through the windows; the racing speed, which seemed to place them somehow outside the boundaries of the world.

"We're alone." He said the words so they were special beyond their endearment, as though they meant, as well, that they were forever together.

She threw her arms around him and hugged him close, because she knew their time was precious and their immediate "forever" was only a few days long. His skin felt sleek beneath her hands and cheek, his solid strength her anchor and security, his heart beat steady and strong under her ear. She felt for a moment too fortunate and happy, as if there were an expendable limit to the felicity of her feelings and she were living on borrowed time. "Don't go," she whispered.

He didn't reply and she felt guilty for saying the words, for asking him to do what he couldn't. He stroked her back in a slow soothing rhythm, his palms warm, the pressure of his hands gentle, his heartbeat unaltered. "I won't," he finally said.

She looked up quickly.

"We have today and tomorrow." He was telling her they wouldn't think of menacing prospects now. Tonight she could ask and he would promise that their love and their future would be inviolable for… two days.

It was more than some people ever had. It was more than she'd thought possible even a week ago. She smiled up at him, her golden eyes full of love. "I'm glad you're not going."

"So am I," he said, the fiction theirs, this wedding night a miracle achieved against unprosperous odds, their love a triumph of two spirits validating the power of love.

He needed reminding when the time came later that she wasn't fragile as glass, that she was healthy and young and much too aroused to wish to be treated with such restrained gentleness…although "tame courtesy" were the actual words she used.

"The baby," he said, reminded by Nikki at the station and by his own thoughts, the prospect of fatherhood more and more prominent with his future so insecure. He could no longer disregard or waive the unalterable change in his thinking, no more than he could overlook Lisaveta's pregnancy, and his unease with the precise nuance of making love was natural. He had, to date, not acquired any familiarity with enceinte women.

"I'm fine," Lisaveta softly assured him.

"You're sure."

"I'll be finer soon," she replied in a seductive teasing whisper, "if you remember everything I've taught you in the past."

He laughed. "My apologies, darling, for being too well behaved."

"I think," his newly married wife said, her eyebrows raised in mild reproof, "we've talked enough."

He was braced above her on his elbows, her legs wrapped around his, the heat from her eyes almost tactile, his own glance only fractionally cooler. "That almost sounds like an order," he murmured, his mouth curved in a smile.

"Did I word that improperly?" Lisaveta murmured back. "I meant it to be…" She paused, lifting her hips slightly and rotated them in exquisite slow motion so he felt it in the soles of his feet and the tips of his toes, in his fingers, down his spine and with sensational intoxication in his heated brain. "An unequivocal order," she finished.

He was smiling when he lowered his head to kiss her, and he made certain no one could fault him for excessive deference, although excessiveness in other areas found unqualified favor.

The bed was a shambles soon and the room too hot in short order. Stefan opened the window because the small porcelain stove near the door wouldn't cool down for hours.

It was raining out, a fine misting rain that dampened his hair and made it curl when he stayed in the windswept air for long moments to cool himself. And when he fell back on the bed and pulled Lisaveta in his arms he smelled of pine forests and freshness.

He seemed a young boy suddenly, removed from the pomp of his princely travel and retinue, and she wished with the illogical fantasy of lovers that she'd known him when he was young.

"I love you so much my heart aches," she whispered as he kissed her cheek and nose and chin, small droplets of water falling from his hair.

"No, no, no," he resolutely objected, his voice rich with happiness. "Love me so much your heart spills over with joy…love me, sweetling, with laughter and pleasure…" He cupped her face between his warm palms, his smile infectious, boyish. "Love me with jubilation and rejoicing because that's how I love you and," he added very, very softly, "you're having my baby." He said the last word with a hushed reverence, feeling at that moment so deep in love the boundaries of definition would have to be pushed beyond the star line.

