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Music echoes through the woods as I make my way toward Lavender House. Happy and vibrant. A celebration. As I break through the final line of trees, lanterns bob into view like vila lights. A crowd of people are gathered, dressed in fine, festive attire. The Lavanda Gala.

The night of our engagement.

The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Nikola must’ve recovered from his grief.

I hover beside a tree, momentarily entranced by the revelry. A ring of guests, arms linked, dance a lively kolo, while others linger by long tables covered in food. I can’t tell what’s being served, but oh, it must be so delicious and decadent. My mouth waters as one foot moves toward the tables, but I stop myself. I cannot think of that now. Nikola and our child must come first.

A man separates from a group, making his way toward the workshop. I recognize his tall, lean figure instantly. Nikola looks handsome as ever in his embroidered vest, if not more. I watch as he enters the workshop alone. Here is my chance.

Ducking low, I skirt the edge of the field. I pray the guests are too distracted to notice as I flit around the structure—I don’t want them to discover my wonderful news before Nikola. My heart pounds double time once I am before the door. Twin heartbeats. My miracle. My salvation.

This is it, Majko. The night my life is changed.

Nikola even left the door slightly open, as if he is expecting me.

As soon as I enter, I am greeted by that familiar earthy scent—the floral mix of oils, the faint scent of tobacco. As I gaze at the shelves laden with books and bottles, a calm washes over me. The same calm that always seeped into me while in this place with Nikola. Our sanctuary.

A crash snaps me out of my reverie. Nikola stumbles back, knocking over a bucket. His eyes are wide with fear, as if a dangerous creature has wandered in. I check the door in a panic—but there is nothing. Only me.

“Magdalena? Is that you?”

My concern vanishes at the sound of my true name.

“Nikola.” My voice scrapes out, dry and hoarse. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken aloud, since I’ve said anything to another person. I clear my throat, trying again. “It is good to see you.”

“What are you doing here? I told you to leave me alone.” His tone is stern, clashing against my calm. As his hand gropes for the iron chain on the wall, a sharp pang cuts through me. Is he still clinging to that nonsense?

No matter. What I reveal will vanquish it.

“I have something to tell you.”

His eyes harden, water clenching into ice, but he remains silent. Listening.

“I am pregnant,” I say, caressing my stomach. At my touch, I swear I feel the slightest kick. As if the child knows its father is near. Joy billows in me fast and full, like a sail catching the wind.

When I glance up, Nikola’s face is ashen, his body stiff as stone. “What?” he whispers.

“I am pregnant,” I say more firmly, smiling wide. “With your child. You are going to be a father.”

There is a long silence. I wait for Nikola to acknowledge my news, to smile back, to bless God for this miracle as I did. But he only stares blankly ahead. Finally, he speaks in a low, heavy voice. “That . . . that cannot be possible.”

“But it is. Feel here.” I rush closer, reaching for his hand, but he recoils.

“No, it cannot be because I—I’m getting married.”

“Yes, I know we’re getting married.” It is not ideal to be pregnant before the wedding, but the people will understand. “But—don’t you think you should ask me first?” I give him a coy look, smoothing my skirt.

He blinks, again and again, his eyebrows converging as if he’s confused. “I’m not marrying you,” he stutters.

My breath whooshes out of me. “What do you mean?”

“I’m marrying Dobrila.”

No. My heart plummets like a heavy anchor slicing to the bottom of the sea. Her pale face when she saw my drawing flashes before me. You must be delusional. To think he would ever want you.

Did she know? Had it already been arranged? Vitriol rises in me like a slow-building tide, making my stomach turn. Am I dreaming? How could he be engaged to that wretch? Now it is my turn to say, “It cannot be. You said—you said that I’d make a beautiful bride. That you loved me.”

“I never said that.” Nikola stands taller, his figure stiffening as hard as his words.