"Tea is easy," he says. "We will have fresh hot tea before we have finished checking passports on the other passengers. Cake for the Grand Duchess, though--" He shakes his head. "Where we could find anything suitable for her highness, I am not at all certain. I will look, though."
He claps his hands, and shouts some orders in Russian to two soldiers, who salute and rush off through the train station.
"I will not detain you, of course; but we will give them a bit of time to find something. Tea will be along momentarily."
He is as good as his word on the tea.
As the conductor is yelling for all to board, the soldiers rush back into view, carrying something in a sack. The officer signals for the train to wait, and boards.
"It is not cake," he says, "but it is the best we could do."
He produces a loaf of warm cinnamon raisin bread and a small pot of fresh cream butter.
"The local baker is good at this, and hopes her highness enjoys it."
He is waiting as if for some sign of approval.
--M. J. Young
