Golden Paradise

Should she wear her emerald satin or her fuchsia tulle? Stefan's pearls would compliment either. She wished he could see her wear them.

That afternoon, though, she decided to forego the piano recital and found comfort instead in the Tsar's gift of a manuscript-The History of the House of Musaffar-a rare and special monograph she'd seen only once before. For a few hours as she immersed herself in the confusion of the minor dynasties who ruled over Fars and Kirman in the fourteenth century, she was able to forget her own confusion over wanting a man beyond her reach. She was even able for a brief time to diminish the powerful presence of Stefan in her mind.

In the following days, she escaped whenever she could to the quiet of Nikki's library and began working again, taking careful, minute notes from the manuscript, translating the sometimes cavalier chronology of Viziers into a plausible sequence, making duplicate notes for the Tsar's collection. Hafiz had lived in a turbulent time and his delicate love songs must have been created to the clash of arms, the inrush of conquerors and the flight of the defeated. Anarchy had prevailed, and invader after invader forced the city of Shiraz to submit to his rule. If Hafiz had survived such chaos and destruction with his inimitable gift of philosophy and song intact, surely she could overcome the melancholy of an unrequited love.

And she found a measure of solace in her familiar tasks.

Stefan heard the first glowing comments a week after Lisaveta was introduced by the Tsar at her first formal ball; one of his officers returned from leave in Saint Petersburg with the news. The Countess Lazaroff had been christened the Golden Countess for her sublime radiance and glorious eyes, he'd been told. She was, Loris said, the absolute center of every male's attention. She was more than beautiful, he'd gone on ecstatically, as though each word weren't doing disastrous things to Stefan's detachment; she was witty and gay with the charming cachet of her Hafiz scholarship. The intriguing possibilities in her exquisite looks and exotic background were a tantalizing lure. Men were lined up for a turn on her dance card, favors were offered for a seat beside her at dinner, and the drawing room of the Kuzan palace, where she was staying, was awash with floral tributes and besieging men. Loris went on at some length, driven by his own enthusiasm but also indulgent to Stefan's known partiality for gorgeous women. Rumor had it, he finished at last, two grand dukes had proposed.

The shock of those initial stories had taken several days for Stefan to rationalize satisfactorily. He'd never remotely imagined Lisaveta as society's reigning queen, although certainly her beauty was breathtaking. Rather, he'd thought her uninterested in the superficiality of society. Loris must have been exaggerating, he decided after several more days of contemplation. And for a man who'd forgotten women as easily as he'd seduced them, Stefan found himself uneasy with his feelings regarding Lisaveta. Eventually with the same kind of determination Lisaveta had summoned in regard to her memories, Stefan decided Loris's statements were probably primarily rumor and so dismissable. Even if they weren't, he had no further interest in the Countess. She'd afforded him a delightful holiday but he disliked prolonged relationships and it was all over now.

He was able to maintain his objective and habitual savoir faire until Dmitri and Kadar returned three days later from their leaves with stories of the Golden Countess as their foremost topic of conversation. They discoursed endlessly on her abundant attractions: she danced like an angel, and Stefan found himself inexplicably annoyed he'd never danced with her; she could make you laugh effortlessly without the silliness of other women, and Dmitri and Kadar both detailed numerous instances of her humor-to which the officers in the staff tent guffawed aloud; her gowns were lush like her beauty, but then Nikki Kuzan understood feminine fashions and had taken her to his wife's dressmaker. When Dmitri began describing Lisaveta's voluptuous form, Stefan glowered. He almost said, 'You can't touch her,' and only caught himself in time. But when hey both remarked on the canary diamonds she wore in her ears, so perfectly matching the gold of her eyes, Stefan abruptly said, 'I gave her those,' as if the four short words acknowledged his territorial prerogatives.

All the officers in the large tent looked at him. They were curious he knew the Countess, of course, also they heard the temper in his voice. Most of them took cogent note of his tone. If Bariatinsky was laying claim to the woman, it wouldn't be wise to step in his way. Although in the past Stefan had never shown enough concern for a woman to exert himself, perhaps the Countess was different. She must indeed be special.

