Page 2

Nobody hears it. Milana’s already asking Zhenya whether the gala photograph shows his butt. Arina tells her not to be a child. Evaria drifts in, smiling at her phone, and asks if there’s any coffee left. There’s always coffee left. I made a full pot at six because I knew she’d come down at nine wanting some.

I pour her a cup. Milk, no sugar. She doesn’t look up from her phone when she takes it.

That’s fine. I like knowing what people need. It’s the one thing in this house I’ve always been good at.

At nine forty-five, I change my dress for the fourth time.

I end up in the green one, soft wool with long sleeves, because Mama had one the same color in an old photograph on Papa’s desk. My hair’s too fine to do anything interesting with, so I brush it until it shines and leave it down. Light brown, like hers. Brown eyes, like hers. Everyone says I look the most like her.

I’m the only one who doesn’t remember her clearly enough to know if that’s true.

I put on mascara. Then I worry it looks like I’m trying too hard and nearly take it off again.

The doorbell rings at ten o’clock exactly.

I’m halfway down the stairs when Milana runs past me in her socks and gets to the door first. I stop on the bottom step with my hand on the banister. She swings the door wide and says, “Hi, you must be Caleb, I’m Milana, the fun one.”

The man on the doorstep doesn’t smile.

He’s tall. Taller than Garick, though not as broad as Theo. He’s in a dark wool coat over a charcoal sweater, with dark hair cut short and neat and a face that’s more severe than handsome. His jaw is clean-shaven and his mouth is a straight line. He stands very still, the way some men do when they’re used to rooms where moving too fast gets you shot.

And his eyes are gray. The pale, flat gray of the lake in February.

They move past Milana, over the hallway, the coats on the hooks, the stairs.

Then they stop on me.

“Galana,” he says with a nod in my direction.

His voice is low, unhurried. He doesn’t say it like a question. He says it like he’s been waiting to say it.

“Hello,” I manage.

“Come in, come in.” Milana’s already got hold of his sleeve. “Galana made food. Galana always makes food. You’re going to have to eat some or she’ll cry.”

“I won’t cry,” I say, rolling my eyes with a sigh. It’s not like we haven’t all been crying. Either about the loss of our father, or the fact that his will stipulates we have to all get married within thirty days of his funeral.

He looks at me again. Just for a second. Then he wipes his feet on the mat, very thoroughly, and steps inside.

They put him in Papa’s armchair. I don’t know who decides that, and I don’t think anyone does. One minute he’s in the hallway, and the next Arina’s steering him into the living room, Zhenya’s following with her laptop like a court stenographer, and he’s sitting in the big leather chair by the fireplace that nobody’s touched since Papa died.

I carry in the tray. Tea, syrniki, sour cream, the cherry jam.

There aren’t enough seats. Arina takes the end of the sofa. Zhenya takes the other end, Evaria perches on the arm, and Milana flops into the other armchair. I set the tray down and sit on the floor by the coffee table, because that’s where I always end up.

Caleb looks at me on the floor, then he stands up.

The room goes quiet. Milana’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline.

“Sit,” he says to me, and gestures at the armchair.

“Oh. No, it’s fine, I...”

“Please.”

He doesn’t move. He just stands there beside Papa’s chair with his hands at his sides, waiting, until I understand that he isn’t going to sit back down while I’m on the floor.

My face goes hot. I sit on the very edge of the chair. It still smells of cigars.