The Baronessa's dark eyes lifted from her erstwhile study of the carpet, that sweet, effortless smile lighting her face when Souma praised her halting attempts to share what little her spotty English would allow. It seemed she had found this most perfect of companions tonight. One not merely polite to a young woman whose language skills were still far less than adept; but who was genuinely kind, his demeanor and interest neither pretentious nor feigned as they ambled along the gallery.

Wolves, of course, were not moved by such pleasantries. Not by the warmth of his smile nor the light of dawning understanding as – even in her halting English – Souma genuinely tried to see what that special quality was, that made the works of Monet and his Impressionist brethren of such significance. 

[i]Certainly[/i] not by the fact that he then asked the opinion of the Baronessa, concerning any pieces she favored, without the least attempt to impress her with his own knowledge or lofty opinions. 

Moved? Touched? Psh… Such foolishness, best left to silly, moon-eyed girls who read far too many Jane Austen novels. 

Still wearing the guise of the guileless, Galina’s gaze traveled along the length of the mezzanine, past the few other couples absorbed in their own conversations and ruminations, toward the true prize at the end of this hallway. That the entranceway leading to the third floor also stood quite near a painting she not only recognized, but created by an artist she truly revered? 

Yes truly, a sign of God’s favor this night.

Smiling her understanding of the young man’s question, without a word the Baronessa nodded, and then waved that he should accompany her still further down the hall. Effortlessly interlacing her arm in his, the elegant pair traversed the mezzanine until she stopped before a painting of near photographic realism. The image was of a forest, thick and overgrown though a muddy dirt path wound through it. The silence and stillness were near palpable features of this scene, the water in the puddles without ripple or disturbance in this dense, almost primeval growth. Yes, man had been here, had even had the temerity to build himself a road through this place. And yet one could not escape the feeling that his presence meant precious little to the true denizens of these woods: to the trees themselves. 

And at the horizon where the dirt road seemed to meander into a place the viewer could not follow, the sky was lit with the haunting light, that brief moment in time where the heavens are painted a pale reddish orange glow, a gentle fire just before the sun rises to its fuller splendor, or dies to the night.

“Ivan Shishkin,” the Baronessa said, her eyes taking in the fullness of the scene with a soft, wistful sigh of some unnamed emotion, one she knew reached all the way to the wolf. “He is [i]russkiy[/i] – Russian, yes? Is English word?”

Galina knew very well the name of this painting was “Twilight,” but this was a word the Baronessa certainly would not yet have in her repertoire. And even is she did, it was not as if this piece required a single word from her, to add to the understanding of the solemn dignity of this work. 

Most [i]certainly[/i] not by the idle chatter of an art-loving ingénue. 

“I know this place,” she said softly, her words no more than a whisper under her breath as Galina’s thoughts traveled homeward, to the sound of horse hooves on hard-packed dirt, to the feel of powerful equine flesh beneath her and the company of her brothers-in-arms as they rode into the coolness of the night.