Hugo’s face was open, an innocent question written upon it for any of the girls in the room: “Since I saved you, will you please love me as well?” Incredibly, he saw the answer: yes. All of them. Any of them. He was loved. He wished he could hold on to this moment. He tried to remember it as it was happening, as if this were a guarantee he would always remember it. “I am remembering now so I will never forget.” This was not unlike how, in the combat at Toulgas on the day of the Armistice, he had been aware of his own thinking and thus assured of his immortality.

Which was a sad kind of thought. It was not really how most stories went.

It dawned on Hugo what it would be like to be married to a princess: a blessing, a pain, a blessing again. Love was never the end of the story, but the beginning, and the rest was compromise. He could do it. He was good enough, right now.

And on the other side, three beautiful, virginal faces awaiting a passport to the mythological United States, where people could be elevated by opportunity and talent. All Hugo had to do was ask aloud, and any of them would be his. The air smelled deliciously of just one course from the menu: popcorn.

If only Hugo could have turned away then. If only he could have been genuinely haughty. Then, maybe, counterintuitively, he would have had a chance at his Sunnyside.

Instead, Hugo reached out, and, breaking free from her sisters, the wayward Vasilisa came forth.

“No,” Anna called, for she had seen what was written on Hugo’s face, and she felt disappointment, jealousy, happiness at her sister’s boldness.

Hugo’s heart leapt. Of all the three, Vasilisa had the most frightening spirit, and at his best, he understood that fear, tempered by faith, became love. Having stepped closer, Vasilisa glanced behind her. She did not really know what to do next. Finally, she bit down on her lip and extended her hand, palm cupped.

Hugo smiled. “For me?” he asked.

She nodded quickly.

Hugo stepped closer. His boots slapped against the floor, his woolen trousers rubbed like sailcloth. When he was close enough, he realized he must smell like an animal, but if anything, that seemed to ignite a fire in young Vasilisa’s eyes. He put his hand out gently.

Vasilisa withdrew her hand. She tried to be crafty. “All of us want to go to America,” she said. “Our parents are there. They might be in the photoplays by now. They love us terribly.”

“All right,” Hugo said. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he didn’t need to understand.