His eyes as she gazed up at him were dark passion, his words irresistible, and her answering smile was artless and unreservedly loving. "I'm having your baby." Her quiet declaration had the power to erase long years of sadness and bring full circle a kind of happiness he'd forgotten existed. Her small hands covered his where they lay on her cheeks and she said, as a young schoolgirl might recite a statement of fact, "I love you, Stefan Bariatinsky." And then she grinned like that same young schoolgirl might. "Now what are you going to do about it?"

He laughed, and then his dark glance turned seductive. "I suppose," he murmured, his deep voice husky with suggestion, "I'll have to make you happy."

And he did. Offering her everything, his heart, his soul, his exhilaration, his unconditional love.

She welcomed him on that rain-cooled night with the unrestrained spirit he adored. They made love with extravagant generosity, indulgent to each other first before they were self-indulgent, so in love each melting kiss seemed sweetly new, each peaking splendor and rushing climax rare and precious.

As morning came, they fell asleep in each other's arms, wishing in those illusory, unsubstantial moments before sleep falls that they weren't on a princely railcar speeding south to a killing field.

They slept late into the morning and woke leisurely when the sun was already high in the sky.

Almost half the day gone, Stefan unconsciously thought, as though some internal clock were ticking off the restricted time. And he felt for a short sinking moment as if these few hours were all he was going to be allowed. Determinedly shaking away his brief melancholy, he leaned over and kissed Lisaveta good-morning, and when her eyes slowly opened, he said with a smile and the impatience of a child, or perhaps a prince, "We have to eat."

Familiar with his appetite, Lisaveta said in sleepy, sardonic query, "How did you last so long?"

"Inherent politeness," he teased.

"And you've only been awake thirty seconds."

"That, too." His grin was engaging, although with the dark stubble shading his jaw he had the look of a brigand.

"And I'd better shave," he added, as though he could read her thoughts, his fingers trailing over the contour of his face, "as soon as we eat."

Lisaveta smiled. "You have no patience."

"Should I have?" He asked the question with idle casual-ness as he reached for the bellpull.

Thinking for a moment of Stefan's particular style of living, Lisaveta said, still smiling, "Perhaps it's too late for you."

"Would you like breakfast or lunch, darling, this time of day?" he inquired, knowing it was years too late for him to learn patience.

Rolling over on her back and stretching, Lisaveta teasingly asked, "Are all you Orbelianis the same?"

"No, of course not," Stefan replied, ignoring the point of her question. "Some are shorter-the women, you understand-and some are older or younger-"

She smacked him with the flat of her hand on his stomach and his fingers closed around her wrist before she could strike him again. "Save that energy for later, darling," he said very low, his dark eyes amused. "You're going to need it."

Breakfast was sumptuous, served in bed, and as promised, their renewed energy was put to good use. The afternoon sped by, as did the evening, in amorous pursuits, their conversation lighthearted and without substance or topicality.

Neither spoke of the future or the war, although the assault on Kars loomed specterlike in both their thoughts, the reality only days away. The terrifying possibility Stefan might die was too awful for Lisaveta to allow herself to think about, but her sleep that night was restless. Stefan lay awake after she finally dozed off, holding her in his arms, his mind on the complexity of the attack. Not unusual, he reminded himself; he always detailed the maneuvers of his troops on an internal battlefield, considering alternative options in endless possibilities. But this time he experienced an unfamiliar twinge of anxiety, no more than an infrequent dragging beat of disquietude, but that break in his concentration kept him awake because it was new.

They reached Vladikavkaz a day and a half later at four in the morning, ten hours eliminated from the normal run, the engine firebox red-hot and glowing like a live coal. Even while the train was still rolling to a stop, a harsh banging erupted on the railcar door. Stefan, who had been dressed since midnight, swiftly opened the door, cast one glance over the troop of horsemen prancing restlessly beyond the station platform and knew he faced serious problems.

"Hussein Pasha is only three days from Kars!" the young lieutenant cried. His salute was perfunctory, and forgetting in his apprehension that he was addressing a corps commander, he added, "You must come immediately!"

