Chapter 24
NORA
Four days after the train, I lie under a paper sheet with Konstantin gripping my hand as though we're still inside a moving carriage.
The medical office occupies the quiet end of a private hospital floor, behind smoked-glass doors that require two separate badges.
Inside, nothing resembles the marble halls or armed luxury of his world.
The walls are pale blue, and a warmer clicks near my feet.
Someone has painted tiny silver stars across the ceiling for women who need somewhere harmless to look while waiting for an ultrasound result.
I chose the physician from the three names I saved on the morning I learned I was pregnant. Konstantin accepted my choice, though two of his guards now sit beyond the smoked-glass doors.
Konstantin sits beside my shoulder in a charcoal suit, his coat folded across the back of the chair.
The harsh overhead light shows gray threaded through his dark hair, fatigue beneath his eyes, and the faint roughness along his face from a morning that began too early.
His fingers remain warm around mine, though his thumb has been still since the doctor entered.
The doctor dries her hands slowly, then looks from me to my husband sitting rigidly at my shoulder. "Are you comfortable with him remaining for the examination?"
"Yes."
She confirms that I still have no bleeding or pelvic pain.
The nausea comes mostly in the morning, with coffee remaining impossible and eggs currently guilty by association.
My breasts ache. I fall asleep at nine, wake at midnight to use the bathroom and then resent everyone who appears rested before noon.
All of it fits early pregnancy. None of it can tell us what the screen will show.
The train left no visible injury beyond two red marks where the edge of the lounge table caught my hip.
Those have faded, though what remains is harder to explain.
A fire light blinked in the corridor at home yesterday, and my whole body locked before I understood that a technician was testing the residence alarm.
I smelled cold steel again. For one ugly second, my balance shifted with a carriage that wasn't there.
The doctor knows about the detached carriage.
She asks how I'm sleeping, whether the fear interrupts ordinary tasks, and whether I want help managing the aftermath.
I tell her I want a referral available, though I'd rather decide after today.
"That's reasonable," she says. "We can make no promises about the future from one early scan, but we can answer several important questions now. "
Beside me, Konstantin's hand tightens.
The doctor explains the ultrasound before touching any equipment. At this stage, the internal approach will give the clearest view. She asks for my consent, waits for my answer, then leaves a thin gown across my knees and gives me privacy to undress from the waist down.
Konstantin turns toward the wall while I change. The movement is technically respectful, except the mirror above the sink gives him a direct view of my bare legs.
"You can wait outside if this is going to offend your delicate nature," I tell him.
His gaze meets mine through the mirror. "Nothing about your body has ever offended me."
The paper sheet whispers over my thighs when I settle back.
His attention follows the motion before he faces the silver stars again, but the look leaves heat low in my stomach.
Pregnancy has made my body feel occupied by symptoms, discussed through blood levels, food limits, sleep, and risk.
One silent sweep of his eyes makes me feel wanted again.
When the doctor comes back, she dims the room and wheels the ultrasound screen closer. The machine is compact, gray, ordinary. My pulse beats high in my throat as she prepares the covered wand, and Konstantin rises to stand beside me.
"You may feel pressure," she says.
The first image is a confusion of black space and shifting gray.
Years of dental imaging have taught me to respect how little an untrained eye understands.
Dental X-rays become obvious after years spent tracing roots, bone loss, fillings, and the dark crescents of decay.
This screen belongs to another language.
Every movement makes the shapes disappear before I can decide what I'm seeing.
Then the doctor stills her hand.
"There is the gestational sac inside the uterus," she says. "The yolk sac is here, and this is the embryo."
A tiny curved shape rests inside the dark oval. It's smaller than the last joint of my finger, pale at the edges, with a quick flicker near the center that seems far too bright for anything so small.
My breath stops.
"Is that the heart?" Konstantin asks.
He sounds frightened, with none of the deep command that usually fills his voice.
