“When did the fever start?”
She blinks at the interruption. “Yesterday evening. It was low. It broke overnight, and she seemed fine this morning, so I didn’t?—”
“You didn’t tell me.”
The words come out quieter than I intend, which makesthem land harder. She hears the difference. Her shoulders draw back.
“The fever was mild,” she says carefully. Choosing each word. “It resolved on its own. You had an important dinner to prepare for, and I didn’t want to add unnecessary worry when the situation seemed under control. If I’d had any indication it would return that quickly, I would have?—”
“Elizabeth.” Her name stops her mid-sentence. “If my daughter has a fever, any temperature above normal, at any hour of the day or night, I need to know. Immediately. Not after it resolves. Not after you’ve managed it on your own. Not after you’ve decided whether it warrants my attention. Immediately.”
She swallows. Nods.
I can see it clearly now. She is a woman who has spent her entire life handling crises alone.
“You don’t have to manage everything on your own,” I say. “Not here. Not with her.”
The words surprise me. They surprise her more. I watch the shift in her expression, the brief crack in the composure she maintains so carefully. She recovers quickly, pressing her lips together and straightening.
“It won’t happen again,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
I turn toward Anya’s door. Through the gap Elizabeth left, I can see the crescent moon nightlight casting pale light across the floor. There’s a damp cloth folded neatly on the nightstand beside the bottle of children’s ibuprofen.
“Is she still awake?” I ask.
“She fell asleep about ten minutes ago. She fought it for a while, saying she wanted to wait up for you, but the medicine made her drowsy.”
I rest my hand on the door frame while watching a small body curled around Mr. Whiskers, breathing slowly and steadily, cheeks still carrying the faintest blush of the fever’s aftermath. I could go in, but I know how lightly she sleepswhen she’s been ill, and waking her now would undo the rest Elizabeth worked hard to give her. I’ll see her in the morning.
I turn back to Elizabeth and remember what she did tonight.
She doesn’t know what I am. Not yet.
Standing here, I find myself considering whether the time has come for that to change. If she deserves to understand the precise nature of the man who employs her.
Or whether knowing would be the thing that finally makes her leave.
But then I think about Katarina. She knew exactly who I was, and she exploited it to her advantage. Would Elizabeth do the same?
I’m not ready to find out.
“Goodnight, Elizabeth,” I nod.
“Goodnight, Mr. Belov.”
She moves past me toward her room. She doesn’t look back. Her door closes with a soft, definitive click, and the hallway returns to silence. I’m left with the dense weight of the evening settling across my shoulders.
I started a war tonight because of her.
She doesn’t know it. She may never know it.
But I do.
And I don’t forget debts.
14
ELLIE