Stefan almost smiled at the lieutenant's youthful agitation, and had his announcement been less ominous, he might have. How the hell had Hussein Pasha done it? was his next incredulous thought. The land he'd crossed was barren of water or fodder for his horses. A march at that speed and under those conditions must have been lethal to half the Turkish men and mounts. Stefan, as familiar with that country as he was with his own palace grounds, knew just how great that suffering would have been. But regardless of the possible state of Hussein Pasha's army, Stefan's immediate concern was beating him to Kars.

"Give me a minute," he said to the lieutenant, "and bring up my horse."

Standing outside the bedroom door a moment later, he debated whether to wake Lisaveta; she'd slept poorly and had only fallen into a peaceful slumber near morning. He felt guilty waking her, but he found he couldn't leave without holding her one last time, without, he thought, offering what might be a final goodbye to her and his child.

Her cheek was rosy warm to his lips and she only stirred at his caress, but when he sat on the bed, her eyes slowly opened and she smiled before she remembered.

"I have to go," he said softly. "Hussein Pasha is three days from Kars."

"Oh, dear," she whispered, her quiet exclamation full of fear, her gaze quickly taking in his uniform and readiness.

"I've only a minute… they're bringing up my mount. Masha will take care of you. An escort will see you to Tiflis. I love you, dushka, with all my heart…and the child, too," he finished in a husky whisper.

She tried to steady her voice before she spoke, knowing he had to leave, knowing the Empire relied on his cavalry corps to help win Kars, knowing her wishes were incidental to the tide of events sweeping over them. "Go with God, Stepka," she said, reaching for him, her voice trembling, her tears spilling over.

He crushed her in his arms, his own eyes wet with unshed tears. "You're my life, dushka," he whispered into the softness of her hair. "Take care of our child-" he steadied his voice with effort "-and don't ever forget what we had together…"

His words frightened her, as if he wouldn't be with her to raise their child, as if he wouldn't be coming back to her. "Be careful," she cried, clinging to him, wanting to hold him forever, wanting to know he was safe in her arms.

"I never take chances," he lied. And when she looked up at his ambiguous phrasing, tears streaming down her face, he added, "I promise, darling, to be careful." His kiss was gentle, honey sweet.

Her mouth tasted of tears and he wished for a moment life weren't so fragile. But the outcome of his race south hung in the balance and with it, perhaps, the future of Kars…and his own future. As a soldier he'd always accepted the uncertainty of life; as a risk taker, he understood it better than most. But as a husband now and a father-to-be, suddenly he felt exposed and unguarded, the delicate balance between victory and death a precarious distinction he'd never considered before. He'd never questioned the duration of his golden halo of protection.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"I'll be right there," he said. "I have to go," he added in a quiet voice, his simple words intense with feeling. Gently unclasping Lisaveta's arms, he pulled away, gazed at her for a moment more and without speaking stood. The room smelled of her fragrance, and while his men waited he found himself regarding her a few seconds more, as if he were memorizing her image against an uncertain future.

Lisaveta's golden eyes were still soft with sleep, her cheeks flushed a delicate rose, and her lips where he'd just kissed her were still slightly parted, lush like perfect ripe fruit. She was nude beneath the covers, her smooth shoulders and arms and the rise of one breast framed by the blue silk coverlet. She was perfect beauty, she was his adored wife, the mother of his unborn child, and he had to leave her.

How hard it was this time to return to the campaigns that had been until then his entire life. How hard it was to leave her. He shut his eyes briefly and drew in a slow fortifying breath. "I love you," he said in almost a whisper, and then turning, he strode from the room.

Moments later he was mounted, his revolver belted at his waist, his Kurdish knives tucked into the wide leather belt, handy to his reach. He'd checked the ammunition in his rifle in an automatic reflexive action before slinging it across his back. After speaking a few quiet words to Cleo, he took the black burkah offered him and threw it over his shoulders against the predawn chill. Wheeling his horse, he glanced at his mounted escort arrayed in faultless formation behind him.

