When it’s over, he doesn’t pull away. He stays inside me, arms wrapped tightly around my body. He reaches for the throw on the chair and pulls it over us, settling me against his chest. The fire crackles low, embers glowing. He runs his hands through my hair over and over, the sensation lulling me into a near trance.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he says. “No matter what.”
“I know.”
CHAPTER 35
AMALIE
“I’m glad you’re back.”
Winter hasn’t quite loosened its grip in the cemetery. The grass is pale, the trees bare, branches reaching into what at this point feels like an eternal gray sky. Sasha walks beside me, bundled in his coat and hat, his small hand tucked into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I glance down at him, my chest tightening at his words. “I’m glad too, sweetheart.”
He nods, satisfied, and keeps walking. He’s been saying things like that a lot in the few days since my abrupt departure and return—little, quiet affirmations slipped into conversation or said during our art work sessions.I like when you’re here.Papa likes it when you’re here too. You’re staying, right?
I glance over my shoulder. Andrei’s watching us from the car, dressed in a long herringbone coat and dark sunglasses.
“Here it is,” Sasha says, lifting his free, mittened hand and gesturing toward a grave.
Elena Barinov’s stone is simple—elegant but not showy. There’s her name, date of birth and death, and the words “Loving Mother and Wife.” Flowers are arranged neatly at the base. But what catches my eye are the painted stones around it.
Dozens of them. Small smooth river stones, each one painted with care. Some are covered in bright colors, some decorated with careful designs. Others have little scenes painted on them. They, like the wall in his room, reflect Sasha’s growth as an artist.
A tear forms in my eye, and I quickly wipe it away.
“Why stones?” I’d asked him one time while we were doing our work.
“Papa always brings flowers,” he’d answered, his eyes locked on his project. “But they always die. Stones will stay there forever.”
“Great point.”
Sasha crouches and carefully pulls one stone from his coat pocket. He painted it yesterday afternoon, his tongue stuck out in concentration. It’s blue with a yellow star and a little red heart.
“For Mama,” he says softly.
He sets it gently among the others, adjusting the position until it sits just right. Then he places his small hand on the stone marker.
“Hi, Mama,” he says. “I had tennis today. And art. And Amalie is back. Papa says you’d like her.”
My throat closes.
“I miss you,” he adds simply.
There’s no drama in it. No tears. Just a child’s truth. I rest my hand lightly on his shoulder.
After a moment, he stands. “She listens,” he says, very matter-of-fact. “Mama does.”
“I think you’re right about that,” I tell him.
He looks up at me, eyes serious. “You’re not leaving again, are you?” The question isn’t panicked. It’s careful. Brave.
I crouch in front of him so we’re at eye level. “No,” I answer honestly. “I’m here.”
He studies my face, searching for any hint that I’m not being sincere. Then he smiles. “Okay.”
We stand together for another minute, the colorful stones bright against the muted winter ground.
