Lisaveta glanced at the enormous bronze doors opening before them as two liveried footmen put their shoulders to their weight. She thought of Stefan riding somewhere across the high plateau under the same moon that illuminated Tiflis and said with a true weariness, "lam fatigued."

"It's the baby and natural. Stefan is vastly pleased," Masha added when Lisaveta's expression indicated her surprise. "He's telling everyone."

"Everyone's so certain," Lisaveta replied in a small voice.

"Stefan says he counts better than you do." Militza was smiling.

Lisaveta blushed.

"You've made him very happy." Her voice was unsteady for only a second before she stabilized it. "And I thank you for that, although," she went on, her mouth quirking into a smile, "I must warn you, the staff is taking this very personally, as well. A new heir to the Bariatinsky-Orbeliani family has been thirty-two years in the waiting."

Lisaveta laughed with delight, pleased with Stefan's effusiveness and the staffs warmhearted reaction. "I mustn't disappoint them then."

"I wouldn't recommend it. I believe they've begun assembling a list of appropriate baby names. Stefan said they can select one of the names."

"He is pleased, isn't he?"

"He's enormously excited, although he's taking pains to appear placid. You've brought him more joy than he'd ever hoped for."

"I don't know how I lived before I met him. I only hope…I hope it never ends."

Lisaveta's tone was so melancholy at the last, her thoughts plain. "Stefan's always been a very lucky man, my dear," his aunt assured her, "and his bodyguard will protect him with their lives. You mustn't worry or fret for his safety. It might harm the baby. Now come," she said, taking Lisaveta's hand, "Chef has insisted on greeting you with a royal repast and if you don't at least taste his numerous dishes, he threatens to cut his wrists."

"He wouldn't," Lisaveta whispered, startled out of her despondency, unfamiliar with the tempestuous personalities of the south, "would he?"

"We've never dared tempt his stability, my dear." Aunt Militza's smile was bland, as though servants threatened suicide every day. "You needn't eat much," she added with a mildness that ignored the drama of the event. "A taste will do."

After Lisaveta refreshed herself briefly and changed into a comfortable frock, dinner was served: an incredible spectacle, a sumptuous procession of twenty-two courses, colorful, artistically served delicacies that had obviously been all day in the making. Lisaveta tasted each dish carried in on gold plate while Chef stood beside her, beaming. When the last sweet had been admired and sampled, she said, "Thank you, Josef, I must write my husband and tell him of your genius. Everything was superb."

Josef's smile widened, his red cheeks glowed. "The Princess is most generous."

"Now, Josef," Militza declared, her voice both cordial and firm, "you've intimidated Princess Bariatinsky enough for one night. Kindly have another bottle of Stefan's special golden-white wine brought up and you may all go to sleep."

"Yes, Your Excellency, of course," he replied docilely, as if he hadn't acted the prima donna for the past hour. "As you wish." He bowed himself out with elaborate ritual, followed by the rest of the footmen.

"The staff adore you," Militza said. "You don't know how pleased I am, since Stefan considers them all his family. Thank you, by the way," she added with a smile, "for humoring Josef."

"It wasn't any great sacrifice, Masha, his talents are superb… although at the moment I feel I won't need to eat for a month."

"Some mint tea will help." She raised her hand in an almost imperceptible gesture. Immediately four servants appeared from behind ostensibly closed doors, and Lise marveled both at Masha's casual assumption that someone would come at her small movement and at the servants' hovering presence.

"Mint tea for Princess Bariatinsky. The baby has eaten too much."

Lisaveta colored a soft pink from her throat to her eyebrows.

Masha smiled benignly and four servants beamed down at Lise as if she were the first woman in the universe to have a child.

When the tea and wine were served the ladies retired to a small alcove overlooking the twinkling lights of Tiflis and talked of the war. Militza told Lisaveta the topic was prominent subject matter for the entire population of the city. Word had come yesterday to the general public that Hussein Pasha was advancing toward Kars and the possibility those reinforcements would get through struck terror in the hearts of Tiflis's citizens. If the Russian army was defeated at Kars, the Turks could march on Tiflis; every coffeehouse and café were undoubtedly crowded with patrons discussing the morbid possibilities, and every private conversation and public debate centered on the need to hold Kars.

"How was Stefan?" Lisaveta asked.

"Rushed and distracted," Militza said. "He didn't even have time to eat."

"Was he worried?" Terrified for his well-being, Lisaveta wanted reassurance.

"No," Militza lied. "Stefan's been fighting the Turks for years."

"Will he get there in time?" It was everyone's fear.

Sitting across from Lisaveta on a white satin loveseat, Militza replied, her dark-eyed gaze direct, "Stefan has never failed."

"I didn't want him to go." Lise's voice was almost a whisper.

There was no adequate or comforting response. Militza wished there were. "He loves you very much; he'll be back." He would try, she knew; he'd fight his way through hell if he had to. She just hoped his strength and courage were enough.

"I'm so afraid." Lisaveta's tea was untouched before her, her face pale with fatigue, her apprehension visible in her golden eyes.

"You'll feel better in the morning. All the black melancholy seems worse somehow when one's tired." Militza wished she could offer some guarantees, something more substantial than platitudes, but it was a deadly game about to be played out at Kars and she couldn't bring herself to lie about that fact. "Drink your tea," she soothingly said, "and then go to sleep. Everything will seem less daunting in the morning."

"I'm sorry to be so fainthearted." Lisaveta's smile over the rim of her teacup was rueful.

