“It’s a girl!” says the doctor.
A daughter.
A baby girl.
The doctor places her gently on my chest and my arms curl around her instinctively. The warmth of her skin against mine breaks something wide open inside. Tears spill hot down my cheeks, unstoppable. I kiss her damp forehead again and again. Her breath is so soft. Her fingers curl weakly against my chest.
“She’s beautiful,” Tyra murmurs, crying openly. “Look at you, mama.”
Mama.
The word destroys me in the best way. I press my cheek against my daughter’s hair, inhaling her newborn scent, overwhelmed with love so fierce it hurts. Gustav leans over, his shadow enveloping the both of us. His hand trembles as he touches her back with the gentlest fingertip.
“She looks like you,” I whisper.
He shakes his head slowly, staring at her as if she is the first miracle the world has ever produced. “She looks like us. She’s ours.”
His voice breaks. Completely. He bends and kisses my forehead, then my cheek, then the top of the baby’s head, his lips lingering each time as if memorizing us.
Then something taps the window.
Soft.
I turn my head.
A raven sits perched on the stone sill outside. Its feathers are glossy black, its head tilted, watching us through the glass. Its eyes gleam with unsettling intelligence, almost human in depth.
Gustav goes utterly still beside me. Breath held. Shoulders locked.
Barely above a whisper, he breathes, “Mother.”
My blood freezes.
The bird taps again.
My newborn stirs on my chest, tiny hand flexing against my skin.
Gustav’s hand tightens gently over my shoulder.
And the raven keeps watching.
Chapter 51
Peighton
Russia in summer really does look like a different country. I stand at the window, thumbing the silver locket Gustav gave me. My daughter’s weight is warm and solid in my arm.
We’re healthy, yet I strain not to cry.
I should be happy. I’m alive. She’s alive. We made it.
But every time I think that, something tightens in my chest.
Because I can feel it. Gustav is slipping.
I adjust little Vera against my shoulder and sway gently, listening to her soft breaths. She is so small that even weeks later it still scares me. Little fist curled under her cheek. Jet black hair shiny like her father’s. Sometimes her eyes open and I swear they look storm gray, too. Other times they are newborn dark, and I tell myself I imagined the rest.
I want to believe this is my life. To protect her. Build a family that is better than the one I came from. But my thoughts circle back like vultures. My dad. My mom. Lies. Secrets. And now the way Gustav leaves our bed at night, pacing through the halls, whispering to someone who is not there.
