11. Mary #2
Because they might be horrified.
And also because I’d know, for certain, that I was never enough for them.
“Because I don’t know how to find them,” I said.
Maeve’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a lie.”
“I lost the card.”
She knew a partial truth when she heard one. She had practically invented the genre.
But how do I tell them I’m pregnant when their son rang them looking for me?
“Mary.”
“I said I’ll try to find them.”
“You’re not doing anything sitting here.”
My shoulders sagged. “I’m planning.”
“Your planning is as appalling as your posture.”
I straightened up. “I blame both on pregnancy.”
“You’re barely pregnant.”
“Emotionally, I’m enormous, and drained enough that you’d think I was nine months gone. And I need a rest.” I stood and looked out at two guards passing each other as they scanned the perimeter of the estate.
Maeve retreated, for now. “All right. I’ll see you at dinner.”
In the corner stood the easel.
Artem had bought it after finding me sketching on the back of an envelope during breakfast.
“You’re more high-strung than a guitar,” he had said, setting the wrapped parcel in front of me as if he were handing over state documents. “Paint something useful.”
I’d told him, “That wasn’t how art worked.”
He had said, “That’s how family works.”
Then he had left before I could do something embarrassing, like cry at a Russian man over expensive paints and that he noticed.
The paints were arranged on the little table beside the easel, along with oils, brushes, palettes, proper paper, everything too nice for someone who still thought of art as a secret habit rather than a life.
I changed into leggings and an old shirt, then tied my hair up and stood in front of the blank canvas.
For ten minutes, I did nothing.
Then I painted.
It wasn’t a proper landscape, just gray-blue strokes dragged across the canvas with too much pressure. Then came deep blackberry, and a smear of whiskey gold I hated because I knew exactly why I’d chosen it.
My hand moved faster.
Rain came next, though paint didn’t smell like rain and I resented the limitation. I put it in anyway, dark lines added structure under the softness.
Then violet.
I stopped with the loaded brush hovering near the canvas.
Violet had been the worst of it. The scent proved I was theirs but they never came back. They said they would.
I swallowed as I painted it small at first, hidden in the corner beneath the rain. Then again, and again.
By the time I stepped back, violet had bloomed through the whole thing.
“Subtle,” I muttered.
Outside, movement caught my eye. I went to the window with the brush still in my hand.
Gregor was walking Fergus along the gravel path near the orchard.
Though, walking was generous. Fergus was approximately the size of an ambitious teapot and appeared to believe he was leading a military exercise.
He trotted ahead with his tiny head high, then stopped abruptly to inspect something invisible near the lavender bush.
Gregor, enormous, scarred and patient, waited with the lead in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
Sneaky treats. The betrayal was confirmed.
Maeve walked beside him, one hand tucked through his free arm. She said something I couldn’t hear. Gregor looked down at her, and his serious face shifted into the smallest smile.
Maeve laughed. It wasn’t the sharp laugh she used when she wanted to win or the brittle one from before. This one was easy, private, and full of a life I’d watched her earn the hard way.
Gregor bent to pick up Fergus when the dog appeared to challenge the distant Dobermans at the far gate. Maeve laughed harder, and Gregor said something that made her press her face against his arm.
I stood very still as the brush dripped violet paint onto the windowsill.
I should have been only happy for her. I was happy for her. But grief opened quietly inside me, so soft it almost felt polite.
I’d never have anything like that.
Not that exact thing. Not Maeve’s thing, with her giant Russian husbands and tiny ridiculous dog and children in the garden.
But something close enough to hurt. Someone walking beside me as if my sharp edges weren’t an inconvenience.
Someone laughing with me because life had become safe enough for laughter to last.
I looked down at my stomach. “Well,” I said softly, “you and I will have each other.”
The words should have comforted me. They did, a little. It also made a lump to build at the back of my throat.
I cleaned the paint from the windowsill before anyone could discover evidence of my emotional incompetence, then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Hot water filled the room with steam. I stripped carefully, avoiding my reflection until avoidance became more dramatic than looking.
My body still mostly looked like mine. Curves. Breasts too large for my liking. Soft stomach. Blue eyes too bright in a tired face. Dark hair falling loose around my shoulders.
But something had changed. Not enough for anyone else, but enough for me.
I stepped under the water and let it soak my hair.
I had to tell them. Maeve was right, they had a right to know. Even if they decided I was too young. Even if they were horrified. They deserved the truth. The baby deserved to know their fathers.
I rinsed the conditioner from my hair and shut off the water. My hand settled over my stomach as steam curled around me.
“All right,” I whispered. The bathroom was silent except for the drip of water from my hair to the tile. “We tell them.”