Aha, everyone agreed, male and female. To have survived the Bazhis was superhuman. She was a superwoman, and the men hoped that when Stefan tired of her, as he surely would, the Countess would consider one of them to entertain her. No one contemplated love in their speculation on Stefan and his latest bed partner, but certainly, they decided, carnal passion was the proper phrase-unique, spectacular carnal passion to so fascinate Stefan.

Oblivious to the sundry contemplations of their relationship, Stefan and Lisaveta basked in a contentment rich with passion and amity, their world insular, isolated by choice, their existence narrowed to two people and love.

They didn't worry about scandal and gossip; both were immune to the motives inspiring such concepts. Stefan, of course, was inured after a lifetime in the limelight, and Lisaveta, for exactly opposite reasons, was equally inured. She had lived too long in her own self-contained world, in which respect and personal choices and one's actions were determined without considering what other people thought. And both were intelligent enough to understand that wealth and position made most things possible in the world.

They entertained each other with openness of spirit and joy through the multitude of days. They slept when they wished and woke without schedule; they teased each other and smiled and made love, of course, in infinite variety. They lay in the sun in the afternoons sometime and swam then to cool off; they rode occasionally and walked the mountain trails and ate the Spartan meals prepared by the servants from the village nearby. Stefan frequently cooked for Lisaveta himself with a competence she should have perhaps expected.

He showed her, too, where the eagles nested on the rim of the escarpment, and they lay flat on their bellies overlooking the valley miles below, watching the adult pair teach their young how to fly.

The blue open sky was above and below them, the wind blowing their hair, the sun warm on their skin, the eaglets endlessly fascinating as they swooped and tumbled and steadied themselves on the cresting wind currents, soaring for lengthening distances.

"I envy them," Stefan said one day, rolling over on his back as he followed the flight of the fledgling, "that freedom. At times like this," he went on in a quiet voice, looking up into the sunlit sky, "I don't want to go back."

"At least not for a thousand years," Lisaveta agreed, her chin propped on her hands, the wind blowing her hair in tossing ringlets.

Some days they read to each other under the pines near the house or lying on the terrace, Stefan reading some of the verses he'd composed and surprising Lisaveta with the rich emotion in his poetry. She'd never glimpsed that intense and introspective side of him. In turn she'd read-or rather recite, because she knew them by heart-her favorite poems of Hafiz in the original Persian. Stefan would answer her in his mother's language, its melody sweet, he said, to his ear.

They never talked of the war or the days ahead; by unspoken agreement they conversed only of topics without contention. In silent understanding they wished to enjoy each other's company as if the days were numbered for eternity.

It was a tremulous balance of happiness-like a shadow or a dream, ungrounded and bound to dissolve when reality intervened.

Stefan resisted thinking of the passing time or his furlough's end.

Lisaveta pushed aside any feelings beyond their temporary enchantment, existing only in the golden glow of her happiness, refusing to think of tomorrow.

But one morning Haci rode into the courtyard and their underlying fear of time had to be faced. From the bedroom window they watched him dismount and brush the dust from his trousers and wipe the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

He glanced up to Stefan's bedroom window and saw them and waved. Their holiday was over.

Their trip down the mountain was quiet, partly because constant alertness was necessary for survival on the rugged trail and conversation was distracting, but primarily their silence was the uncommunicativeness of voiceless feelings. Both Haci and Stefan faced a return to the front; the Turks had had time to reinforce their defenses while the Russians were bringing in new troops. Their increased fortifications would be costly to the Tsar's army, and white one could briefly set aside the savagery of war with a beautiful woman on a mountaintop or in a Tiflis brothel, the return to battle and the imminence of death were prominent in both men's minds. Additionally, Stefan had to struggle with a feeling of loss. It was an unfamiliar melancholy directly related to Lise, a novel and unwelcome sensation he forcibly attempted to suppress.

Lisaveta, more open to her need for Stefan, wondered how she would survive without him. All she could hope for was to keep back her tears until he was gone.

Stefan's carriage was waiting at the military road, the same coach she'd been abducted from long days ago, her luggage all carefully in place as it had been left.

They stood politely on the road while Haci directed the drivers and postilions in unloading Lisaveta's few things from the pack horse, finding they couldn't conduct the banal social conversation that circumstances required.

For a man of Stefan's experience, the inability was striking.

For Lisaveta, who'd spent most of her life outside society, the lack of ready chatter was less unusual. But tears still threatened to well up in her eyes, and she was determined not to embarrass herself with that ultimate naïveté.

They watched the driver tie the last satchel in place, the silence between them uncomfortable. When the man scrambled down and everyone took their places on the coach, Stefan turned back to Lisaveta and finally spoke. "Thank you for everything," he said in a quiet voice that wouldn't carry beyond their position. "I hope your journey to Saint Petersburg is pleasant." He was dressed in full uniform and his bearing was grave, as were his dark eyes.

Lisaveta tried to smile but didn't succeed. How nice it would be to have more experience in these matters, she thought, so one could smile convincingly, as if their casual leave-taking were as mundane as the parting of dance partners at a ball.

"Thank you" she replied, her own voice as grave as his, "for a delightful holiday." There. At least she'd accomplished the requisite words if not the precise nuance of tone. "And I'm sure my trip to Saint Petersburg will be uneventful," she added, pleased she was able to so calmly articulate the words.

