eyes, the very image of a beautiful child. He pressed his lips to Alexei’s warm cheek, prolonging the kiss as long as he could, imprinting it upon his memory.
“Must you go?” she said, a gleaming tear making its way down her cheek.
“Yes. There’s nothing left of us,” Hawke said, a profound sadness in his voice despite his attempt to be strong. Her reply was barely above a whisper.
“All that’s left to us is love.”
Hawke pulled away, unable to bear what he saw in her eyes. He kissed his son on the forehead.
“Good-bye, Alexei. Good-bye, Anastasia. Keep safe, will you both? Stay well, Alexei. Grow up into a big strong boy so you can take care of your mother. Will you, son? Promise your father that, all right?”
Hawke’s heart broke then, and he quickly turned away, the words of farewell in his throat straining with sadness. The conductor was sounding the final whistle, the last call. He tossed his old leather satchel and Peter’s sword aboard and then grabbed the rung and climbed up to the bottom step. He determined to remain there, and to do so as long as he could see the two of them.
“Good-bye, my darling,” Anastasia said. “Take our love with you and keep it safe.”
The train began to move, slowly at first, and Anastasia began moving with it, walking alongside at the same speed as the train, clutching her baby, seemingly unable to let Hawke go, let him fall away from her sight. He hung there on the lower steps, one hand clenched on the cold steel grip, as the train gathered speed.
She was running now, dangerously fast, trying hard to keep up and he feared she would fall, trip in the mushy snow, the baby in her arms and—
“Whatever happens,” she called out to him through her tears, “I’ll love you just as I do now until I die.”
He started to warn her, but suddenly she was reaching out to him. Reaching out with both arms, running beside the train and at the very last possible moment she did it.
She handed Alexei up to him.
He gathered the child in with his one free arm and brought him quickly to the safety of his chest, staring down at her with disbelief.
“Anastasia, what—what are you—”
She cried out, straining to be heard above the gathering speed of the train, “He’s yours, my darling. He’s all I have to give.”
Hawke, his eyes blurred with hot tears, had a last impression of that beautiful haunted face, the tortured eyes, the drawn mouth. He held his son tightly and watched Anastasia for as long as he could, standing there all alone on the deserted platform, a small solitary figure waving good-bye to the two of them forever.
Seven
The Red Arrow
B abies cry. So do new fathers. Alexander Hawke sat on the deep, plush carpeted floor of the luxurious ivory and gilt two-room train compartment, rocking his child in his arms. Both of them were weeping copiously. One did so loudly, at times violently, screaming red-faced, demanding his mother. The other did so silently, his own red eyes periodically welling and spilling a potent mixture of indissoluble happiness and sadness.
Some time after leaving the station, they could still be found sitting there when the luxury train’s concierge peeked in the door and said, “I beg your pardon. Tickets and papers, please?”
Hawke looked up from the floor and smiled at the woman.
“My own ticket is inside the pocket of that black leather jacket hanging over the armchair. This young fellow here doesn’t have one, I’m afraid.”
“How old is he?”
“Three. Today’s his birthday.”
“A free ride for him, then, on his birthday,” she said kindly, removing the ticket envelope from Hawke’s jacket and inspecting the contents.
Hawke put his lips beside his son’s ear and whispered.
“See, Alexei? You were right! Three really is ‘ free .’ Magic. You’ve always got to be on the lookout for it.”
The concierge was a woman of ample proportions in a tailored dark green uniform with red piping at the wrists
“Must you go?” she said, a gleaming tear making its way down her cheek.
“Yes. There’s nothing left of us,” Hawke said, a profound sadness in his voice despite his attempt to be strong. Her reply was barely above a whisper.
“All that’s left to us is love.”
Hawke pulled away, unable to bear what he saw in her eyes. He kissed his son on the forehead.
“Good-bye, Alexei. Good-bye, Anastasia. Keep safe, will you both? Stay well, Alexei. Grow up into a big strong boy so you can take care of your mother. Will you, son? Promise your father that, all right?”
Hawke’s heart broke then, and he quickly turned away, the words of farewell in his throat straining with sadness. The conductor was sounding the final whistle, the last call. He tossed his old leather satchel and Peter’s sword aboard and then grabbed the rung and climbed up to the bottom step. He determined to remain there, and to do so as long as he could see the two of them.
“Good-bye, my darling,” Anastasia said. “Take our love with you and keep it safe.”
The train began to move, slowly at first, and Anastasia began moving with it, walking alongside at the same speed as the train, clutching her baby, seemingly unable to let Hawke go, let him fall away from her sight. He hung there on the lower steps, one hand clenched on the cold steel grip, as the train gathered speed.
She was running now, dangerously fast, trying hard to keep up and he feared she would fall, trip in the mushy snow, the baby in her arms and—
“Whatever happens,” she called out to him through her tears, “I’ll love you just as I do now until I die.”
He started to warn her, but suddenly she was reaching out to him. Reaching out with both arms, running beside the train and at the very last possible moment she did it.
She handed Alexei up to him.
He gathered the child in with his one free arm and brought him quickly to the safety of his chest, staring down at her with disbelief.
“Anastasia, what—what are you—”
She cried out, straining to be heard above the gathering speed of the train, “He’s yours, my darling. He’s all I have to give.”
Hawke, his eyes blurred with hot tears, had a last impression of that beautiful haunted face, the tortured eyes, the drawn mouth. He held his son tightly and watched Anastasia for as long as he could, standing there all alone on the deserted platform, a small solitary figure waving good-bye to the two of them forever.
Seven
The Red Arrow
B abies cry. So do new fathers. Alexander Hawke sat on the deep, plush carpeted floor of the luxurious ivory and gilt two-room train compartment, rocking his child in his arms. Both of them were weeping copiously. One did so loudly, at times violently, screaming red-faced, demanding his mother. The other did so silently, his own red eyes periodically welling and spilling a potent mixture of indissoluble happiness and sadness.
Some time after leaving the station, they could still be found sitting there when the luxury train’s concierge peeked in the door and said, “I beg your pardon. Tickets and papers, please?”
Hawke looked up from the floor and smiled at the woman.
“My own ticket is inside the pocket of that black leather jacket hanging over the armchair. This young fellow here doesn’t have one, I’m afraid.”
“How old is he?”
“Three. Today’s his birthday.”
“A free ride for him, then, on his birthday,” she said kindly, removing the ticket envelope from Hawke’s jacket and inspecting the contents.
Hawke put his lips beside his son’s ear and whispered.
“See, Alexei? You were right! Three really is ‘ free .’ Magic. You’ve always got to be on the lookout for it.”
The concierge was a woman of ample proportions in a tailored dark green uniform with red piping at the wrists
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