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What did he say to her?
Wordless, he moves to one side and reveals my mother, clutching her hands around a paisley- patterned overnight bag. It’s oddly shaped, packed to the brim with who knows what. She’s wearing the thick gray puffer jacket that she’s owned for years, and I feel a familiar sadness overtake me at the sight. She never buys anything new until her clothing falls apart. Just the habit of a lifetime of living on the edge of financial ruin.
“Mamochka!” I blurt and rush into her arms. Whatever weirdness has been lingering between us since this mess began no longer matters. I’m just relieved that she’s here—safe and in one piece.
She hugs me tightly, her chin tucking into its familiar place by my forehead. “Malyshka,” she whispers. “It’s so good to see you.”
Heat bubbles behind my shut eyes. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. With a final, extra-tight hug, I release her and step back. “How was the ride?”
She shoots a look at Arsen. “Quiet.” Her voice drops for my ears alone. “He is not much of a talker. He wouldn’t tell me why you were here ahead of my arrival, or how he has access to so much protection.” She narrows her eyes and purses her lips disapprovingly on the last word.
Her eyes dart from Mikhail to Iosif.
Catching the uneasy air, Arsen clears his throat. “Why don’t you show your mother around? I believe Ulyana has prepared a room upstairs near yours for her to stay in.” He nods to my mother. “If you need anything, just ask me or any of my staff. They’re all here at your service.”
Olesya, prompted by his words, steps forward and dips at the waist in a bow. Mom doesn’t look impressed by this. If anything, she becomes more annoyed. Hastily I guide her toward the stairs and grab her bag handle to hide my ring from sight.
“Let’s get your stuff put away, Mom.”
“Oh, I can carry that for her!” Olesya shouts and takes the bag from my hand.
And in the process, the sun’s glint bounces off my ring.
My legs stop working as the rest of me turns to stone. Mom backs away from me with distress on her face.
Oh no …
She stares at me with increasing scrutiny before her eyes become fixated on the ring on my finger.
“Galina,” she gasps. “Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.”
Ice-cold terror engulfs me. It’s a miracle my teeth don’t start chattering.
“Mom …” I start. “It’s a long story.”
Pulling her shoulders back, she hoists her bag upward with a grunt. Her eyebrows dip low as she turns to glare at Arsen. He holds her stare boldly. I wish he’d fumble, apologize, or do something other than look like he’s daring her to attack him.
Olesya, in contrast, seems ready to faint. She mouths, I am so sorry at me.
“Show me to my room,” Mom says bluntly. “We are going to have a very long talk.”
Cringing down to my toes, I sheepishly follow her up the stairs, staring at nothing but my shoes with each step. If I don’t, I’ll lose focus and slip. I can hardly feel my limbs, and it’s as if I’m a marionette being tugged along by the strings. One step in front of the other, I tell myself. It’s the only thing I can do.
I’m supposed to be leading her, but it feels like she’s the one in charge now. At the top of the stairs, she stops moving. Gazing left, then right, she waits patiently for me to show her where we have to go next. Her eyes meet mine, and I quickly look away again before I succumb to her questioning gaze. It’s good she isn’t asking me to make casual chatter. My mouth is dry as sand, and I have the feeling that if I try to talk, all I’ll be able to manage are a few choking sounds.
I motion in the direction we need to go. When we pass my room, I’m tempted in a childish way to duck inside, lock the door, and hide.
It wouldn’t be the first time I rolled myself into a ball beneath my bed, away from her stern gaze, which seems to see through everything I try to hide from her.
But I can’t. I have to come clean to her. I owe her that much.
I hold open the door to her room. Once she’s in, she places her bag on the huge king bed. The blanket is painted with elaborate swirls of gold on the rich crimson fabric.
“Shut the door,” she says, refusing to look at me.
Sweat clings under my arms as I do as she says. “Mom … before you lay into me, let me explain.”
“You’re married,” she says, opening her bag, lifting out items. “Pravda?”