"Ready, Excellency," the lieutenant replied to Stefan's silent inquiry.

He took one last look back at the lighted window in his railway car, his features expressionless, then bending forward slightly, whispered to Cleo. Her ears twitched as if in answer and she took two prancing steps. The road to Tiflis was familiar to her, and as Stefan straightened in his saddle, she plunged forward.

Lisaveta cried while Stefan's troop galloped down the tree-shaded boulevards of Vladikavkaz and clattered over the Terek bridge; she cried as they rode across the valley plain and began climbing toward the Tomar pass. She cried great gulping sobs as the horses dug in to ascend the sharp incline, their hooves throwing up the rough black gravel of the area. With Stefan riding off to war she might never see him again. He could be dead in a few days, and… if they had a child… Fresh tears of fear and self-pity poured down her cheeks.

But as the sun came up over Guz Damur, falling alike on Stefan's mounted company and his railcar at Vladikavkaz, Lisaveta shakily wiped her tears away, trying at the same time to steady her breathing. Sitting up, she pushed the covers aside. She realized she could cry a thousand years if she wished but it wouldn't bring Stefan back or make him safe. Militza was waiting for her in Tiflis; Stefan wanted her to continue south to his home and stay there with his aunt until the war was over. Although she would have preferred a site closer to Kars, when she'd tried to persuade him the previous night he'd been adamantly opposed. The front could dramatically change, he'd said. Cavalry flanking movements often swung deep and wide, and he didn't want her in jeopardy of capture by the Turks or Bazhis. Aleksandropol was too close to the border, offering little security should the Russians be pushed back. And after her capture last summer, her cavalier attitude about the ease with which one could travel through a war zone had been forever altered. Stefan was right of course, Tiflis was safer, but knowing that didn't make her any less miserable.

First she had to dress. Walking over to the built-in closets opposite the bed, Lisaveta selected a beige serge traveling gown trimmed in black silk braid, one of her numerous trousseau garments. She washed next in the small but luxuriously appointed bathroom adjoining Stefan's bedroom and found herself somewhat cheered by the hand-painted tiles decorating the walls. The glazed tile was a misty blue-green, reminding one of the color of the sea, and at eye level was adorned with a decorative border of frolicking sea creatures. Stefan had names for most of them and she smiled, remembering his facetious introductions of sea life. She felt better when she smiled, and as she dressed her melancholy lifted from the gloominess she'd wallowed in an hour ago. Stefan had always led a charmed life; he was a competent soldier, a brilliant soldier. She'd dwell instead on the positive. So saying, she took one last look in the mirror and opened the door into the small corridor.

When she walked into the parlor a dozen steps later, three officers and Stefan's valet, Ellico, were standing at attention.

She instantly received four very correct bows as though she were a person of consequence, a natural result, she realized, of being married to the Tsar's favorite commander, a sudden transformation from her unpretentious past. How long had they been standing there at attention? she wondered with a nervous start. What if she'd decided to wander in in her chemise-or less. Their entire journey had been devoid of servants save for the times food was left on trays, and she hadn't realized the absence of servants was on Stefan's orders. They were present, of course, for Stefan traveled en prince as a matter of course; they had simply been out of sight.

"Is Her Excellency ready to travel?" a young subaltern inquired with deference, his white uniform immaculate, his expression studiously reserved.

"Yes, thank you. Do I need a wrap?"

"His Excellency has seen to everything, Your Excellency." he replied, homage and awe in his tone.

Stefan wasn't a mere mortal to this young officer and she, by association, took on a similar distinction. Would she ever learn to be comfortable with such formality and pomp? She was used to building her own camp fire and cooking if necessary when she and Papa traveled with a minimum of guides to some of the more remote areas of the Trans-Caucasus. She certainly was familiar with seeing to her own comfort and care.

"Please call me Lisaveta," she said, in an effort to reduce the rigid deportment, her smile winning.

