Chapter 35
AMALIE
“I’m glad you’re back.”
Winter hasn’t quite loosened its grip in the cemetery. The grass is pale, the trees bare, branches reaching into what at this point feels like an eternal gray sky. Sasha walks beside me, bundled in his coat and hat, his small hand tucked into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I glance down at him, my chest tightening at his words. “I’m glad too, sweetheart.”
He nods, satisfied, and keeps walking. He’s been saying things like that a lot in the few days since my abrupt departure and return—little, quiet affirmations slipped into conversation or said during our art work sessions.
I like when you’re here. Papa likes it when you’re here too. You’re staying, right?
I glance over my shoulder. Andrei’s watching us from the car, dressed in a long herringbone coat and dark sunglasses.
“Here it is,” Sasha says, lifting his free, mittened hand and gesturing toward a grave.
Elena Barinov’s stone is simple—elegant but not showy. There’s her name, date of birth and death, and the words “Loving Mother and Wife.” Flowers are arranged neatly at the base. But what catches my eye are the painted stones around it.
Dozens of them. Small smooth river stones, each one painted with care. Some are covered in bright colors, some decorated with careful designs. Others have little scenes painted on them. They, like the wall in his room, reflect Sasha’s growth as an artist.
A tear forms in my eye, and I quickly wipe it away.
“Why stones?” I’d asked him one time while we were doing our work.
“Papa always brings flowers,” he’d answered, his eyes locked on his project. “But they always die. Stones will stay there forever.”
“Great point.”
Sasha crouches and carefully pulls one stone from his coat pocket. He painted it yesterday afternoon, his tongue stuck out in concentration. It’s blue with a yellow star and a little red heart.
“For Mama,” he says softly.
He sets it gently among the others, adjusting the position until it sits just right. Then he places his small hand on the stone marker.
“Hi, Mama,” he says. “I had tennis today. And art. And Amalie is back. Papa says you’d like her.”
My throat closes.
“I miss you,” he adds simply.
There’s no drama in it. No tears. Just a child’s truth. I rest my hand lightly on his shoulder.
After a moment, he stands. “She listens,” he says, very matter-of-fact. “Mama does.”
“I think you’re right about that,” I tell him.
He looks up at me, eyes serious. “You’re not leaving again, are you?” The question isn’t panicked. It’s careful. Brave.
I crouch in front of him so we’re at eye level. “No,” I answer honestly. “I’m here.”
He studies my face, searching for any hint that I’m not being sincere. Then he smiles. “Okay.”
We stand together for another minute, the colorful stones bright against the muted winter ground.
“Maybe one day you can say something to her if you want to.”
“Yeah. Maybe one day.”
Before we leave, I silently promise her the one thing I can.
I’ll keep him safe. I’ll love him well.
Funny how fast weeks can slip by.
And they do it in a sneaky sort of way, just a quiet accumulation of mornings and evenings, routines settling into place.
Breakfasts where Sasha cuts his French toast or pancakes into little shapes before eating them.
Afternoons spent coaxing color out of paint and shapes out of clay.
Evenings where Roman comes home tired but present, listening to Sasha recount his day with the seriousness of a CEO listening to his board.
It doesn’t quite hit me how deeply I’ve sunk into this life until I find myself thinking about the mansion as our house and not just his. There’s no denying I’m more than just a nanny and art tutor here.
It’s one of those slow, lovely nights. Sasha’s laying on the couch in the sitting room, fire crackling. Roman’s reading some military history book, a glass of whiskey close at hand. I’m on my iPad, flipping through tomorrow’s lesson plan.
Sasha breaks the silence with a deep stretch and yawn.
“Sleepy, buddy?” I ask.
He nods. “Sleepy. Can we finish the snow painting tomorrow? I have a really good idea.”
“We sure can. And you know I’m all kinds of excited to hear about your ideas.”
He smiles sleepily. “It’s a secret.” He leans his head on the armrest, looking like he might doze off right there.
Roman throws back the rest of his drink, then sets it and his book on the little table next to his chair. “I’ll carry him up.”
I smile and nod, watching as Roman heads over to scoop up his son.
Sasha curls into his father as Roman lovingly lifts him.
His eyes flutter, then close, the safety of his father’s arms soothing.
Roman rocks his son, holding him like he’s the most precious thing in the world.
Then, as if he’d forgotten I was there, his gaze flicks to me.
Something passes between us. Something tender, warm.
“Can I come with you?” I ask. “To put him down.”
“Of course.”
I hurry to Roman’s side, walking beside him as he carries Sasha through the quiet, dark halls of the mansion. The guards are moving about here and there.
We soon reach Sasha’s room. I hang back by the doorway as Roman carries his son inside, gently placing him beneath the sheets.
Once Sasha’s tucked in, Roman leans over and murmurs something in Russian—low, rhythmic, another lullaby he’s surely recited a hundred times before.
He places a kiss on Sasha’s forehead before turning to me.
When he closes the door behind him, I look up at his face. “You’re going to spoil that kid.” I smile so he knows I’m teasing.
Roman snorts in amusement. “He’s five. Love is more important than any such concerns.” He casts his gaze down the hall. “Shall we retire?”
“We shall.”
Halfway down the hall, my stomach rolls, hard. I freeze.
“Amalie?” Roman asks, alert as he reads my body language.
“I—Just a second.”
I pull my hand free from his and hurry toward the nearest bathroom, barely making it before I’m gripping the sink, my breath shallow. I retch as my stomach clenches. Nothing comes up, but the nausea is so intense it blurs my vision.
After a few long moments, it goes away. I stand up straight, regarding my strangely worn expression in the mirror.
“Are you alright?” Roman asks from the doorway.
“Yeah. I guess something I ate didn’t agree with me.”
He studies me in silence, regarding me with a look that makes it clear he doesn’t think that’s it. “This has happened before.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The look on your face when you smelled your coffee the other morning. Erratic appetite. Extreme fatigue lately.”
The man’s a damn detective.
“I’ve been wondering if I might be coming down with something. Like a cold. I just didn’t want to be a bother.”
He shakes his head. “Not a bother. Not in the slightest.” I smile at the sweet words. Roman tilts his head back. “Are those the only symptoms? Nothing more?”
“Nothing more.”
Another beat studying me before he looks away and starts down the hallway again. I hurry to his side, a light tinge of nausea hitting me again. We reach the other wing, his door on one side, mine on the other.
“Get some rest,” he says, nodding toward my door. “See how you feel in the morning.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He narrows his eyes slightly. “Another nausea spell and we call the doctor. Understand? I’m not taking chances with your safety or your health.”
I nod. Why do I suddenly feel found out?
He leans in and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Sleep well.” He turns and goes into his room, the door shutting with a soft click.
It’s nothing.
I want to believe that whatever’s going on, whatever’s making me feel queasy, is nothing.
Unfortunately, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s much bigger than nothing.