Winter Palace by T. Davis Bunn Page B

shaped by one view of the Soviet empire. She sees them as the oppressors. The Bolsheviks. The conquerors. The instruments of Stalin’s terror.” She waved the past aside. “But this nation no longer exists. Who knows what you shall find?”
    â€œI think this uncertainty is almost as frightening as what you described.”
    â€œThis too is true.” Magda smiled. “Perhaps you are right to be worried after all.”
    â€œThanks a lot.”
    â€œWhen do you depart?”
    â€œTonight we have a suite here at the Grosvenor House, then tomorrow we leave for five days in Monte Carlo. I travel to Cracow two days later.”
    â€œKnow that you shall travel with the prayers of at least two women sheltering you.”
    â€œThank you, Magda. That means a lot.”
    â€œSo, enough of the future. Today we must retain the moment’s joy, no?” Magda reached beside her chair and came up with a picture frame wrapped in white tissue paper. “I have made something for you.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful, Magda.” He made to rise. “Wait, let me go get Katya.”
    â€œMy daughter has already seen this,” she replied. “She was the one who suggested the quotation.”
    Jeffrey accepted the package, folded back the paper, and released a long, slow breath.
    The frame was simple and wooden. The matting was of dark-blue velvet. Set upon this cloth was a flat, hand-painted ceramic rectangle.
    The picture’s background was softest ivory. Upon it was painted a man cresting the peak of an impossibly high mountain. With one hand he clutched for support; the other he stretched heavenward. Above him a lamb, shining as the sun, reached down, offering a pair of wings.
    Beneath were scrolled the words, “‘Let us press on to know God,’ Hosea 6:4.”
    Jeffrey’s mother stepped over to where they sat. “May I borrow my son for a moment?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œDid you paint that, Magda? Oh, it’s beautiful. May I show it to my husband?” She lifted the picture from Jeffrey’s grasp and moved off.
    Jeffrey stammered, “Magda, I don’t know how to thank you.”
    She smiled once more. “You shall make a worthy son-in-law, Jeffrey. Of that I have not the slightest doubt.”
    â€œJeffrey?” His mother reappeared. “I do need to speak to you for a moment.”
    â€œGo,” Magda said quietly. “My blessings upon you both, and upon this wondrous day.”
    His mother pulled him over to another quiet corner. “Katya is as wonderful as you said.”
    â€œYou spent a week together and you’re just getting around to deciding this?”
    She gave him a playful hug. “I’ve told you that before and you know it.”
    He pulled a face. “I don’t recall.”
    â€œYou don’t recall,” she mimicked, rolling the tones. “Listen to my posh son.”
    Jeffrey was so completely happy he felt he could have skateda Fred Astaire dance step across the ceiling. “You know where that word comes from? In the days of colonial India, people with connections and experience chose the cooler side of the boat for their voyages out and back—port out, starboard home. Posh. Very snooty group, from the sounds of it.”
    She looked at him with genuine approval. “You’re very happy with your life, aren’t you.” It was not a question.
    He nodded. “Other than the odd crisis now and then, very happy.”
    â€œThese bad things come,” she said, her smile never slipping. “If you are strong, and if you’re lucky enough to marry a good partner, and if you’re wise enough to know a strong faith, the bad things go too.”
    â€œThey do at that,” he agreed.
    â€œWell, I didn’t pull you away to discuss the lost colonies of the British Empire.”
    He played at surprise. “No?”
    â€œYour brother asked me to wait