Her statement apparently stunned the three young officers who'd been entrusted by Stefan with "the most precious woman in the world," to quote their superior, and none of them was sure how to respond to such an irregular suggestion.

"I would prefer it," Lisaveta quietly said, as the surprised silence lengthened.

"Yes, Your Excellency…er…madame…that is…Lisaveta." The poor man struggled with his sense of protocol and Lisaveta's wishes.

"Stefan would wish me to be comfortable," Lisaveta added, and with her words, the supreme stamp of approval was assured.

All three officers smiled. Stefan's valet smiled.

"As you wish," their spokesman said, and all four bowed in precision.

Stefan's valet, dressed in blue silk robe and red turban of his Kurdish clan, stepped forward, a small wrapped parcel in his hand. "From His Excellency, Your Excellency," he said, his sense of propriety undiminished. His family had been personal servants to endless generations of Orbelianis and familiarity would be unthinkable, but his smile was genuine and his relayed message touching in its sensitivity. "His Excellency, the Prince, wishes you a safe and happy journey, Your Excellency." The package he placed in her hand was wrapped in blue velvet and tied with gold twine, and Lisaveta fought back her tears at Stefan's thoughtfulness even in the haste of his departure.

"Thank you," she said softly. Then, determined not to embarrass the man they all revered, she added in a voice steadied by sheer force of will, "I'm ready whenever you are."

Stefan's carriage was luxurious, a larger version of the conveyance she'd originally taken from Tiflis months ago. Extra springs had been installed against the primitive quality of the military road, the seats were padded in down and upholstered in silk velvet. Even the walls and floors were covered in thick carpeting to soften the rough jarring of the journey.

When she was alone and the carriage under way, Lisaveta opened Stefan's present. Inside a gold and enamel box, precious in itself, was a small gold locket displaying three oval compartments when opened. A hand-colored photo portrait of Stefan was framed in one compartment and Lisaveta was surprised to see her own image in another. She was wearing her wedding veil in the portrait and she marveled at the speed necessary to develop and tint her picture. And then she recalled Stefan's remark about "his" photographer, whom he'd brought along. She'd assumed the man was needed for the campaign in some way. He was essential instead for this gift.

The third oval was without a picture but its existence was explained in Stefan's familiar hand. "For Baby," he'd written on parchment cut to fit the frame, and a note was tucked into the box.

For a future mama from the proudest papa in the world.

All my love,

Stefan

A baby's picture would be fitted into the small empty frame someday, an astonishing thought in the current turmoil of her emotions. Tentatively placing her hands over her trim stomach, she waited to feel some sign. When would she first know for certain? How soon would she begin to see the changes occur? She wished she had the competence to judge like Alisa or Nikki, who seemed positive. Or even Stefan. But so swiftly had events occurred, she found herself still having to remind herself she was Princess Bariatinsky. She thought about all the new alterations in her life as the carriage rolled through the dark defiles and sunny valleys…about Princess Bariatinsky the wife, and Princess Bariatinsky the mother-to-be. How different they both were from the woman she had been before Stefan, when study and scholarship were her whole life. She had thought herself content then, looking forward to each new day of translation and learning, feeling often an actual friendship with the scholars of Hafiz who had preceded her, recognizing styles and handwriting patterns even in the anonymity of medieval times. But she had come to learn that serenity wasn't equal to passion or contentment commensurate with intoxicating happiness. And this awful and desperate sadness she was feeling now was the price for her loving.

She wished, hoped, yearned to have Stefan's child, a child born of this very special love, a child she hoped would bear a strong resemblance to its father. The next unbidden thought slipped past her defenses. If… if the war didn't go well-a euphemistic phrase for her darkest fears-if…something were to happen to Stefan, he would live on in their baby, he would be with her still.

She needed Masha for support, she thought, frightened and fainthearted; she needed her for reassurance against the nameless terror inundating her soul. Masha would assure her in her blunt straightforward way that Stefan was always victorious; she would reaffirm the fact Stefan was never wounded, he had a guardian angel. Masha would give her courage.