"I've sent a message to Alexander," Stefan said, his tone brisker now, as if he were reiterating instructions to a subaltern, "since you'll be seeing him at your father's ceremony, and-"

"You needn't have," she interposed. "I'll be staying with Nikki. I haven't seen him since Papa's funeral, but I'm sure he'll see-"

"I wanted to," he interrupted, feeling he should do something for her beyond a casual goodbye. She was rare and precious and he felt this need to protect her and perhaps in the process protect the uncommon memory of their time together. Entree to Alexander II would guarantee her success at court. He could do that for her; Alexander's friendship would also offer her safety from Nadejda and her family. Stefan had no illusions of what their response would be should they discover his leave had been spent with Countess Lazaroff. She would need Alexander II and all of Masha's connections, as well, although Nikki was a formidable opponent. Nevertheless, he'd talk to his aunt when he returned to Tiflis, he decided.

"Well, thank you then," she said with what she hoped was suitable detachment.

He sighed, hearing but not really listening. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her for a millenium, to take her home with him or to Kars or anywhere he went. But he couldn't. "Goodbye," he said instead, then opened the carriage door and put out his hand to help her in.

"Goodbye, Stefan," Lisaveta said with forced composure, trying not to feel the strength of his hand under hers, thrusting from her mind the memory of Stefan's powerful body.

He smiled briefly and momentarily his eyes shone with his familiar laughter. "Tell Sasha he owes me for the redoubt at Jangelar," he said with a familiarity few men in the Empire could equal.

"If I see him, I will," she replied, thinking it highly unlikely she would be talking to the Tsar so intimately.

"You will," Stefan said, his grin the natural boyish one she loved.

"You seem sure."

"I'm sure" was all he said. "Bon voyage." Quickly shutting the door, he signaled the driver on.

The last sight she had of Prince Stefan Bariatinsky was of him gracefully swinging up on Cleo, the mare's prancing impatience stirring up a flurry of dust on the road. He waved his hand as if he knew she was watching, and wheeling his sleek black racer, he set off for Tiflis and the war.

Her tears came then, sliding over the barriers she'd controlled until Stefan was out of sight, wetting her cheeks and her bodice, soaking her handkerchief. All her anguish and heartache finally poured out. She would never see him again, repeated the doleful litany in her mind, never… never. She'd never listen to him laugh at some silliness or feel the warm solidness of him beside her as she slept or be able to touch him when she woke in the morning. But it was more than missing his vivid physical presence. She had fallen in love with him, despite all her attempts to the contrary, a head-over-heels, ungovernable love that inundated her mind and body and spirit. He had become as essential as air to her.

Had, she bitterly thought, was the operative word with Stefan Bariatinsky. And you're breathing still, she cynically reminded herself in the next beat of her pulse. People do not die of love.

But for all her practicality she still indulged her wretchedness on the journey to the railhead; she cried until she couldn't cry anymore, until only great gulping sobs were left. Then, tearless and exhausted, she merely thought of him. She found herself memorizing him against an unknown future, as one would a treasured poem one wishes to keep always, committing to her mind small and cherished details of his perfection: his stark handsomeness, both elegantly Persian and incongruously savage like the warrior tribes he commanded; his power, not only of musculature and height but of disposition; the gentleness she'd so often experienced; and most of all his smile. The most charming smile devised by man. A smile she'd basked in, a smile she'd often brought to his lips, a smile she'd kissed in amused reply. A smile she'd first seen in Aleksandropol.

She shut her eyes and saw him as he'd looked that first night in Aleksandropol, dressed in silk robes and limned by moonlight; she remembered how he'd looked when she'd wakened beside him, drowsy as he often was early in the morning because he woke more slowly than she; and she saw him as she had each day of their holiday, seated nude on the bank of his mountain stream with the sun on his wet hair, content, at peace and at home. He belonged in the mountains, he said.

A shame she didn't, as well.

Stefan made a conscious effort at conversation with Haci on their ride back to Tiflis. He needed distraction from his thoughts; he needed to distance himself mentally as well as physically from a woman who'd become too much a part of his life. It unnerved him, this need he felt, this intense craving to have her riding beside him, talking to him, making him happy. What a strange word, he abruptly thought, one he'd never considered as particularly significant. He'd thought in terms of excitement or action, stimulation or pleasure, never happiness.

Was this what had happened to his father? Had this sudden need for one particular person struck him as suddenly? The thought terrified him for a brief mindless moment, as though he'd lost control.

"Tell me, was Choura in form at Chezevek's Restaurant," he said, turning to Haci, intent on repudiating these indications of misplaced emotion.

"She's bragging about her new price." Haci's smile flashed against his bronzed skin. "She's increased in value, thanks to you."

"She wouldn't have left otherwise, and I wasn't in the mood to haggle. My offer was one I knew she'd take."

"Was the Countess worth it?" Haci asked familiarly. He was the same age as Stefan, and they'd shared more than years of soldiering; they'd grown up together, for Haci's father had been aide to the Field Marshal.

"More, unfortunately." They spoke in the Kurdish dialect, although Haci was as proficient as Stefan in French, and the softly guttural diction lent impact to the plain answer.