The door adorned with a Christmas wreath swung open. Footsteps hurried past elm chairs carved with laurel branch patterns, stepped over the gift boxes piled beneath the Christmas tree, then squeezed sideways through the crowd in academic robes. A server lowered his tray and placed two plates of cheese on either side of the Mary candlestick. Schiller nodded to him, set down his fork, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"The winds seem favorable, Mr. Alfred. But considering the reactions of the Baltic states, they were bound to have anything but a peaceful Christmas holiday over there."
"Who could deny it?" Alfred, seated opposite Schiller, adjusted his napkin. "The night before I came back, I could hear the busy telephones at the Kremlin even from the airport. This Red Square parade touched quite a few nerves. If Oliver had gone, we would have seen him on this morning's news."
"Then it is best that he did not go. They would definitely have dragged him into the front row and aimed every camera in the country at him. The coverage would have been overwhelming, nearly stealing Jesus's thunder. He might not have appreciated that."
"He certainly would not." Alfred cut off a small piece of cheese. "To him, that would not have been an honor. Oliver was not someone who knew how to enjoy victory; he always felt he had not done enough."
"That was before. Since leaving Mexico and never returning, he had learned to respect the destinies of others and other nations. If he had any regrets, it was perhaps that he had not completely wiped out the Penitent Cartel. But perhaps he would fight them again alongside Black Canary."
"That is how young people are—swift and decisive, never satisfied, dancing all night on the international stage. Yet