EPILOGUE — The sky isn’t ready. （Tamara）
EPILOGUE — THE SKY ISN’T READY. (TAMARA)
There are many things I have learned to expect from Aleksander in the past six months. Precision. Control. The dangerous competence of a man who can end a crisis before anyone else notices it started.
But the knocking on my door is what ruins me.
Three firm taps. Then nothing. No key in the lock. No guard announcing him. No assumption that marriage has made my space less mine.
I open the door and find him standing in the hallway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans, his shirt open at the collar, attention fixed on me. He doesn’t speak.
I look down at myself. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not a nothing face.”
His mouth barely moves. “I was appreciating the dress.”
Six months ago, that almost-smile would’ve felt like a crack in a wall. Now it feels like a private thing he lets me see because he trusts me with it.
“I brought your iced matcha latte.” He holds out a large Starbucks cup. “Which I maintain tastes like grass.”
“You almost had me with this unexpected offering, Aleksander Sokolov,” I tease, taking the sweating drink from his hand. “But then you ruined it by insulting my taste.”
“I’m willing to be thanked anyway.”
I set the cup on the entry table and step closer. His gaze drops to my mouth.
“We’re going to a child’s birthday party,” I remind him weakly.
“I understand the occasion.”
“Then stop looking at me like the occasion can be rescheduled.”
His hand closes at my hip. Familiar in a way that makes my breath accelerate.
“We could be a little late.”
“Sasha.”
“Calling me that isn’t helping.”
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my face up, and mine are already in his shirt, pulling him in. He tastes like coffee and restraint losing an argument. When he pulls back, I’m gripping his shirt with both hands.
He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
“I want to be on time,” I say.
“Then you should stop looking at me like that,” he says.
From the elevator, Mikhail says, “Please don’t let me interrupt the show. But Yuri is grumbling in the car, and I’ve been told nine-year-olds have inflexible opinions about cake timing.”
Aleksander takes the telescope box from beside my door, wrapped in silver paper. I lock my apartment behind me, and we head for the elevator.
Yuri drives the Maybach with his usual quiet competence. Aleksander and I sit in the back. Mikhail claims the front passenger seat, which he calls “the only survivable location when married people become unbearable in enclosed spaces.”
“You asked to ride with us,” Aleksander says.
“I suggested we take the same car since we’re going in the same direction. I didn’t ask to be trapped inside a luxury vehicle with honeymooners.”
“It’s Ivan’s birthday,” I say. “Try being pleasant.”
“I am pleasant. Children adore me.”
“Yes. Children also think fireworks are a good idea indoors.”
“Exactly. My people.”
Aleksander’s hand rests on my thigh, warm through the fabric of my dress, making concentration difficult.
I turn toward the window. July haze shimmers behind the glass. We are heading north, toward Anna’s house, toward a backyard full of children and balloons and a boy who turned nine today.
For six months I have known him in real time. Through Saturday visits and careful conversations. Through drawings sent to my phone because Anna said he wanted me to see them. Through the first time he asked if I liked waffles and whether Nutella was my favorite topping too.
I have learned that Ivan hates mushrooms, likes maps, counts stairs when he is nervous, and believes stuffed animals should never be left facedown because they might think they’ve been abandoned.
He is not mine in the simple way grief once demanded. He is not lost either. Both things are true now, and most days I can hold them.
Today, I am less certain.
“Breathe, trouble.”
“I am breathing.”
“Not well.”
Mikhail makes a sound from the front. “This is what I mean. You two are unbearable.”
Yuri says nothing, which from Yuri is not surprising. The man has an allotment of a hundred words a day, and he uses them wisely.
“You don’t want to go see the house the Sokolovs are buying while I’m at the party?” I ask Aleksander.
“Not even a little bit.”
Mikhail turns to us. “It has five acres, a long drive, stone walls, bad wallpaper, and so many blind corners Yuri has developed a grudge against the architect. Naturally, we’re sold.”
“It’s near Woodstock?” I ask.
“Twenty minutes from Anna,” Aleksander says. “Close enough to be useful. Far enough to be discreet.”
“A safe house.”
“A family property.”
I arch a brow. He has the nerve to look innocent. “With safe-house features.”
“That sounds ugly.”
“It won’t be. I know an interior designer who would be perfect for the project.”
Mikhail points at me. “This house will need you. I asked for a moat, and they treated me like the unreasonable one.”
Yuri shakes his head but doesn’t engage.
Aleksander’s grip tightens slightly on mine. “If we buy it, you could work on it. We could also stay there occasionally.”
“I’m not sure designing a bratva lair would look good on my portfolio.”
“I suppose we could be restrained with the signage then.”
