“The scandal! I can’t anger the tsar…. But if I accept: The scandal! I can’t bear it.”

“What scandal? There’s nothing scandalous about behaving like the English. Well, there’s Afghanistan….” She refrains from the tirade she’s about to deliver to Sergei because she realizes what he’s just said. “Anger the tsar? Why would he be angry with you?” She barely manages to stop herself from saying it in time; she knows her husband would explode, and she closes her eyes so they don’t betray her. “Don’t even think about rejecting his request!”

“Behaving like the English? What on earth are you talking about, Claudine? You can’t listen to what I’m saying for more than two minutes?”

“Sergei, my love,” she feigns patience; the softness of her voice infuriates Sergei.

“Don’t start with your ‘my loves.’ Don’t you dare ‘my love’ me!” He’s livid. He doesn’t have outbursts like this with anyone except his wife.

“I don’t know what to do with you, Sergei. Sergei, Sergei,” Claudia lets her soft gaze rest on him, but he doesn’t notice because he’s staring out the window. He breathes deeply; he wants to calm down. He’s so angry, he can’t see a thing. Claudia lets her gaze follow his out the window, where bright snow falls like tiny diamonds. “Sergei, Sergei,” she keeps repeating, without paying him any attention, enjoying the silent dazzle of the flakes.

Before she finishes her rosary of Sergeis, he mutters, voice still choked by anger, jaw set, hands in fists, “It’s not my problem…. Don’t you see? Don’t you realize?” And he adds, as if to himself, “You can’t, because you’re so stubborn, or unfeeling. Like the English! How could you say such a thing? It’s the last straw!”

Claudia doesn’t hear the rest. The joy of seeing the light refracted in the snow is like an electric charge: intense, lightning quick, and uncomfortable, too, because of its inopportune timing.

In less time than it takes to describe this sensation, Claudia has moved on, slipped out into the kitchen, where she knows she should return.

The yeast that has been in her family for generations has turned a strange color, which worries the cook, Lantur (who knows where her name comes from). Lantur had shown “Young Claudia” the tray of dough, waving her flour-covered hands and dirtying Claudia’s dress. Lantur expected Claudia to respond as she usually did, dismissing her concerns, saying, “It’s nothing, Lantur, nothing, back to work!” But instead Claudia’s expression had changed when she looked at the dough, and though she tried to compose herself (“I’m going to look in on Sergei, I’ll be right back”), when she rushed out as quickly as she had rushed in, it was clear that the dough boded ill: “Now we’re in trouble.”