Glancing out the window she saw the snow-covered peaks rimming the distant horizon, noted the numbers on the black-and-white road marker, estimated the number of hours left before they reached Tiflis and prayed in a simple plea, simply put, for strength to withstand all her tormenting anxieties.

Stefan and his men traveled at a full-out gallop, changing mounts regularly from the reserve horses that had been left saddled and ready at all the post stops on the military road.

Everyone understood time was precious, any delay could mean the difference between success and defeat. Hussein Pasha might somehow overcome all of nature's obstacles and bring his army to Kars before them, so they rode as if devils from hell were pursuing them. They arrived in Tiflis an astonishing eight hours later, sweat-streaked and dirty, the afternoon sun almost tropical in the sheltered valley.

While his troopers were served a hasty meal, Stefan left to meet with Militza and his solicitor, who were waiting for him in his library. He'd telegraphed from Vladikavkaz before leaving to arrange for Gorkov's presence and sent two additional messages from forts en route so they could estimate his arrival time.

After brief congratulations on his marriage were given and accepted, they immediately concentrated on the business Stefan wanted conducted. Time was at a premium, everyone understood, each minute potentially costly. Gorkov was settled with dispatch at a writing table. Militza had a fresh uniform for Stefan laid out on his desk and without modesty he began stripping off his filthy jacket and issuing instructions. "My will is to be changed in favor of my wife and child," Stefan stated, tossing aside his tunic and bending to pull his boots off.

Gorkov, who hadn't been warned of Stefan's prospective fatherhood, manfully concealed his surprise. "Very good, Your Excellency," he managed to reply in a neutral tone, although his cheeks flushed red at the startling news.

"Do you have time to eat?" his aunt asked as Stefan slid off his breeches. His men were being fed in the morning parlor by a staff on alert since Stefan's last telegram.

"No." He shook his head briefly. "I'll eat on the road. In the event of my death," Stefan briskly went on, stepping into clean leather riding pants, "my wife will inherit everything, my child's portion to be held in trust until its majority." His tanned fingers efficiently buttoned his breeches as he continued. "I think that's fairly simple. In the event the Taneievs attempt to extort more than their settlement share, I'll rely on you and Masha to protect Lise and my child from their depredations." He shrugged into his tunic and swiftly began closing the fastenings. "Fight them in court, but see that Lise and the baby are guarded. I don't trust Vladimir… he's not above the most perverse machinations."

Tugging on his boots, he continued, his voice as crisp as his actions. "Haci will stand as foster father in my place for whatever duties you feel, Masha, are required."

"If he lives," his aunt softly said.

"Yes," Stefan acknowledged, his hands steady, no sign of emotion evident as he strapped on his pistol belt over his immaculate white tunic. Looking up, his voice suddenly husky and an octave lower, he said, "You'll see to things for me, Masha," and opened his arms to her.

She went to him as she had so often in his youth and held him close. He was much larger now than he'd been all those years ago, and poised and assured. She'd seen him overcome much in his young life with equanimity if possible and fighting spirit when necessary. He towered above her, his arms wrapping completely around her now, but he depended on her strength, too, and she'd never fail him. "I'll protect them, Stefan," she said, steadying her voice against her own strong emotions, "as you would yourself."

She seemed so much smaller and more frail each year, he thought, and he wondered when that gradual change had altered their relationship, but he knew she had the courage and the power to protect his family. Swallowing to suppress the lump forming in his throat, he tried to deal with his deep-felt feelings: his childhood memories both happy and sad, never forgotten, only buried for a time; his overwhelming love for Lise, joyous but clouded, too, with loss and all the ominous considerations contingent on the battle for Kars. "Our Kurdish warriors will stand guard, as well," he reminded her. "Rely on them." There wasn't time to deal with emotion.

He moved his aunt away at arm's length and with an attempt at a smile said, "Wish me luck."