It was Captain Tamada, just returned from the western front, who added the final straw a day later. To a brooding and unusually moody Stefan, who was playing a silent game of solitaire in the officer's mess, he said, 'What you need, Stefan, to lighten your mood, is a night with the newest belle in Saint Petersburg. I saw her myself only a week ago, and she puts the delectable Helene to shame. Have you heard of the Golden Countess?'

A moment later, after Stefan had swept his cards on the ground and stalked out, the Captain turned to a fellow officer who was writing a letter home. 'What did I say?'

'He knows her,' the man answered, and shrugged.

'And doesn't like her?' Tamada inquired.

The letter writer shrugged again. 'Damned if I know, but I'll tell you this. I wouldn't mention her name again if he's around.'

That night Stefan suddenly decided that since the campaign wasn't scheduled to begin for two more weeks, due to delays in transport of munitions primarily, he'd travel to Saint Petersburg.

It was an unusual decision, one likely to cause comment, but the Turks, too, had still not conveyed more than light replacements to the front. And since the weather had continued to be unseasonably warm, any large movements of troops from reserves in Erzurum or the Black Sea ports or Istanbul were considered unlikely. It would be suicidal without adequate supplies of water.

Additionally, the Russian engineers were still constructing the new telegraph lines encircling Kars, and their completion was delaying the attack, as well. Unlike Alaja Dagh, where lack of organization had cost the Russians their victory, the assault on Kars was going to be fully coordinated. Until that time, however, Stefan's presence as the general in command of cavalry was really unnecessary. And since he was as prudent a soldier as he was prodigal a man, he had conscientiously delegated those few duties that would have concerned him during the hiatus.

But his unusual decision to leave the front did cause considerable comment, as did his given reason: he wished to visit his fiancee. Everyone knew Stefan never mentioned his fiancee, and when her name came up occasionally, he immediately made it plain he wasn't marrying for love.

So bets were taken on the real reason he was traveling so great a distance, and the Countess Lazaroff figured prominently in those wagers. More complicated odds were negotiated on the outcome of his visit; both his temper and odd moodiness were factored in the point spread.

He went alone because he didn't want company in his sullenness; he also went alone for speed.

Haci had protested at first. 'The road to Aleksandropol isn't safe,' he'd said, his voice cool with reason.

'I'm in a hurry,' was Stefan's blunt reply.

'Have I ever slowed you down?' his friend inquired, watching Stefan toss a few basic items in his saddlebag.

Stefan looked up, the dim lantern light in the tent they shared casting dark shadows across his aquiline features. His smile was brief but apologetic. 'No offense, Haci. I should have said I want to be alone.'

'It's still dangerous.'

Stefan had resumed buckling the red leather straps securing the side pouches. 'I'll be careful.'

'You don't know how to be careful.'

'I'm traveling at night… that'll help.'

'You're crazy!' Haci went so far as to grab Stefan's arm for attention. 'The road's almost impassable since the transports chewed it up. Cleo could break a leg in the dark.'

'I wasn't planning on taking the road.' With anyone else he would have shaken the restraining arm free. Out of courtesy for their friendship he ignored it, testing all the closures one more time before sliding an extra knife into his belt.

'Is she worth it?' Haci quietly asked, his hand falling away. 'Worth your horse and maybe your life?'

Standing upright, Stefan exhaled gently before answering. 'I don't know,' he said quietly. 'I don't know why I'm going, I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there, but-' he slid his saddlebag over his shoulder, took a quick glance around the small tent to see if he'd forgotten anything, still practical despite his tumultuous feelings, '-I'm going. I'll be back in two weeks.'

'Even traveling fast,' Haci persisted, heedful of the tremendous risks even if Stefan chose to overlook them, 'you won't have more than two or three days in Saint Petersburg.'

'I don't need much time.' A flat statement.