of his fork, describing the personalities of family members and referencing various traditions—he noticed that Sofia was entirely, absolutely, and utterly engaged. What elephants and princesses had failed to accomplish, the life at Idlehour had apparently achieved. And just like that, her veal was gone.
When the plates had been cleared away, Martyn reappeared to inquire if they would be having dessert. The Count looked to Sofia with a smile, assuming that she would leap at the chance. But she bit her lower lip and shook her head.
“Are you quite sure?” the Count asked. “Ice cream? Cookies? A piece of cake?”
But shifting a bit in her chair, she shook her head again.
Enter the new generation, thought the Count with a shrug, while returning the dessert menu to Martyn.
“Apparently, we are done.”
Martyn accepted the menu, but once again lingered. Then, turning his back slightly to the table, he actually leaned over with the clear intention of whispering in the Count’s ear.
For goodness sake, thought the Count. What now?
“Count Rostov, I believe that your niece . . . may need to go.”
“Go? Go where?”
Martyn hesitated.
“To the privy . . .”
The Count looked up at the waiter and then at Sofia.
“Say no more, Martyn.”
The waiter bowed and excused himself.
“Sofia,” the Count suggested tentatively, “shall we visit the ladies’ room?”
Still biting her lip, Sofia nodded.
“Do you need me to . . . accompany you inside?” he asked, after leading her down the hallway.
Sofia shook her head and disappeared behind the washroom door.
As he waited, the Count chastised himself for his lug-headedness. Not only had he failed to cut her meat and bring her to the ladies’ room, he clearly hadn’t thought to help her unpack, because she was wearing the exact same clothes she had worn the day before.
“And you call yourself a waiter . . . ,” he said to himself.
A moment later, Sofia emerged, looking relieved. But then, despite her readily apparent love of interrogatives, she hesitated like one who is struggling with whether to ask a question.
“What is it, my dear? Is there something on your mind?”
Sofia struggled for another moment, then worked up the nerve:
“Can we still have dessert, Uncle Alexander?”
Now, it was the Count who looked relieved.
“Without a doubt, my dear. Without a doubt.”
Ascending, Alighting
At two o’clock, when Marina answered her office door to find the Count at the threshold in the company of a little girl with a rag doll gripped tightly by the neck, she was so surprised her eyes almost came into alignment.
“Ah, Marina,” said the Count, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “You remember Nina Kulikova? May I present her daughter, Sofia. She will be staying with us in the hotel for a bit. . . .”
As a mother of two, Marina did not need the Count’s signal to tell her that something weighty had occurred in the life of the child. But she could also see that the girl was curious about the whirring sound coming from the other end of the room.
“What a pleasure to meet you, Sofia,” she said. “I knew your mother well when she was just a few years older than you are now. But tell me: Have you ever seen a sewing machine?”
Sofia shook her head.
“Well then. Come and let me show you one.”
Offering Sofia her hand, Marina led the girl to the other side of the room, where her assistant was mending a royal blue drape. Dropping down so that she would be at Sofia’s level, Marina pointed to various parts of the machine and explained their use. Then, asking the young seamstress to show Sofia their collection of fabrics and buttons, she came back to the Count with an expression of inquiry.
In a hushed voice, he quickly recounted the events of the previous day.
“You can see the predicament that I’m in,” concluded the Count.
“I can see the predicament that Sofia is in,” corrected Marina.
“Yes. You’re absolutely right,” the Count admitted contritely. Then, just as he was about to continue, he had a notion—a notion so inspired, it was incredible he hadn’t thought of it before. “I came, Marina, to see if you’d be willing to watch Sofia for an hour while I am at the Boyarsky’s daily meeting. . . .”
“Of course I will,” said Marina.
“As I say, I came with that intention. . . . But as you have so rightly pointed out, it is Sofia who deserves our support and consideration. And watching you together just now, seeing your instinctive tenderness, and seeing the way that she felt