“What are we making today?” he asks.
“What do youwantto make?” I counter.
He gives the question careful thought. “A dragon. But a nice one.”
“A nice dragon?”
“Yeah. Scary and strong, but brave and nice.”
“I love it.”
We settle in side-by-side at the low drawing table. I show him how to sketch the long curve of the body, how to give the wings weight and motion. He leans into it with quietly adorable intensity, his tongue poking out between his lips as he concentrates. Every so often, he looks up at me for approval.
“You’re really good at this,” he says, leaning over to get a look at my dragon.
“Hey, so are you.”
Crayons move across the paper. Outside, snow begins to fall gently. Everything feels calm, safe, and ordinary. But I can’t stop thinking about Viktor’s words.
I glance out of the open door of the art room, toward the hallway, as if Roman might be standing there watching, somehow able to read my mind.
Then I glance at the little boy next to me, carefully coloring his dragon’s wings blue.
Danger might live in this house. But for now, I’ll enjoy the peace.
CHAPTER 9
AMALIE
Sasha and I work on projects all through the morning, taking a little break for lunch before heading back to the art room.His tutor called in sick today, so we’re taking advantage of the extra time to have some fun.
Next is brush painting. I’m not sure if Sasha’s ready yet for easel work, so I decide to start with paper. I tape a few fresh pieces to the table, just like my favorite art teacher, Mrs. Blankenship, did in elementary school.
“Secure the canvas, then let the mind wander,” she’d say.
I set out water cups and clean brushes of different sizes. For the colors, I keep them limited—primary, with a few fun additions like aquamarine. It’s a nice selection without being overwhelming.
“Alright, Sasha. Today we’re going to learn how to paint light.”
His eyes widen. “You can do that?”
“Sure can. Well, on paper at least. Which is still pretty cool.”
First, I show him how to lay down a wash, letting him see how the water does half the work. I guide his small hand here and there, letting him try when he’s ready. Sasha’s careful and surprisingly patient. Some kids can get upset when they can’t quite draw what they have pictured in their minds. Not Sasha. He works steadily, his tongue between his lips as he concentrates.
“There you go, buddy,” I encourage. “Notice how the colors change when you mix them. Being an artist is all about exploring stuff like that, curious about the outcome but remembering how you got there.”
“So, when you want the right color, you know how to do it.”
“Exactly.”
We keep at it. For a little while, I hit that perfect flow state where I get so caught up in my work that the rest of the world just ceases to exist. I put on some Mozart piano sonatas, letting them fill the space as we work. Sasha’s totally in the zone.
Something catches my eye when I stretch, and I look more closely. High in the corner of the room, almost hidden, a camera lens catches the light.
Of course. He’s watching. From wherever he is—his office, his car—he’s watching us right now.I can feel it.
I force myself to relax. This is part of my life now and I might as well get used to it. Besides, watching me isn’t totally out of line. I’m still new, and on top of that, I’m responsible for the most important person in his world.
