He looks at me then. For the first time since the hospital, something almost uncertain crosses his face. It’s gone quickly, but I see it.
My heart shifts. “What is it?”
He holds out his hand. “Come.”
I take it.
He leads me upstairs slowly, matching my pace without making it obvious. We pass our bedroom, then continue down the hall toward the east wing. That part of the house has always been quieter, partly unused, with rooms I’ve never had reason to enter.
At the end of the corridor, he stops outside a half-open door.
I smell paint. Fresh paint.
I look at him. “Yaromir?”
He pushes the door open.
The room beyond is bright with afternoon light. At first, I only see the drop cloths on the floor, the ladder near the wall, the paint cans lined along the skirting board. Then the rest of it comes into focus.
A crib still in pieces near the window.
Shelves newly installed but empty.
A rocking chair covered in cloth.
One wall painted a soft green. Not blue, not pink, something gentle and warm that makes the whole room feel like spring even in the middle of cold weather.
I stare at Yaromir. “You did this?”
“I started.”
“You painted this?”
“Some of it.”
“Yourself?”
His mouth tightens slightly. “Yes.”
I walk into the room slowly.
The paint smell is strong but not unpleasant. The walls are only half-finished, one side still taped off, another waiting fora second coat. There’s a small brush lying across the tray, abandoned as if he left in the middle of working.
The image forms in my head.
Yaromir Volkov, feared across the city, standing in this room alone with a paintbrush in his hand, painting a nursery for a child smaller than a secret.
My throat closes. “You said surprise,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“I thought it would be jewelry.”
“I can still buy you jewelry.”
I turn to him. He looks almost defensive.
That makes me cry.
