3. Maggie
MAGGIE
A scream rips me out of sleep so violently that for one disoriented moment, I don’t know where I am. It's dark, the blanket is twisted around my legs, and my heart pounds until I remember the room, the mansion, and the small body thrashing next to me.
Winston jerks awake with a startled whine. He scrambles across the mattress, nails skittering against the blanket as he crowds against Ivy's side. On the floor, Daisy is already up, pacing beside the bed.
“No!”
Ivy’s cry tears through the quiet, making my stomach drop.
She’s tangled in the blanket, her cheeks wet, her little hands clawing at the sheets like she’s trying to fight her way out of a nightmare that still has its hands on her.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, and every breath shudders out of her in broken pieces.
“Irina!” she sobs. “Irina, wake up!”
“Oh, sweetheart.” My voice cracks before I can stop it. I push the blanket aside and reach for her, moving carefully so I don’t scare her worse. “Ivy, baby, it’s Maggie. I’m right here.”
She doesn’t hear me at first. Her head moves back and forth against the pillow, hair stuck to her damp cheeks, while her body shakes beneath my hands.
The sound of her crying pulls me straight back to the shelter hallway, blood on my palms and Irina’s face going pale beneath the awful fluorescent lights.
I gather her into my arms, holding her against my chest while she fights the nightmare for another breath. “I’ve got you,” I whisper, rocking her gently. “You’re safe, baby. You’re at home. I’m here.”
Her eyes fly open, wide and terrified, and she stares at me like she’s deciding whether I’m real or not. The moment she recognizes me, her face crumples all over again. “Maggie.”
“I’m here.” I rest my cheek on her hair and hold on tighter. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“She wouldn’t wake up,” Ivy cries against my shirt.
My throat burns so badly that answering hurts. I don’t know how to take a child’s grief and make it small enough for her to carry. All I can do is hold her while my own tears slip free.
The mattress dips beside us, and I look up.
Alexei is there. His hair is messy, and his shirt sleeves are wrinkled at the elbows.
There are shadows under his pale blue eyes, but he’s focused only on Ivy.
I’ve seen Alexei angry. I’ve seen him cold, commanding, and terrifyingly calm.
But I’ve never seen him look helpless until now.
“Papa,” Ivy sobs, reaching one hand toward him without letting go of me.
Alexei moves closer and takes her small hand in both of his. “I’m here, solnyshko.”
“Why did she die?” Ivy asks, and the question breaks open the last little bit of composure I have left.
Alexei’s thumb moves over her knuckles. He says nothing at first, and I can see him fighting for an answer that won’t destroy her further. Finally, he lowers his voice. “She protected you.”
“I wanted her to come home.” Ivy’s voice turns so small it hardly sounds like her.
Alexei looks down at their joined hands. When he answers, his voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “So did I.”
That does me in. Tears spill faster, and I turn my face into Ivy’s hair so she won’t see all of it.
For a long while, none of us moves. Ivy cries until the sobs turn into tired little hiccups.
Alexei remains seated on the edge of the mattress with Ivy’s hand wrapped around his wrist, and I keep one arm around her while my other hand rubs circles on her back.
Eventually, exhaustion drags her under again.
Her body grows heavier against mine, her breathing evens out, and her fingers loosen.
He returns to the rocking chair near the window and stays there. Every time I wake during the night, he's still sitting in the same spot. The faint light slipping through the curtains outlines his broad shoulders while the rest of the room remains wrapped in shadows.
The house never goes completely quiet. Air blows softly through the vents. Floorboards creak somewhere down the hall. A security radio murmurs faintly beyond the bedroom door. None of it seems to pull his attention away from Ivy.
Every time I look over, his eyes are on her. Watching. Waiting. Making sure she's okay.
The sight twists at my heart. He looks exhausted. Grief hangs on him as heavily as it does the rest of us. Yet he remains right there beside her because leaving never appears to be an option.
Morning arrives slowly, pale light sneaking around the edges of the curtains. I wake with a stiff neck, a dry mouth, and Ivy wrapped around me like a little vine. Her forehead rests against my shoulder with one knee thrown over my leg.
“Maggie?” Ivy whispers.
I look down to find her awake, blinking slowly as she shakes off the last traces of sleep. “Mornin’, sweetheart. I’m still here.”
Her shoulders loosen against me. “Okay.”
The rocking chair is empty now, though the blanket draped over one arm tells me Alexei stayed there most of the night. I don't know when he left, and right now I'm too tired to dwell on it.
