Just as she had promised herself, Galina never did tell her Papa what, exactly, troubled her thoughts. Well in truth, she could not have truly articulated this thing herself, the strange melancholy that had stolen her peace since San Jose. A wolf caged by bars of her own making, Galina had paced restlessly through the her suite of rooms, alternately dozing well into the greater part of the day or chasing sleep that eluded her into the wee darkest hours of the night for weeks on end. There was no solace to be found on her knees in prayers in the family chapel; or endless hours horseback, galloping through the primeval forests of western Russia. 

Baron Demidov worried. Yet no amount of worry, no amount of cajoling or wheedling, teasing or indulging would so much as see Galina admitting a thing in her world was amiss. And so when the next call to duty came, there was precious little he could do but exactly as he must, and send the Night Wolf to hunt their quarry.

Only her elderly nursemaid Klara accompanied Galina up the gangplank of the immense ocean liner. A stately vision in shades of somber grey and black, the lack of true color belied the first sardonic hint of a smile that graced Galina's lips in some time. 

Yes, it was a delicious bit of irony, the name of this grand, elegant ship, emblazoned on her prow:

[i][b]RMS Empress of Japan[/i][/b]

[center]**********[/center]

Galina was settled into a deck chair, the lengths of her skirt covered with a soft blanket. Klara had long been asleep in the chair next to her, and she watched the elderly woman dozing so peacefully, the light of a genuine fondness about her dark eyes. Truly, in Galina's mind this cruise was as much a gift to her beloved nursemaid, as it was a means to her ends. Klara had cradled her as a little girl, just as she cradled her mother. It was Klara's high, sweet voice that sang both her beloved little girls to sleep on many a night; the hands that soothed small hurts and taught her letters...

Galina reached to the elderly woman, so gently running one finger over Klara's age-spotted hand before returning to her lap, and to the book she had perched there. A small, contented sigh escaped as she lifted the tumbler of vodka to her lips, taking a sip before setting it back to the deck table. Yes, Dostoevsky's [i]"Crime and Punishment"[/i] seemed an oddly apropos choice this day.