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“I told Galina how much you like mac and cheese.”
“I mean, I liked it when I was four,” I say.
His shoulders sag a little, and he gives Galina an apologetic smile. But my remark goes right over her head, and she pushes the dish closer to me.
“Go ahead. Eat.”
She waits for my reaction like I’m about to open a Christmas present. I scoop a spoonful of the macaroni onto my plate before taking a bite.
I swallow. There’s something about grief that turns food to ash in your mouth.
“It’s good,” I say to get her to stop staring. But she claps her hands together in delight, sharing a smile with my dad.
Once everyone has filled their plates, we spend a few moments in silence while we sample the food.
“Oh, Willow, I have good news,” my dad says. “Galina is going to take you dress shopping tomorrow.”
Great. Forced “fun.”
“Why?” I ask.
“The president of Andarusia is hosting his annual Ambassadors’ Dinner at his estate. It will be a good opportunity to meet a few of the kids at your new school.”
I give him an unenthusiastic grunt in response.
“You might even make a new friend,” he adds. “And you’ll get to dress up and meet some important people from around the world.”
“I’d rather eat sand.”
His eye twitches, and he looks like he’s about to say something. I silently dare him to.
My dad’s failures as a parent make a long list, which I’m prepared to recite for him at any moment. The last thing I want is a lecture on my bad attitude.
But he doesn’t say a word. I ignore him and focus on my food, and we continue the remainder of our meal in silence.
Chapter 3
Willow
The President’s Estate sits on the wealthy side of Olininburg, with hundreds of acres of property nestled along the outskirts of town. Ivan turns the car into a driveway off the main road, which is lined by thick forest.
But it’s far from quiet. A small crowd of people is gathered along the edge of the road carrying signs, but I don’t understand what they say. Some of them appear to be Russian, but most, if I had to guess, are written in German.
I press my nose to the glass, and I make eye contact with one of the women, whose breath fogs in the cold air. Her expression is hardened, staring me down as we turn into the driveway.
“What are they protesting?” I ask.
“Andarusia has a major wealth disparity,” my dad explains. “The Labor Party represents the working class, and they’re always showing up to protest at events like these. There’s a growing ‘eat the rich’ sentiment here, but the protests are usually peaceful.”
“Usually?”
My dad’s phone pings in his pocket, and he doesn’t answer my question.
Silence falls over the car, the only sound being an irritating clicking as my dad types an email on his screen.
I glance one last time at the protesters, but they soon disappear behind the trees as we drive further into the estate.
The road is dark beneath the twilight sky. I start to wonder if we’ve taken a wrong turn, but Ivan slows the car when a wrought-iron gate materializes ahead. Military guards stand on either side of the gate with machine rifles in their hands, and I shrink back into my seat when they approach us.