My phone rings before I can answer. I swipe to pick up. “Hi, Maya.”
“I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday,” she says. “Mrs. Albright wants the dining room to function as a library without hurting resale.”
“That’s reasonable. Make it reversible. Built-ins on the long wall, no damage to the paneling, keep the chandelier centered, and use a table that can read both ways.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Send her two versions. One warmer, one more formal. And remind her that a room people actually use is not a downgrade.”
“I’ll do that.”
From the front seat, Mikhail’s spine has straightened.
It is not dramatic. Maybe no one else would notice. But Aleksander notices, and so do I.
Maya says something about lead times, and I make a note to check the finish sample on Monday. When I end the call, Mikhail is looking out the window as if the Saw Mill River Parkway has become unexpectedly fascinating.
“The Albright project?” Aleksander asks.
“Yes. Maya has it handled.”
Mikhail makes a low sound that could be agreement or disagreement. The back of his head gives me nothing.
Aleksander’s thumb stills against mine. Then his eyes meet mine for half a second before shifting, barely, toward the front seat.
I take a sip of my latte and let the silence sit for one beat longer than kindness requires.
“If the Woodstock house is as bad as you say, I may bring Maya to look at it with me.”
At that, Mikhail turns just enough for me to catch the flash in his eyes before he hides it.
There and gone.
“No,” he says.
Aleksander’s voice is mild. “No to the house?”
Mikhail faces forward again. “No to bringing civilians into safe-house assessments.”
“She’s an interior designer,” I say. “Not a civilian casualty.”
“Same difference, if the house is what Yuri thinks it is.”
Interesting.
“I can’t take on the whole project myself. The house needs a designer.”
“It needs gasoline.”
“Mikhail,” Aleksander says.
He faces forward again. “Fine. Send whomever you want.”
But his voice has changed. Aleksander lets that stand. Which means he has filed away everything.
Mikhail stays silent after that. Yuri changes lanes. After a minute, Mikhail reaches for his phone, looks at the dark screen, and puts it face down on his knee.
I smile into my latte and decide, generously, not to say a word.
Anna’s house sits at the end of a quiet street, white clapboard and dark shutters, with a yard built for children to burn through birthday-cake energy without destroying the house.
Balloons are tied to the mailbox. Blue streamers twist around the porch railing.
Somewhere behind the house, a child shrieks with such pure joy that Mikhail flinches.
Yuri parks behind Anna’s car. Another vehicle waits farther down the street, discreet, unless you know exactly how Sokolov protection breathes.
Anna insisted on that.
Aleksander agreed.
That, more than anything, is how I knew we might all survive this.
The front door opens before we reach the porch. Anna stands there in jeans and a white blouse, hair clipped back, cheeks flushed from party management. She looks tired. Happy. Slightly sticky, which I suspect has something to do with frosting.
“Thank God,” she says. “He’s asked six times.”
My chest tightens. “About the telescope?”
“About you.”
Mikhail lifts the gift bag. “I bring tribute.”
Anna points at him. “Do I need to review it first?”
“You wound me.” Mikhail has the audacity to look offended.
“I’ve met you.”
A blur of dark hair appears behind Anna. Ivan stops at her side, one hand gripping the edge of the doorframe, cheeks pink, birthday crown crooked over his forehead. He has frosting on one sleeve and suspicion in his eyes until he sees the box in Aleksander’s hands.
Then suspicion loses.
“You came,” he says to me.
“You invited me, and I said I’d come.”
“Yeah, but adults say things.”
Behind me, Aleksander makes a small sound that might be pain.
I crouch so Ivan doesn’t have to look up at me. “Happy birthday, Ivan.”
He studies me for one serious second, then lets me hug him. Exactly two seconds. Maybe three. Then he pulls back and points to the box. “Is that it?”
“It might be.”
“What is it?”
“It’s bigger than a book.”
“Is it fragile?”
“Yes.”
“Is it alive?”
“No.”
Mikhail sighs behind me. “My gift is better.”
Anna takes the bag from him. “Your gift is under review.”
Ivan grins at him. “Are you coming to my party? I told Adam about you.”
Mikhail ruffles Ivan’s hair and gives me an I-told-you-so look. “I can’t stay today, little man. I’m going to see a potentially haunted house.”
“It’s haunted?”
“No,” Yuri says.
Mikhail smiles. “That’s what the ghosts want him to think.”
Anna gives him a look.
“Happy birthday.” Mikhail grins and hands Ivan a smaller envelope from inside his coat. “This part passed inspection.”
Ivan opens it and finds a gift certificate to the science museum tucked inside.
His face lights. “Really?”
“Really. Take Aleksander. He needs education.”