Free The Keeper of the Walls by Monique Raphel High

He sat down near her.
    â€œI have heard much about you. You and your father have accomplished a virtual miracle of readaptation. The fate of the Russian exiles has touched our hearts. To have to leave such a beautiful country . . .”
    â€œFrance, too, is beautiful. But you, Madame, unless I am mistaken, are not French.”
    She inclined her head, smiling. “How good an ear you have, Prince Mikhail. I was born in Belgium. I am, naturally, a French citizen, but my formative years were spent elsewhere. And you? Are you planning to become French now?”
    He sighed. “Unless it becomes a necessity, I doubt it. I shall always be a Russian. I would see it as a form of treason to abandon my citizenship. My family is from Kiev, which is where Russia first began. But I don’t wish to bore you.”
    It was strange, but he was closer in years to this woman than to her daughter. Only ten years separated him from Claire, but fifteen from Lily. Perhaps that was too much. He was afraid his thoughts would betray him, though, after all, sooner or later he would have to come forward and speak for the girl. He wondered where she was, and, without thinking, turned around.
    She said, softly: “Lily is supervising the cook, and our tea. She will be here presently.”
    He felt the blood rushing to his cheekbones. “You have a most special daughter, Madame. Direct, unpretentious—when she is without doubt the most beautiful woman I have seen in France—with the exception of her mother, of course. Mademoiselle Liliane takes after you.”
    â€œThank you, Prince Mikhail. But my daughter is not sophisticated. She wouldn’t know how to be pretentious. She comes from a completely different world—one which must be understood and handled with tact and gentleness.”
    Was she advising him not to hurt her daughter? He said, somewhat harshly: “Her brother doesn’t always take this precaution.”
    â€œClaude is another kind. He’s like our French youth, more concerned with material things than with things spiritual. He’s not a bad boy, but he isn’t like Lily, and he gets impatient with her sometimes.”
    â€œHe doesn’t understand what a rare privilege it is for him to have such a sister.”
    Claire regarded him fully. “Quite the contrary,” she murmured. “He knows it only too well.”
    Misha caught the expression in her eyes, and froze. He glanced surreptitiously around him, and the sense of claustrophobia that had enveloped him from the start became more acute, more pressing. He had a feeling that somehow, some way, Claire was asking him to take Lily out of this house, to protect her. At this moment he instinctively glanced around again. Lily was coming in, and behind her came the maître d’hôtel carrying the tea tray.
    She was wearing a “one-hour dress,” so named for the simplicity of its execution. It had wide, kimono sleeves and a simple skirt that reached the middle of her calf. It was a green dress, and at her ears she wore tiny emeralds. He watched the progression of her legs and had to rise hastily before appearing rude. She’d worn a full-length evening gown the first time, and her shapely calves had been hidden in yellow muslin. She wore her brown hair low over her forehead and ears but tucked into a Psyche knot at the back of her head. Her tallness pleased him again, as it had the first time.
    Lily smiled, but he could see the strain on her face. “Your Excellency,” she said.
    â€œMademoiselle Liliane.”
    Lily sat down on the other side of her mother, and the servant disposed the tea tray laden with pastries and the teapot, with a hot-water pot and a pitcher of cream, the sugar bowl and the dish with the cut-up lemon slices. Claire busied herself pouring, and Lily’s eyes, so frank and unassuming, met Misha’s over her mother’s bent head. He thought: She’s exactly what