The room goes dead still. Even the antique clock on the mantel seems to hold its breath.
"I want to see you married, Igor. Before Christmas. Start your new year on a good note."
The words land like stones in a frozen lake. Igor's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"You don't need to worry about—"
"Idoworry." Her voice cracks, the steel giving way to fear. "You are alone,vnuchek. You have built walls so high no one can climb them. I will not leave this world knowing you will live behind them forever."
"I'm not alone. I have my brothers—"
"Your brothers are not wives. They are not peace." She reaches for his hand, gripping it with surprising strength. "Please. Give me this."
I should leave. This is private. I start to rise, but Galina's other hand shoots out, latching onto mine. She holds us both there—Igor and me, tethered to her by touch.
"Aria," she says, turning those knowing eyes on me. "You understand, yes? What it means to want someone you love to be happy?"
My throat closes. "Yes."
"Good." She squeezes my hand, pulling it fractionally toward Igor’s. "Then you will help me convince this stubborn man."
I look down at the tangle of our fingers on the coverlet. Her pale, translucent skin bridging the gap between my hand andIgor’s deadly one. My eyes widen, and I bite my lip to stop the gasp.
She isn't asking me to give him advice.
The triangle of our hands drains the blood from my face. Galina doesn't just want him married. She is offering up a candidate. She is offeringme.
Panic, sharp and cold, spikes in my veins. I try to pull my hand free, a jerk of instinct to sever the connection, to run before this madness takes root.
I stop.
Igor is watching.
He isn't looking at his grandmother. His gaze is fixed on my hand, watching the way I tried to recoil from him. His expression is unreadable, a mask of carved stone, but his eyes are dark, intelligent, and terrifyingly alert.
He sees the panic. He sees the rejection. And I can’t tell if the narrowing of his eyes is amusement at the absurdity of it, or the cold calculation of a predator realizing the prey just noticed the trap.
"I'll leave you two to talk," I say. I try again to extract my fingers, slower this time.
Galina doesn't let go. "No. Stay."
"Babushka—"
"She stays." Galina's tone brooks no argument. She looks between us, something flickering in her expression despite her exhaustion. "You are both here. You both care for me. This is good."
The silence stretches, taut as a wire. No, no, no this can not be happening. With my family background, I should never even consider getting married. But like any other silly girl I have dreamt of the getting married. But not like this. Not to him.
Igor stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the hardwood. He moves to the window, his back to us, shoulders rigid beneath the crisp white of his shirt.
"I'll consider it," he says finally, his voice flat.
What? Wait, he’ll consider it? What does that even mean?
"You will do more than consider." Galina's words are steel wrapped in velvet. "You will do this for me, Igor. Before the snow falls on Christmas."
He doesn't answer. Just stands there, silhouetted against the winter light, a man carved from stone and silence.
Galina releases my hand, and lies back against her pillows. Her burst of energy drained. "Good. Now, Aria, help me with my tea. And Igor—stay. I want to hear about your day."