"That's cardiac activity." The doctor adjusts the image and records the rate. "One hundred fifty-three beats per minute. The measurements agree with seven weeks and four days, which fits the dates you gave me."
One pregnancy, in the right place and alive today.
Relief moves through me with such force that my eyes fill before I can blink it away. The room returns through warm paper beneath my palm, disinfectant in the air, and quiet machinery beside us. Konstantin's fingers close around mine until his wedding ring presses into my skin.
On the screen, the tiny pulse continues while I turn toward my husband, whose attention remains fixed on the image.
Every severe line has been altered by wonder.
His lips have parted. Moisture brightens his eyes without falling, while the hand at his side opens once before curling against his trousers.
This man watched armed men enter a restaurant without wasting a movement.
Now a pale flicker no wider than a grain of rice has stripped every defense from his face and left me looking at the heart under all that power.
The doctor begins to explain what happens next. Bloodwork, prenatal vitamins, food safety, an estimated due date, symptoms that require immediate attention. Konstantin listens without taking his eyes from the screen until she turns the monitor toward me. "Would you like pictures?"
"Yes," he says at once.
I laugh through the tears. "You can let the pregnant woman answer."
He looks down at me, startled into something close to embarrassment. "Would you like pictures?"
"I would."
The doctor prints three. Konstantin accepts them with both hands.
He studies the first glossy strip from edge to edge. His thumb stops below the ink, careful not to cover any part of the sac. I watch him take in my name, the date, and the small white curve that has already rearranged his entire face.
I didn't expect to love him this soon. Yet I recognize love in the hand that loosens when I tap it and the exit he promised to preserve even after it frightened him.
I love him.
Our marriage began with a choice he made without my consent. He remains dangerous, and the contract still waits in his office. Loving him without pretending those facts have disappeared frightens me more than the feeling itself.
The doctor helps me sit after the examination.
A brief rush of dizziness passes when my feet reach the floor, so Konstantin places one hand behind my back and waits rather than lifting me.
He learned something from the train. His body still prepares to take over, but now he gives me the second I need to decide whether help is necessary.
"I'm fine," I say when the room settles. "I moved too fast."
His palm remains warm through the thin gown. "Then we move slowly."
The doctor orders routine bloodwork before we leave.
She reminds us that today's result is reassuring without guaranteeing how every week will unfold.
Konstantin asks about the train, stress, travel, work, exercise, sex, seat belts, stairs, smoked fish, the heating system, and whether the residence water should be tested.
She answers each question until water testing. "If the municipal supply was safe for her before pregnancy, it remains safe now."
"We have a private well."
The doctor sets down her pen and looks at him. "When was it last tested?"
"This morning."
The doctor looks at me.
"I found out about that one in the car," I say. "We are negotiating."
A nurse draws six small tubes of blood while Konstantin stands near my opposite shoulder.
Needles don't bother me. I spend my working days asking nervous patients to tolerate sharp instruments near their tongues, which removes any dignity from fainting over an elbow.
My husband watches the dark red line enter each tube with a concentration better suited to an armed threat.
"You can look away," I tell him.
"I am looking."
His attention remains fixed on the dark line entering the next tube.
"That is the problem."
The nurse hides a smile while changing tubes.
When she finishes, Konstantin presses the square of gauze over my arm himself, using less force after I tap his wrist. He learns the correction at once.
The pressure eases without apology or wounded authority, leaving only his hand around mine while the nurse applies the bandage.
By the time I dress, Konstantin has placed the ultrasound prints inside a rigid document sleeve from his security case. I fasten the cuff of my green blouse and catch him examining the sleeve against the window.
"Are you checking it for bullet resistance?"
"Moisture." He tests the edge of the sleeve with one thumb.
"The baby currently resembles a bean with a pulse. The photograph doesn't require military preservation."
He slides the sleeve into the inside pocket of his coat. "You kept the miniature-golf score."
"That contains evidence of skill."
"The photograph proves we were both very committed to your prize."