Sergei leans back, fingers drumming once against the edge of his desk before curling into a fist. He studies me, then Ivy again. His expression gives nothing away, but his eyes… they flicker with something I recognize instantly. Wariness.
Finally, he exhales through his nose and settles deeper into his chair, as though accepting more of the truth cannot be badgered out of me. “I see.”
For the first time since entering the room, first time since yesterday, actually, Ivy lifts her head and speaks. Her voice is soft, though it doesn’t shake. “I’d like to say goodbye to Yulia before I go. I don’t want to leave before that.”
Sergei’s jaw works slowly. His gaze lingers on Ivy a moment longer before he finally inclines his head once. A clipped nod, but permission, nonetheless. “Go. She is upstairs, still sleeping.”
Ivy exhales, so quietly I almost miss it. She doesn’t thank him. She only turns away from his desk and heads back for the door. After giving Sergei a nod of thanks of my own, I follow her.
One of Sergei’s men peels away from the wall to escort us down the hall. We’re brought up to the second floor, down the west wing where Yulia’s wildly decorated door lies. Outside it, Ivy’s hand lifts to wrap around the knob, hesitating just before she touches it.
I watch her closely, taking in the pull of her brows and the way her other hand lifts to almost brush the bruises coloring her face.
“She won’t see them,” I tell her, using two fingers to press along the inside of her wrist, pulling it away from her face. “It will still be dark in her room.”
Her eyes glance over at me, her throat bobbing when she swallows. She gives me a single, firm nod, and then twists the handle and pushes the door open. We find Yulia curled up in her bed, snuggled down deep under her covers.
I stay by the door, closing it until just a crack separates it from the jamb, giving Ivy the space she needs to say goodbye.
Ivy perches on the edge of Yulia’s small bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Her hand drifts instinctively to the child’s shoulder, fingers rubbing gently through the thin fabric of her nightdress.
Yulia stirs, her face shifting against the pillow, lashes twitching before they slowly lift.
The instant recognition strikes, Yulia lurches upright with a gasp. “Ivy!”
She throws herself into Ivy’s arms with the desperation only a child can muster, her little arms banding tight around Ivy’s neck. The force nearly topples them both off the side of the bed, but Ivy catches herself, laughing softly. She holds Yulia, buries her face in the crook of the girl’s neck, and lets her cling.
“I missed you!” Yulia says, her voice muffled.
Ivy’s shoulders shake once before she steadies herself. I see it even from where I stand, a shudder of emotion threatening to spill over before she forces it back, iron-clad, so Yulia doesn’t catch her crying.
Yulia’s small fingers knot themselves in the fabric of Ivy’s blouse, clinging as if letting go might mean losing her forever. Her voice is muffled against Ivy’s shoulder. “Where did you go? Papa say you with Uncle Maksim.”
Ivy leans back enough to see her face, smiling with an effort I can feel from here. She tucks a few messy strands of hair behind the girl’s ear, smoothing them like it’s the most natural act in the world.
“I was with him. We were on a pretty crazy adventure,” she says softly.
Yulia studies her, her young eyes too sharp for her age. They flicker across Ivy’s features, lingering on the fading bruises. Slowly, hesitantly, her little hands rise. The tips of her fingers tremble as they hover near Ivy’s jaw before brushing with the tenderest touch.
“Who did that?” Her voice comes out small, uncertain.
Ivy’s smile falters but doesn’t vanish. She shakes her head slightly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that I got to see you before I left.”
The word lands heavy, and Yulia’s face falls at once. Her mouth opens, confusion written plain across her features. “Left?”
Ivy swallows, her throat bobbing, before she nods. “I have to go home, Yulia. Back to the States. Back to my family.”
The girl’s lower lip wobbles violently. “No… You can’t.”
Her voice breaks into a sob, small shoulders hunching as if she could curl in on herself and stop the truth from reaching her.
“I’m sorry.” Ivy’s own voice cracks. She pulls Yulia close again, burying her against her chest, her hand cupping the back of the girl’s head. “But I have to.”
From the doorway, I watch silently, my fingers tightening around the handle until the wood creaks beneath my grip. It isan innate cruelty, this parting, this forced separation. One that there is nothing I can do to soften.
But it’s for the best.
“Keep practicing your English, okay? Keep reading and writing. I’ll send you books from America. All the ones we talked about.” Ivy’s voice is gentle but firm.
