last time, before she could go back to New York and her children.
She bid Axelle good night, and at eleven-thirty, she was downstairs, and hailed a taxi. She gave the driver the address on the rue Daru, and when she saw it, she caught her breath … it was still the same … nothing had changed since that Christmas Eve long ago when she had gone there with her grandmother and Clayton.
The service was as lovely as she remembered it, as she stood solemnly with die other Russians, singing and taking part in the service, holding her candle high as she cried silently, missing all of them again, yet feeling them close to her. She felt sad, but strangely at peace as she stood in the cathedral afterward, and watched the others, chatting quietly outside, and then suddenly she saw a familiar face, much aged, and worn, but she was sure it was Vladimir's daughter, Yelena. She didn't speak to her as she left, she only walked quietly down the steps, and looked up into the night sky with a smile, wishing them well, the souls who had once been part of her life. … She hailed a taxi, and went back to the hotel, feeling older than she had in a long time, and when she went to bed she cried, but they were the clean tears of grief that time had healed, and was now only sometimes remembered.
In the morning, she said nothing to Axelle, and they took the train to Le Havre, and boarded the Queen Mary. Their cabins were the same as when they'd come, and Zoya watched as they set sail, remembering when she had gone to the States on the Paris, with Clayton.
“You look so sad …” The voice just beside her made her jump, and she turned to see Simon looking down at her gently. Axelle had stayed downstairs to get unpacked, and she had gone upstairs alone with her own thoughts. She looked at him with a shy smile. His hair was blowing in the wind, and he looked more rugged than ever.
“Not sad, just remembering.”
“You've had an interesting life, I suspect even more so than you told us at lunch.”
“The rest doesn't matter anymore.” She looked out to sea without looking at him, and he longed to touch her hand, to make her smile, to make her feel happy and young. She was so serious, and just then, almost solemn. “The past is only worth what it makes of us, Mr. Hirsch. It was difficult to come back here, but I'm glad I did it. Paris is full of memories for me.” He nodded, wishing he knew more about her life than the little she had told him.
“It must have been rough here during the war. I wanted to go too, but my father wouldn't let me. I finally enlisted but it was too late. I never left the States. I wound up in a factory in Georgia. A textile mill, of course,” he smiled ruefully, “I seem to be destined never to escape the rag trade.” His eyes grew serious again then. “But it must have been hard for you here.”
“It was. But our fate was easier than those who stayed in Russia.” She was thinking of Mashka and the others, and he was afraid to pry. He didn't want to frighten her away, and she looked so beautiful as she stood lost in her own thoughts and then smiled up at him. “None of that is important now. Did you have a successful trip?”
“I did. And you?”
“Excellent. I think Axelle is pleased with everything we ordered.” She made as though to leave him then, and he wanted to physically pull her back to him before she could run away again.
“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
“I'll have to ask Axelle what she'd like to do. But thank you very much, I'll extend your invitation to her.” She wanted to make it clear to him that she was not available. She liked him very much but he made her vaguely uncomfortable. There was something so intense about his eyes, his handshake was so strong, even the arm with which he guided her as the ship began to roll seemed too powerful to resist, and she had every intention of resisting him. She was almost sorry they were on the same ship. She wasn't sure she wanted to see that much of him. But when she mentioned his invitation to Axelle,