"Your concern is natural, my dear. Very soon, though," she added, her smile bolstering, "the Turks will be defeated and we'll all breathe easier. You must sleep now." Lisaveta had faint lavender shadows under her eyes. "I'll have you shown up to your room."

"Could I see Stefan's room?" Setting down her teacup, Lisaveta rose. "If you don't mind." She wanted to feel his presence before she slept, wanted to see glimpses of his spirit, wanted to touch his pillow and hairbrush, sit in his chair, smell the scent of him on his clothes.

"Of course." And with the smallest gesture of her hand, a footman appeared. "Are you going to be all right?" There was solicitude in Militza's voice, for Lisaveta's desolation was obvious.

Lisaveta nodded.

"Would you like company?" Militza felt helpless to mitigate her pain. Lise was so new to the warrior's culture, too swiftly separated from her husband, a stranger to so much in Stefan's life.

"No, thank you," she softly replied, "if you don't mind." They were both being painfully courteous, anxious to please each other.

Militza smiled and then chuckled. "Darling, this is your home. Please do exactly as you please."

Lisaveta smiled back. "I see you must have had a hand in Stefan's upbringing."

"One never actually had a hand on Stefan so much as simply being there to pick up the pieces. He was a headstrong boy." Neither her tone nor her expression was disapproving. "He has in fact," she finished, "been the joy of my life."

"He does that, doesn't he?" Lisaveta's features were less grave, her golden eyes taking on a warmth. "Without even trying."

"He does indeed," Militza emphatically replied.

A few moments later, Lisaveta stood on the threshold of Stefan's bedroom suite while the footman lighted several of the wall sconces. The gas flames shimmered and fluttered briefly before the crystal fixtures turned into a brilliant glowing white, and when he left she remained motionless just inside the door, her gaze taking in her husband's bedroom for the first time. One entire wall was curtained in white gauze, luminous now as the moonlight competed with the fitful shadow and light of the enormous interior space, glistening white against the green silk of the side draperies and valances.

Walking slowly over to the windows, Lisaveta remembered a warm summer night scented with lily, and leaning her head against the gossamer curtains, she felt the coolness of the glass beneath her forehead. The warm summer was gone, their time in the mountains long past; she could feel the chill of fall in the air and the bleakness of fear in her heart. So recently married, she might as swiftly be widowed, she morbidly thought. And tonight when she wished Militza to offer her assurances, Stefan's aunt had instead been more subdued than expected. How did soldiers' wives cope? Was there some prayer for consolation, some wish or hope one could petition for, some solace in this awful loneliness?

She moved then as if drawn by invisible hands to Stefan's large bed. The balconies fronted all the bedrooms in this wing and this room was very similar to the one she'd stayed in last time, but Stefan's bed was different, larger, darker, more masculine, a mahogany-and-tulipwood marquetry cut on massive lines. Climbing up onto it, she sat in the middle of the forest green expanse of silk coverlet, looking like a flower blossom in her peach silk gown, her skirt in poufs about her, her glance surveying the immensity of the room.

And that's when she saw it.

A note directly in her line of vision, an envelope with her name on it propped against the mantel. Her heart stood still.

Sliding off the bed, she approached it cautiously, dread and longing both prominent in her mind. Stefan had written it. Short hours ago he'd held that exact envelope in his hand, his words the closest she could come to having him near. She wanted to snatch the letter down and devour the words and feel for a transient moment as though he were here. But apprehension held her hostage against that impulse and she stood beneath the ornate and polished mantel, reluctant to know what her husband might have written her before riding off to war.

She lifted it down finally because her longing was greater than her fear. But the weight of that fear crumbled her to the floor, where she sat before the small fire the footman had set before he left and read Stefan's letter. She cried as his words unfolded across and down the page; she cried for their beauty and tenderness, for his sweetness and devotion. He was more articulate in many ways than she in expressing the imagery of love.

"When the war is over," he'd written, "we'll join the eagles in the mountains and show them our new baby… I can scent the wind and freedom even now."

There was hope in his words and a love so intense she hardly noticed the menace of the closing phrase he had written so reluctantly.

She reread his scrawling script over and over, his strength evident in the rhythm and form of his letters, his spirit alive in his words. In the silence of his room, surrounded by objects familiar to his world, his cologne lingering in the air, photos from childhood displayed on the walls and bureau tops, she could almost hear him speak of his love for her. She could almost hear his deep rich voice echo within the confines of his bedchamber, his love surrounding her, and she prayed to all the benevolent gods to protect him and bring him safely home.

She slept that night in his bed with his note clutched in her hand, as a young child might cling to a cherished toy or a young woman ardently in love to her lover. She dreamed of mountain landscapes and moss-covered mountain pools, of starlit ceilings and a rain-damp bridegroom on a honeymoon night.

It wasn't till morning that she found the second note. She was dressed already and wandering about Stefan's room, thinking as she walked: he sat here and stood here and brushed his long dark hair before this mirror and wore these slippers in his leisure and wrote at this desk-

The small white envelope was addressed with the single word "Baby."

It lay pristine and chaste on the red-embossed leather of the desktop.

He'd left no instructions concerning its unsealing, although addressed as it was to their baby, the implication was perhaps to wait until its birth. And she intended to, she decided a moment later, as if that punctiliousness would annihilate the panic beginning to creep into her mind. There was no need to write to their child now; he'd be home certainly-at some point-in the months before its birth.