Selling the dogs, for a pittance; their kopecks and roubles no good here. Hiking and scavenging their way to Espoo, praying—as Natasha said with tears—that somebody could tell them of Sven, and his family. And now she and her young saviour, who had risked his own life to bring her to freedom, were here. It was a dream. . . .

Katrinka and Alfred were sobbing; Sven was wiping his eyes, Marianne clapping her hands. But Aud said nothing. She had shrunk back into the background after laying the fire.

Pyotr, Sven recalled, was gazing at her, gazing at her as though he had never seen anything more beautiful. And as Sven watched in amazement, his daughter had lowered her eyes, shyly, then glanced back up in Pyotr’s direction. And then she did something she very rarely did, indeed never other than at mealtimes.

She smiled.

Even in the midst of his joy at Tasha’s safe return, and his fascination with the harrowing tale of her flight across the steppes, Sven had not been able to repress the mundane hope that flared instantly in his heart. It was a straw—how could a man like Pyotr, a death-defying Russian adventurer, ever be interested in his lumpen pudding of a daughter?

“So, Tasha, Pyotr,” he asked. “The two of you—are you now to marry, are you in love?”

Pyotr answered immediately—again, his gaze steady on Sven’s sister.

“No,” he said. “Natasha and I are only friends. I did my duty by her as a Christian. She is still wed in the eyes of God, and besides, there is the wide difference in our ages. We will remain friends. Indeed, Natasha tells me it is her dearest wish to see me happily married.” He smiled at Tasha. “Is that not so, my dear?”

She hesitated only a second before responding. “It is, Pyotr ... my dearest wish.”

My God, Sven thought. How ill she looks . . . how grey. . . . As though she were still cold.

“Here, Tasha,” he said. “Have some more meat . . . you need iron.”

Tasha shook her head. “I—I’m not hungry,” she said. A moment before she had been ravenous. Perhaps her stomach had shrunk from her ordeal, and now she was full, Sven thought. “I’m tired,” she said. “So tired . . . In fact, Grandmama, Papa—I think I’ll go to bed. . . .”

“Of course, my dear.” Marianne clucked over her like a chicken. “You shall take our bed, Sven and I will sleep on the couch until something better can be found.” She glanced at Pyotr. “My dear Pyotr, I don’t know quite where we can put you . . .”

“There’s a couch in my room, Mama.” Aud spoke up, startling her mother. “Mr.Vladekovich can sleep there.”

“Thank you.” Pyotr lifted his eyes to hers, and with astonishment, Sven thought he saw interest there. “That’s very kind of you, Aud.”

Maybe more. Maybe . . . desire.