The three of them enjoyed the chicken, which he served swimming in its own broth, and afterward Zoya sipped tea with them by the fire. And when her grandmother went to bed, Antoine stayed to talk to her again. They seemed to be doing a lot of that, but at least he was someone to talk to. He was talking about his Christmases as a child, and his eyes shone as they talked. He loved being near her.
“Our Christmas is later than yours. It's on January sixth.”
“The Feast of Kings.”
“There are beautiful processions all over Russia. Or there were. I suppose we'll be going to the Russian church here.” In a way, she was looking forward to it, and in another way she knew it would be depressing. All those lost souls, standing together in the candlelight, remembering a lost world. She wasn't sure she could bear it, but she knew that her grandmother would insist that they go. There would certainly be no gifts this year. There wasn't a spare penny with which to buy them.
But when Christmas actually came, Antoine surprised her. He had bought her a warm scarf and a pair of warm gloves, and a tiny, tiny bottle of the perfume she had casually mentioned to him once. It was the perfume that touched her heart and brought tears to her eyes. It was “Lilas,” which Mashka had so loved and had given her months before. She took the top off the flacon, and the sweet smell brought back the touch and feel and smell of all that she loved, and her beloved Mashka. There were tears rolling slowly down her cheeks as she looked at him, and without thinking, with childlike grace, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was a sisterly kiss, but his whole body trembled to feel her near him. And Evgenia looked on with tears in her own eyes. He was not what she would have wished for Zoya once upon a time, but he was a decent, hardworking man, and she knew he would take good care of Zoya. He had spoken to her only the day before, and she had given him her blessing. She was feeling weaker day by day, and she was terrified that if she died there would be no one to take care of Zoya. She had to marry him now, for her grandmother's peace of mind. But Zoya had no idea what they had planned, as she thanked him warmly for the perfume. He had given her grandmother an embroidered shawl and a book of Russian poems. And Zoya was embarrassed that all they had bought him was a clean notebook and a book about Russia.
She had found it at a bookseller's on the Quai d'Or-say, at an ugly little stand, but it was in French, and she thought he might like it. But not nearly as much as she liked the perfume.
Her grandmother quietly slipped away with her gifts, and softly closed her bedroom door, silently wishing him success, and praying that Zoya would be wise and accept him.
“You must have spent every penny you had” she chided him as she prodded the fire with a long metal poker and Sava wagged her tail as she watched her. ‘That was foolish, but kind, Antoine. Thank you so much. I will use the perfume for special occasions.” She had already decided to wear it two weeks later on Russian Christmas. She didn't want to waste it before that.
He sat down in the chair across from hers and took a breath, trying to muster up his courage. He was thirteen years older than she, but he had never been so frightened in his life. Even Verdun had been less terrifying than facing Zoya.
“I wanted to talk to you about a special occasion, Zoya. Now that you mention it.” He could feel his palms grow damp as she watched him strangely.
“What does that mean?”
“It means …” He could feel his heart pound. “It means … I love you.” She could hardly hear the words, but she stared at him in amazement.
“You what?”
“I love you. I've loved you since the day I arrived here. Somehow, I thought that you suspected.”
“Why would I ever suspect that?” She looked both startled and angry. He had spoiled everything. How could they be friends now if he was going to be so stupid. “You don't even know me!”