21 #4
Julia plugs in a light and it pops on. The glare hits my face and I blink.
I snort. The red tape on the floor shivers in the fan’s airflow, and for a second I picture Alaska posing there and I get a jolt.
I inch half a step forward, then back. The heat sticks to my nape.
I cram my hands into my pockets so I don’t touch her.
We step out and Julia points to the wooden shed.
"Department of Secrets, run by Svet. File in one by one or you’re banned."
"Next." Svet plants herself in the doorway with a rainbow keychain. "Show me your hands. Nothing sticky."
I lean halfway in. Corkboard with notes, Sharpie quotes, stickers of cats wearing glasses, a mini flashlight, a toy padlock hanging from the knob, and two sparkly notebooks with glitter that sticks to your fingers.
"Password of the day," Svet clears her throat: "caviar."
"So humble," I say, and look at the girls’ hands. One has "caviar" painted on her palm, another "caviar?" with a question mark.
"We change it every half hour," Vera says, proud.
"Then you forget it," I point out.
"That’s what the hand’s for." She sticks it in my face without fear. "And if it rains, tough luck. New password: water."
"Checks out," Alaska says from the doorway, leaning on the frame. She looks at me and my heart rate spikes without her even touching me.
We go back to the stone hallway. The adults take turns smiling, one each. I touch my jaw. It’s steel. Inhale through my nose. Exhale.
"This spot’s perfect for the first family photo," Sabina says, eyes technical, already metering the light. She lifts her phone and lowers it. Lifts it again. Lowers it again, frowns, second-guesses the white balance. She loves a production.
"Sabina." Amaia touches her arm, gentle. "Snack first, then you make your movie."
"Fine." Sabina puts her phone away slowly. "I’ll obey. It hurts, but I’ll obey."
"Let’s head to the dining room," Irina says, motioning us along. "There’s fresh-baked bread, raspberry jam, cheese that smells like the truth. If you behave, I’ll bring out cake."
"Today’s the official introduction," Julia tells the whole group. "No speeches, no posing. If a photo happens, let it be candid."
"I promise to behave for ten minutes." Svet raises three fingers. "With overtime if there’s cake."
"Are you all family?" Vega murmurs, while we hang back a little.
"Not all of us," I answer. "We’ve got a bit of everything: blood ties, friends, people who’ve worked with Irina for years, and people who are here because they trust us. It works."
"And you?" Alaska cuts in, not quite looking at me, with that pop-quiz tone. "What are you here?"
"I’m family—I told you. I grew up here, I get scolded here, and I’m here for the good stuff and the crap you just have to put up with."
I say it and get nervous and proud at the same time. Both fit in my body without a fight. Alaska nods without much fanfare. The corner of her mouth twitches; she jots something in her mental notebook and leaves a half-formed smile that never quite lands.
We head toward the east wing. Julia had a very long table put in "so this family learns to talk without yelling." Her intent isn’t hard to read. We pass the paintings and Svet plants herself in front of one of a young Mikhail. She studies the profile for a long beat, totally focused, and finally tugs Irina’s sleeve.
"He looks like them," she says with total certainty.
Irina swallows; I see it in her throat and in the blink. Julia slides a hand to the back of her neck without calling attention to it. Nobody makes a scene.
Mikel and Ivan have already volunteered to uncork bottles.
Malagamba gives them a dry smack on the shoulder that means "no funny business, gentlemen.
" Luna sits near Vega and asks about the neighborhood, the bars, where they go out. Vega tells two stories with her quiet charm, and I’m surprised to see how, without meaning to, the table starts behaving like a normal table.
"And you?" Julia drags the chair without fear of the noise and plants herself in front of Alaska. "What do you need to feel like this isn’t a set?"
"Time," Alaska answers, sharp and honest at once. "And an emergency exit in case I get the urge to bolt." She points at the side door with her chin. "That one works."
"I’ll leave it open," Julia says. She goes, turns the knob, and leaves it ajar. God, Julia’s a badass.
Irina presides, but she doesn’t steamroll. She handles the table calmly. She thinks through each sentence before she lets it out, not for show—out of habit.
"Okay, order," she says, and we’re all already looking at her. "Sabina and Amaia, our friends for half a lifetime; their daughter, Luna; their son, Mikel; Vera, queen of the kid-detective club alongside Svet; Malagamba, hammer of the slackers; Rashel, my favorite storm; Ivan, Mikel’s partner in crime and Nat’s genetic disaster—you already know her; Julia…
my wife, my home, my fever. And you two," she finishes, now looking at Alaska and Vega, "my sisters. Welcome to this family."
Alaska nods without moving much. Vega smooths her bangs and says thanks without saying it.
My pulse speeds up and I feel heat in my cheeks. Everything clicks at once. Boris and his dumb baptism line, the one that pinged around my head for days, now makes sense: a godmother’s supposed to guide you.
Plus: that million is for doing things, not for keeping me still; JARSI is available, it doesn’t box me in; it’s not a forbidden zone, it’s a place of open doors with keys for all of us.
And even so, my head is in the same place: that girl who fires off jokes point-blank, who hates me a little and loves me a little more. Contradiction goes down beautifully with cake.
"Hey," Ivan whispers, setting a plate in front of me with a slice of cheesecake that gleams. "So… you’re back in?"
"More than you are," I answer without looking at him, and I cut a sliver so the fork won’t shake.
I look up out of sheer habit and run straight into Alaska’s eyes.
She doesn’t look away. Two full seconds.
For us, two seconds can wreck everything or fix it.
This time, I don’t know. I take a sip to keep my mouth busy so I don’t let a "sorry" or a "wait for me" or the dumb epic that rises in me when she looks at me like that slip out. Still intact. Good.
Irina leans toward the twins.
"Later I’ll show you the library. And the archive. And the place where I keep things I don’t want to forget."
"And what if we don’t want to forget today?" Vega asks, unexpectedly brave.
"Then we do it again," Irina says, no drama.
Right then, the girls interrupt with a flag made out of small tablecloths clipped together with clothespins.
They’ve written "Popov Club Level 1" in marker. Julia claps without an ounce of shame, Sabina snaps a photo, Rashel covers her face so you can’t see the wet in her eyes.
Malagamba gives a half smile, which on her conversion chart counts as Mardi Gras.
I make myself another promise—I know I overdo it with promises—but this one goes on the list: not to fail again. Not as a bodyguard. Not as an apprentice. Even less as an exile. As an equal. My own second-generation godmother. If the title doesn’t exist, I’ll make it up.
And if you’ll allow a little heresy, I assign myself homework: look Alaska in the eye one of these days without my voice cutting out. Or with a shaky voice, but without fear. Either works. Growing up isn’t pretty. It’s useful.
Julia raises her glass.
"To the Popovas," she declares.
"To the Popovas," we echo.
I drink. Not for blood—we’re set on that front.
For the house. For the door left ajar, that lets in air and doesn’t spook anyone.
For the million, which weighs on me but doesn’t crush me, and for the right to say no and to say yes.
For the word "godmother," which no longer sounds ridiculous in my own mouth. For Boris, who was always late and still pushed me to make it this far alive. And for those two, who crossed the threshold tonight owing nothing to anyone and gave us more than anyone asked. Me, who always shows up in a helmet—tonight I take it off. For a second. Then we’ll see.