“Of course I will,” Hawke said.

He put his hand on her shoulder and bent to put his lips to hers, ever so briefly, before turning to kiss his son, staring at him, his creamy pink cheeks, fresh from some past spring, and his enormous blue eyes, the very image of a beautiful child. He pressed his lips to Alexei’s warm cheek, prolonging the kiss as long as he could, imprinting it upon his memory.

“Must you go?” she said, a gleaming tear making its way down her cheek.

“Yes. There’s nothing left of us,” Hawke said, a profound sadness in his voice despite his attempt to be strong. Her reply was barely above a whisper.

“All that’s left to us is love.”

Hawke pulled away, unable to bear what he saw in her eyes. He kissed his son on the forehead.

“Good-bye, Alexei. Good-bye, Anastasia. Keep safe, will you both? Stay well, Alexei. Grow up into a big strong boy so you can take care of your mother. Will you, son? Promise your father that, all right?”

Hawke’s heart broke then, and he quickly turned away, the words of farewell in his throat straining with sadness. The conductor was sounding the final whistle, the last call. He tossed his old leather satchel and Peter’s sword aboard and then grabbed the rung and climbed up to the bottom step. He determined to remain there, and to do so as long as he could see the two of them.

“Good-bye, my darling,” Anastasia said. “Take our love with you and keep it safe.”

The train began to move, slowly at first, and Anastasia began moving with it, walking alongside at the same speed as the train, clutching her baby, seemingly unable to let Hawke go, let him fall away from her sight. He hung there on the lower steps, one hand clenched on the cold steel grip, as the train gathered speed.

She was running now, dangerously fast, trying hard to keep up and he feared she would fall, trip in the mushy snow, the baby in her arms and—

“Whatever happens,” she called out to him through her tears, “I’ll love you just as I do now until I die.”

He started to warn her, but suddenly she was reaching out to him. Reaching out with both arms, running beside the train and at the very last possible moment she did it.

She handed Alexei up to him.

He gathered the child in with his one free arm and brought him quickly to the safety of his chest, staring down at her with disbelief.

“Anastasia, what—what are you—”

She cried out, straining to be heard above the gathering speed of the train, “He’s yours, my darling. He’s all I have to give.”

Hawke, his eyes blurred with hot tears, had a last impression of that beautiful haunted face, the tortured eyes, the drawn mouth. He held his son tightly and watched Anastasia for as long as he could, standing there all alone on the deserted platform, a small solitary figure waving good-bye to the two of them forever.

Seven

The Red Arrow

Babies cry. So do new fathers. Alexander Hawke sat on the deep, plush carpeted floor of the luxurious ivory and gilt two-room train compartment, rocking his child in his arms. Both of them were weeping copiously. One did so loudly, at times violently, screaming red-faced, demanding his mother. The other did so silently, his own red eyes periodically welling and spilling a potent mixture of indissoluble happiness and sadness.

Some time after leaving the station, they could still be found sitting there when the luxury train’s concierge peeked in the door and said, “I beg your pardon. Tickets and papers, please?”

Hawke looked up from the floor and smiled at the woman.

“My own ticket is inside the pocket of that black leather jacket hanging over the armchair. This young fellow here doesn’t have one, I’m afraid.”

“How old is he?”

“Three. Today’s his birthday.”

“A free ride for him, then, on his birthday,” she said kindly, removing the ticket envelope from Hawke’s jacket and inspecting the contents.

Hawke put his lips beside his son’s ear and whispered.

“See, Alexei? You were right! Three really is ‘free.’ Magic. You’ve always got to be on the lookout for it.”

The concierge was a woman of ample proportions in a tailored dark green uniform with red piping at the wrists and lapels. Her thick blond hair was gathered at the back of her head into what used to be called a “french twist.” She was quite pretty, spoke perfect English, and Hawke instinctively liked and trusted her. A mother, he was sure, for the boy brought those instincts instantly to the surface of her features.

“You are Mr. Alexander Hawke, traveling on business to St. Petersburg? Correct?”

“Yes.”

“And this gentleman?”

“This young gentleman is Alexei.”

“Last name?”

Hawke stared up at her for a moment, then down at Alexei, briefly startled by such a profoundly unexpected question, and then said, “Hawke. His name is Alexei Hawke.”

“Your son, then. Well. He looks just like you. Look at those eyes.”

“Yes, he is,” Hawke said, slightly dazed. “Yes, he is indeed my son.” Hearing himself utter those words, Hawke was filled with a flood of warmth and joy that was nearly overwhelming.

“Well, Mr. Hawke, you should give your son some milk. At least water. All those tears have dehydrated him.”

“I have none of either to give, I’m afraid.”

“No milk?”

“You see, Alexei was—is—well, the thing is, he decided to join me at the last moment. He’s somewhat—spontaneous. Rambunctious boy. Never know what he’ll do next.”

She reached down with open arms. “May I take him a moment? You’re not holding him at all properly. And he’s very tired. I think he’ll be more comfortable tucked into the berth in the second room. I’ll bring him a cup of warm milk. It will help him sleep. Does he have any toys?”

“Toys? Oh. Only this sad little teddy bear I found in the pocket of his coat.” Hawke held it up, a poor ragged thing the color of oatmeal.

“Lucky for him I keep a healthy supply of wooden soldiers and horses for just such emergencies.”

“That would be very kind. I wonder about . . . feeding him. I’m not sure when he last ate, I’m afraid. And I’m not really sure what he—”

“Well, I’ll bring hot porridge, too. He looks very hungry. The first seating in the first-class dining car is at five this evening. Shall I book a table for two?”

“Yes, thank you. That would be lovely. I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name?”

“Luciana.”

“Italian?”

“My mother. My father is from Kiev.”

“I appreciate your help, Luciana. I’m rather—rather a new father.”

She laughed. “Really? Why, Mr. Hawke, I should never have guessed.”

A few hours later, Alex found himself sitting side by side with Alexei in the extravagantly decorated dining car. It was all gleaming ivory cream walls, curving up to form the ceiling, and furniture, every square inch trimmed in gold leaf, with upholstery of deepest claret red. The decor was exactly like his first-class compartments. The whole train was done up in this scheme, he imagined. The table linen was snow white, and the silver, though not sterling, was quite elegant, emblazoned with Russian double-headed eagles.

Alexei, grasping his much-loved teddy bear, sat on his velvet-covered, raised baby chair. Save for his rapidly shifting eyes, he was perfectly still, his eyes wandering up and down the long rows of tables inhabited by strange people from this new world he’d never known existed; then he was turning briefly to the window and the blur of some dizzying world turned red and purple in the sunset. And then, he stared unblinking at this new man in his life. Absorbing, Alex could sense, absolutely everything.