“That was generous,” the Courier says. “Now you work.”
I don’t answer him. I stare at the empty screen and hold the last image of my daughter in my mind. Her mouth forming the words. Her hand gripping his sleeve.
If she remembers. If she repeats it. If he hears every part and fills the gaps. If he can move before the Courier shifts me again.
I sit very still at the small table, my palms flat against the wood.
19
SERGEI
The screen goes black.
For a second I keep staring at my own reflection in the dark glass with my hands laid flat on the desk. The air in the room feels heavy and still.
Nadia shifts on my lap. Her fingers twist in the fabric of my shirt.
“Papa,” she whispers. “She’s gone again.”
I pull my eyes away from the screen and look at her. Her face is blotchy from crying and her hair sticks up in soft pieces. My heart begins to ache for her, and I gather her in my arms. “She’s not gone, little angel,” I softly tell her. “She’s alive, just not here. But alive is good. Alive means we’re going to find her and bring her home.”
She sucks in a breath and nods, but I see the doubt.
Anastasia stands a few steps away, shoulders hunched, eyes red. She’s holding a glass of water in both hands, but she hasn’t taken a drink. “What now?” She asks quietly.
“Now we work,” I answer curtly. I shift Nadia onto the chair beside mine and turn her to face me. I crouch so my eyes are level with hers.
“Little star,” I say. “The song. Do you remember what Mama sang?”
She nods fast. “Yes. I remember. I tried to hold it in my head.”
“Good,” I say with an approving nod. “We go slow now. You tell me every line, even the parts you think are silly. I’ll write them down. There is no wrong answer. If you forget something, you tell me that too.”
I pull a pad and pen from the drawer. My hand feels too big for it, but I force the pen to move steadily. “Start from the beginning.”
She scrunches her face, then starts. “Little house on the narrow white lake,” she says. “Tall dark trees and one crooked birch.”
“Tall dark pines,” I say. “Did she say pines or trees?”
Nadia frowns. “Pines,” she says after a second. “She said pines before. Trees later.”
I write it down.
“Next,” I say.
“Old stone dam where the water runs thin,” she says slowly. “Road from the city with the broken third bridge.”
Her small tongue trips on “third”. She says it again until it comes out clean. I write every word.
Anastasia steps closer. “You think this is a code?” she asks, brows knit together
“I know it is a code,” I reply. “Stay back, Nastya. Let her talk.”
She stops, realizing I’m not in the headspace to explain things to her. Her eyes move from me to Nadia and back. “Second verse,” I say to Nadia. “The one with the town.”
She takes a breath.
“Snow on the road past Klin’s cold sign,” she says carefully. “Blue roof line and carved red birds. Old well ring with three iron hooks. Two hours north when the roads stay clean.”