"May all the gods watch over you," Militza whispered, gazing at the formidable soldier who had replaced the young boy she'd once consoled. "And don't worry about Lise," she added in a more forceful tone. "I'll see that she and your child are well cared for."

Bending low, he kissed her gently on the cheek and then his hands dropped away from her shoulders. Turning to his counselor, he put out his hand. "Thank you, Gorky, for coming at such short notice." His grip was strong and his natural courtesy brought a smile to Gorkov's face.

"It was my pleasure, Excellency."

Stefan smiled, glanced in swift survey at the papers on his library table that Gorkov had arranged in neat succession and began moving toward them. "I'll sign the papers now and you fill in the particulars. If you have any questions-" he looked over to his aunt "-Masha will make any decisions I may have forgotten."

Militza nodded, unable to speak. His words were too final this time. A new restlessness invested his mood and behavior, although anyone less familiar with Stefan might not have noticed. He was seriously aware for the first time of the impermanence of life. This stop to meet with Gorkov wasn't husbandly efficiency, it was dark premonition.

Stefan reached for the pen Gorkov was holding out for him and a few moments later his task was completed. "Thank you, Masha; thank you, Gorky." He gave a brief flash of his dazzling smile. "Au revoir." And he was gone.

Charged with poignant feeling too new and dear to discuss with Militza, Stefan sprinted up the staircase to the bedrooms on the second floor. Entering his room, he walked directly to the small traveling desk that had been his father's. Sitting down, he drew out paper from the gilt-mounted drawer for what might be his last message for his family. Writing to Lise first, he told her how much he loved her, that no superlatives however profound could ever adequately convey his feelings. She was his entire happiness, his world, and he missed her terribly already. His thoughts were brimful with her enchanting image and he'd write every night-if possible. "If I shouldn't return," he wrote at the very last, the words reluctant to be formed by his pen, "I'll always be at your side. From my heart, Stepka."

Folding the page, he slipped it into an envelope with Lisaveta's name boldly scripted on the outside and propped it on his mantel so she'd be sure to see it.

Returning to his desk, he began the most difficult letter he'd ever written, because the simple act of writing meant he was acknowledging his mortality in words, and acknowledging the foreboding shadows of doom that had been plaguing him since Moscow. He wrote slowly, each word melancholy in its implications, for he was addressing his unborn child in a letter the child would only receive if he himself died at Kars.

All his life, Stefan had been conscious of an illusive spirit, a guardian jinn protecting him. Now, in the past few days, he'd experienced curious sensations, elusive shivers of gloom giving warning his charmed life might be over-just as his father's had so suddenly been cast away-and he'd relied on intrinsic luck too long to ignore his feelings.

"Dearest one," he wrote, trying to imagine what his child would look like-chubby and pink and precious as a king's ransom.

I wish you welcome on your day of birth and kiss your sweet face. If I could have been with your mother holding her hand today, I would have been the happiest of men. I love you, dearest one, with all my heart. Kiss your mama for me and hold her close.

Watching over you,

Papa

He would have liked to say so much more; he would have liked to tell his son or daughter of the pleasures life held in store, of the joy the birth would bring to the house of Bariatinsky-Orbeliani and to himself; he would have liked to leave a note for every day of his child's life so it might know him, too, and love him. But the desktop clock seemed to be talking to him as its small pendulum swung before his eyes, the soft ticking echoing in the silent room. Hurry, it was admonishing, or all might be lost; hurry, it warned, Hussein Pasha is on the march; hurry… hurry… hurry.

So he addressed an envelope simply "Baby" and slid his note inside. Should he leave it with Georgi to give to Lise later or send it to her in the coming months, or should it go with his will to be read… when necessary? He sighed, debating the options, uncertain, finding it too difficult in the end to reach a decision. Sealing the note, he left it lying on the desk and, standing, took a last look around the room that had been his since adolescence.

Touched by an overwhelming melancholy, he paused at the door for a final glance, then softly closed the door behind him.