I help Ivy get dressed, then change into clean jeans and a sweatshirt Mama packed for me. I pull it over my head, and the scent of laundry soap and lavender surrounds me.
Home.
A lump forms in my throat, and I have to blink a few times before I can look at Ivy again.
She stays tucked against my side as we head downstairs, Winston trotting so close to her heels that she nearly trips over him twice while Daisy keeps pace on her other side.
The mansion feels different this morning.
Sunlight streams through the windows, brightening the stone floors and polished wood until the whole place looks almost ordinary.
Then I notice a security guard near the front entrance and a camera tucked into a corner.
No matter how beautiful this house is, it still feels like we're hiding inside it.
Winston trots ahead as soon as he spots the kitchen, while Daisy stays close to Ivy. A younger woman emerges from a side door carrying two stainless steel bowls. Winston immediately follows her. Daisy hesitates, glancing up at Ivy one last time before following him.
The kitchen is the warmest room I’ve been in yet. The smell of coffee and fresh biscuits fills the air. The coffee hits me first, rich and bitter. It makes my stomach turn slightly. I blame exhaustion and keep walking.
A woman in her sixties stands at the stove.
Silver hair is pinned neatly at the back of her head, and despite the early hour, she's already moving between the stove and counter like she's done it a thousand times before.
It takes me a moment to recognize her. Then I remember seeing her in the foyer last night, eyes red and grief clear on her face.
She turns as we enter. “Good mornin’.”
Her attention goes straight to Ivy before moving to me. “I don't believe we've properly met.”
“No, ma'am.”
She offers a small smile. When she speaks again, I catch the faintest hint of a Southern accent beneath her polished voice. “I'm Mrs. Bennett, but you can call me Agatha.”
“Maggie.”
“Yes, dear.” The smile grows a little. “I've heard quite a bit about you already.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Hopefully not too much.”
Agatha glances toward Ivy and reaches for a mixing bowl. “From Miss Ivy? Quite a bit.”
Ivy gives Agatha a hug around the waist. Agatha pats her back once, then moves to the counter. She keeps her focus on Ivy, gentle but not pitying, and I’m grateful for that.
“Pancakes?”
Ivy looks at me before answering. “Can Maggie have some too?”
Agatha blinks once, and then her face warms further. “Of course she can. I made plenty.”
“Well, bless you,” I tell her, helping Ivy climb onto one of the stools at the island. “I haven’t eaten real food since yesterday, and I’m fairly sure coffee doesn’t count as a balanced meal.”
Agatha gives a quiet laugh and slides a plate in front of me. Pancakes, eggs, fruit, and a biscuit that looks so perfect it ought to have its own little spotlight. I stare at the plate for a moment before picking up my fork.
Ivy sits close enough that her knee leans against mine, and every time I move, her hand reaches for my sleeve. I let her. If holding on gets her through breakfast, then she can wrinkle every piece of clothing I own.
Alexei enters while Ivy is pushing a strawberry through syrup with the tip of her fork.
He’s freshly showered, dressed in dark slacks and a charcoal gray shirt, and entirely too put together for a man who spent the night in a rocking chair.
Dampness darkens his hair at the temples, and the only sign that yesterday touched him at all sits in the tired shadows beneath his eyes.
His gaze finds Ivy first. Then me. Then my plate.
“You’re eating.”
I lift a brow. “Good mornin’ to you too.”
He gives me a small smile. “Good morning, kotyónok.”
My cheeks redden before I can stop it. Agatha turns back toward the stove with suspicious timing, and I swear that woman is smiling.
Alexei takes the stool on Ivy’s other side, and she leans into him without a word. He brushes his hand over her hair. “How did you sleep?”
Ivy’s fork pauses. “Bad.”
His face changes enough for me to notice. “I know.”
The three of us sit quietly until Agatha places another pancake on Ivy’s plate as though breakfast can patch a little of what grief tore open. Maybe it can. Maybe that’s what people do when there are no right words. They make pancakes, pour coffee, and keep sitting close.
When Alexei’s phone vibrates, he glances at the screen and rises. “I’ll be just outside.”
Ivy watches him go, but she doesn’t panic this time. Her hand stays on my sleeve, and I count that as a victory.
As soon as he steps through the glass doors leading toward the terrace, I pull my phone from my pocket and call Mama like I promised. She answers so fast, I know she’s been waiting with the phone in her hand.
“Honey.”
Tears sting the back of my eyes instantly. “Hey, Mama.”
“How’s that baby?”
I look at Ivy, who is carefully cutting a pancake into tiny, uneven squares. “Holdin’ on.”
“Then you let her.”