With the kerosene lanterns turned on high, the interior of the general store felt warm and surprisingly cozy as they waited for the count’s response. Liam was completely engrossed in talking baseball with Natalia and Mr. Smitty, a subject guaranteed to bore Gwen into oblivion.

What would Patrick do if she slid her foot along the outside of his ankle? She kicked her shoe off to lift the hem of his trousers with her toe and slide it inside.

Patrick jerked upright but kept staring straight ahead. He pretended not to notice her wandering toes, but a flush quickly stained his cheekbones. She battled a smile as she slid her foot higher. How deliciously fun it was to flirt with her feet as the tedious baseball discussion dragged on.

Count Sokolov must have arrived at the train station to respond to their message, because the telegraph machine suddenly clattered to life with a message from the other side of the world. The message seemed to ramble on and on.

“Is he always this verbose?” Mr. Smitty asked as the ticker tape continued spitting out of the machine.

“Always,” Natalia confirmed.

It took ten minutes for Mr. Smitty to translate the rambling string of Morse code and hand it over to Natalia. Her eyes traveled over the message, and then she read it aloud for the others.

Dearest Natalia. Tragic news. I fear I am about to die, for the beds at this outpost are little better than devices of torture. This morning I awoke in agony from a cramp in my neck. I must chop off my head to ease the misery. It is the only solution. I bid you the fondest of farewells. Dimitri.

Natalia looked at Gwen. “You see what I mean? This is typical, and I’m afraid we will need to exchange several such messages before he is willing to get down to business, but I’ll try to get him on track quickly.”

She dictated her response to Mr. Smitty:

Sir. Please delay the beheading until after I have your vote for the July bank meeting.

It was the first of many exchanges. Count Sokolov’s messages were long-winded and deliberately avoided discussions of “tedious business,” as he phrased it. He complained of the cold and how difficult it was to keep his violin tuned in the semi-arctic climate. When Natalia asked for his authorization to continue funding Blackstone College, the count wanted to know if the college taught poetry and if they agreed with him that Russian poetry was superior to the bland pablum written by American poets. Then he veered off into a discussion of the fragrant juniper berries he’d found, wondering if he should try his hand at distilling perfume.

Natalia glanced at Gwen. “Can juniper berries be used for perfume?”

“Will it move the conversation along if I provide a recipe for him?”

“He will be over the moon.”