Epilogue I
LYRA
“Mama, if you cry one more time, I’m going to start, too. And I won’t be able to stop until the damn wedding’s over.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re absolutely crying.”
“Well, maybe I am. But a mother is allowed to cry on her daughter’s wedding day!”
I can’t help but smile. Then I lean in, giving Mama a big hug, one that she gives right back.
We’re standing at the back of the chapel, Mama’s arm hooked through mine, the other clutching a handkerchief.
The dogwoods are blooming, bumblebees zipping here and there. Through the open chapel doors, I can see a row of hand-painted Mardi Gras pennants strung up along the railing—Mama and Dad’s contribution—shipped from a shop on Magazine Street and hung by Ethan and Anya this morning.
Inside, the string quartet begins the opening notes of the processional. Three hundred people stand.
The chapel is in the Hudson Valley—small, white, and picturesque as they come. Elena has been quietly maintaining this place for years, all for family events exactly like this, one that the Volkovs rarely have.
But they do today.
The Catskills are a gorgeous blue in the distance, and I can’t believe how green the grass is. Behind the chapel, a four-piece brass band—a gift from Elena—warms up for the reception. The scent of jambalaya made by my Uncle Felix wafts through the air.
My dress is gorgeous, white silk with cap sleeves, the fabric draping generously over my belly, which is now at thirty-four weeks, beyond hiding. And that’s fine with me—I feel goddamn glorious taking up all this space.
“Ready?” Mama asks.
“Nope. But also yep.”
Mama smiles. “That’s the exact right answer.”
We begin to walk. I spot Dad in the front row in his Saints cap and his one good suit, for “marrying and burying,” as he always says. It fits him better than it has in years. His recovery has gone as perfectly as I could’ve hoped for.
Julian is at the altar dressed in black. He is handsome, imposing, and a little scary, but in a wonderful way.
"Hi," I whisper when I reach him.
"Hi."
"You're shaking."
"Yes."
"Me, too."
Mom kisses my cheek, then places my hand in Julian’s. Ethan is the best man, looking gorgeous in a charcoal suit. Anya is my maid of honor, glancing over at Ethan with an expression that makes me wonder if they’re thinking of bolting to the courthouse for a wedding of their own.
Maybe they will.
The reception takes place on the lawn behind the chapel, beneath a massive white tent as the sun goes down and the fireflies begin flickering in the field beyond.
During the cocktail hour, Mr. Yang—who’s made the trip all the way from Shanghai just for us—approaches me and Julian with a small box tied in red silk. He presents it to us with both hands.
“A gift from my organization—with our deepest respect and congratulations.”
“Mr. Yang,” Julian says. “You didn’t have to.”
"Open it, please. I would like to see your reaction."
I open it. Inside, on black velvet, is a set of jewels that are more beautiful than anything I’ve seen in my life. There’s a necklace, earrings, and a bracelet made of imperial jade and deep emerald green, set in gold.
"Oh my God."
"They belonged to a noblewoman in Beijing in the 1890s," Yang says. "They have not been worn in ninety years. They suit you, Mrs. Volkov."
Mrs. Volkov. I realize I haven’t been called that yet today, and the word makes me feel something I can’t quite describe.
"Mr. Yang. I… I don’t know how to thank you.”
"You already have. May your child be born healthy and strong."
The Bratva heads come next, one by one. Baranov approaches first, with the grave seriousness of a man presenting tribute to a tsarina.
"For the bride," he says, and hands me a small, enameled music box. "My grandmother smuggled this out of St. Petersburg in 1919. She said it was lucky. She lived to be ninety-six."
"Baranov, this is too much—"
"No, no, it’s not enough. And it’s yours now. No argument, my dear.”
Kuznetsov gives me a hand-painted icon of the Madonna and Child. Orlov presents a certificate for a college fund. Semenov, who has spoken approximately fifteen words to me in total since the day we met, gives me a pair of antique silver candlesticks.
"For the Friday table," he says. "When the child is old enough to light the candle."
I begin to cry. Then Mama cries, and Anya joins us. Even Ethan looks suspiciously misty before he excuses himself to "check the security perimeter.”
I don’t believe him for a second.
After dinner and several impromptu toasts, Julian stands with a champagne flute and a microphone, reciting a speech that I’ll remember for the rest of my life—partly because it was beautiful, but mainly because halfway through it, I feel a pop.
The pop is followed by liquid warmth, and then a slow, unmistakable trickle.
I look down, then I look at Julian, who’s in mid sentence.
“Julian.”
“—and so on this day, with all of you here as witnesses—”
“Julian.”
“Yes, my love?”
“My water just broke.”
He stops, the microphone amplifying the silence across the reception area. Everyone freezes.
And what happens next will go down in Volkov family history.
“Get the car,” Julian says into the microphone.
“Julian, put the microphone down—”
“Get the car.”
“Julian.”
I feel a surge of panicked energy flow through the crowd, every dangerous man at the wedding losing his professional composure at the same time.
Baranov drops his fork. Kuznetsov stands up so fast, he knocks over his chair.
Orlov begins shouting in Russian. I even see Yang, calm as can be, slip out his phone and issue a command.
Julian stands at the head table, still holding the microphone, his eyes wide.
“Julian, sit down before you fall down,” Elena says.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’re as white as the tent. Sit.”
Mama is already at my side, gathering my bag. Anya is texting. Dr. Okafor—who I’d made sure to invite both out of friendship and for such a possibility—is moving toward us through the crowd in a beautiful periwinkle dress.
"How far apart are the contractions, Lyra?"
"They haven't started yet, I just—"
A contraction hits and I freeze, sucking in air.
“Now they have."
"Right. Car. Now."
"Julian," I say, "carry me."
He doesn't ask any questions. He just scoops me up in his arms and walks me across the lawn toward the waiting car. Ethan flanks us. Anya has my mother with one hand and is texting Dad the address to the hospital with the other.
"I'm not due for another five weeks," I say into Julian's shoulder.
"Marius has decided otherwise."
"Marius is going to be just like his father."
"God help us all."
Marius Dmitri Volkov is born at 11:47 p.m. the night of our wedding. He’s five pounds, eleven ounces, and perfectly healthy despite his early arrival.
He has my hair and Julian’s nose. He cried when he entered the world but quieted once they placed him on my chest and he heard my voice. Julian sits beside my bed; his finger gripped within his son’s tiny fist.
“He’s so small,” Julian whispers.
“He’s perfect.”
“Perfect and small. God, what if I drop him?”
“You won’t drop him.”
“I might. It’s a legitimate concern.”
“Julian, you shielded me from gunfire with your own body. You won’t drop him.”
“That was different. He’s… smaller.”
I laugh through the tears. Mama is at the door with the camera, Dad right behind her, still in his Saints cap, wiping away tears.
Elena and Anya are in the corner with their arms around one another.
Ethan is there, too, his professional composure intact but with an unmistakable softness in his eyes.
Julian kisses his son’s forehead, then mine.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you.”
“Both of you. Endlessly.”
Outside the window, the sky is dark and full of stars.
And in a private room on the maternity floor, something wonderful and new begins.