Vlad lifts one brow. “I let his God watch him,” he says. “But yes. No wires, no devices, no strange friends. He is clean. He fears you more than he fears any rival.”
“I hope that is not true,” I murmur. “I hope he still fears his God more.”
Vlad says nothing. He claps my shoulder once, hard. “You’re ready,” he says.
No. I am not. I’m still walking forward.
Music starts, old church strings, simple and clear. Heads turn toward the back doors.
Nadia appears first.
She wears a white dress with soft sleeves and a sash the color of pale gold. Her hair is in two braids that my aunt worked on for an hour. She carries a small basket full of rose petals in both hands. Her face is serious.
She takes one step down the aisle, then another, and starts to throw petals. They land in little piles instead of neat lines. She frowns, then looks up and sees me.
Her whole face lights. She grins so wide, I think her cheeks will hurt.
I feel something crack in my chest.
She walks faster. The priest coughs lightly. She slows again, remembering. She keeps throwing petals, but now she looks between me and the side door where her mother waits.
When she reaches me, she stops, drops the basket, and grabs my hand.
“You look handsome,” she whispers.
“You look like trouble,” I answer, and my voice shakes.
She squeezes my fingers, then lets go and takes her place to the side, near Aunt Tanya. She stands straight, trying to be grown. Her eyes are huge.
The music shifts.
The side door opens.
Raina steps into the aisle.
For a second the room is too bright. It feels like all the air left and then rushed back.
She wears a dress that is simple and clean. No heavy beads. No long train. The fabric falls straight, soft over her body, moving when she walks. The neckline shows the line of her collarbones and the small mark I left there last week when I let myself forget we had to face other people. Her hair is up, with a few loose strands that frame her face. She wears no veil. She wanted to walk to me with her eyes clear, and I didn’t argue.
She meets my gaze from the first step. She does not look away.
For once, the voices in my head go quiet. No lists. No threats. No plans. Just her, walking toward me, and the knowledge that I didn’t die before this moment.
Halfway down the aisle, I see her swallow hard. Her hands are steady and chin is up. But her eyes shine. She keeps walking.
I hear whispers from the benches. Men who have seen me break bones in back rooms now watch me choke on my own breath because a woman in white is walking toward me with our daughter’s face in her eyes.
Good. Let them see that too.
When she reaches the front, she stops. The priest speaks a few formal words. I barely hear him.
“Who gives this woman?” he asks out of habit. He looks confused when there is no father to step forward.
Raina lifts her chin. “I give myself,” she says.
Some of the old men shift in their seats. The priest’s mouth quirks, but he nods. “So it is,” he says. “Then we begin.”
We stand side by side, facing him. Our hands are empty at first.
