Page 56 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

The house looks used in small ways by people who don’t waste things. A bare apple tree stands near the fence, its branches cut back hard for winter. Behind it, black currant canes line a narrow garden bed, and a rowan tree near the lane holds a few red berries the birds haven’t stripped yet. A stack of split wood sits under a tarp by the porch, and an old broom leans against the wall as if forgotten after use.

Irina looks me over from my face to the coat to the boots, and her expression changes when she sees the way Maksim holds me.

“Come inside, child,” she says. “You need heat and tea before these men start barking orders around my kitchen.”

Maksim gives her a look as he helps me up the porch step. “Irina.”

She waves him off. “I raised you. I know the sound.”

That gets my attention more than the men with guns.

Maksim’s hand stays at my waist as I cross the threshold. The entry is narrow, with hooks crowded by old coats, a bench under them, and a mat lined with cracked boots. Warmth reaches my face, and the smells of soup, wood polish, and old wool settle around me before I can brace for them.

Irina shuts the door behind us and taps the bench with her foot. “Sit if you need to take those off.”

“She’s keeping them on,” Maksim says, eyes on the front window.

Irina reaches for his sleeve and smacks it with two fingers. “She can answer.”

I sit because standing isn’t worth the fight. I look straight at Maksim, and he meets my eyes like he already knows what I need before I say it. “I’m keeping them on for now,” I say.

“Good girl,” Irina says, then turns toward the kitchen. “Tea first, then soup if your stomach behaves.”

Irina gives the orders. For once, Maksim has the look of a man being managed. His cuff rides back when he adjusts the coat around my shoulders, and I catch the edge of black ink at his wrist, old letters worked into the skin near a scar. The marks shift when his fingers tighten on the wool, bending the same way they had when his hand held my jaw and his thumb pressed under my chin. I look away.

Irina calls from the kitchen, “Bring her here, Maksim. She can sit by the window, and you can stop blocking my doorway.”

“I am not blocking it,” he says, but he moves.

“You’ve blocked every doorway since you were nine,” Irina scolds, like she’s done it a thousand times.

Maksim shakes his head, helps me stand, and I take two careful steps into the kitchen.

A white refrigerator stands against the wall with old magnets, a faded church calendar, and a child’s drawing tucked under a red apple magnet. Copper pots hang from hooks over a narrow counter, and a kettle trembles on the stove. A small table sits under the window, covered with a checked cloth and two cups already waiting.

Irina pulls out a chair. “Sit.”

I ease down, and Maksim’s hand stays near my elbow until I’m steady. “Does he take orders from you?” I ask, teasing him.

Irina sets a chipped cup in front of me. “I raised him.”

Maksim’s mouth moves once, almost a smile, before he turns toward the window and checks the yard again. I follow his gaze. A guard passes outside with his phone at his ear and stops near the shed, scans the tree line, then walks on.

Irina pours tea and pushes the cup toward me. “Drink. Small sips.”

I wrap both hands around the cup, and the heat settles into my fingers. “Thank you.”

She nods once, then looks at Maksim. “There are clean sheets upstairs. I opened the old room.”

His face closes fast. “Why?”

“Because someone had to,” she says, and she doesn’t soften it for him.

I look between them, then toward the narrow stairs by the sitting room. “Old room?”

Maksim doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his eyes on the window, and his hand rests near the gun under his jacket. “Attic room.”

Irina adds milk to his tea without asking him. “His room when he was small.”