His face folds inward with shame. “No,” he whispers. “I didn’t. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
“You didn’t believe me. The only witness to what really happened that night. A frightened, twelve year old girl.” My chest tightens.
“I couldn’t. It would have put you at more risk if I had. I wish I could go back, Lizzie—”
I hold up my hand at his use of my nick name. Something he hasn’t called me since that night.
A younger version of me might have reached for him. The current me lets him sit in that pain a moment longer.
“I forgive you,” I tell him finally.
His head snaps up, hope flaring.
“But not for you,” I add. “For Mom. Because she loved you so entirely even when you were an idiot. Enough to want us to move forward without bitterness poisoning us too.”
He looks like he’s been punched. Tears, actual tears, gather in his eyes. I’ve never seen that in my life. Not once. Not even at her funeral.
He turns away to steady himself.
“Thank you,” he manages. “Even if I don’t deserve it.”
“No,” I agree softly. “You don’t. But it’s done now.”
He leaves the kitchen quieter than he entered, like the air itself has absolved him.
I wait until he’s gone before I release a shaky breath.
The cook reappears, wiping her hands on her apron. “That was brave,” she says gently, nodding toward the door. “Healing is a strange kind of courage.”
I shrug, reaching for the old leather-bound journal.
“I’m making her honey-almond torte today,” I tell the cook, flipping to the marked page. “I have a sudden urge to consume every almond in the land.”
“Oh, that one looks delicious.” She smiles warmly. “A family treasure. Something you’ll pass to your daughter one day.”
The words hit me like an unexpected blow.
I freeze.
A daughter.
My heart does a strange, stuttering dance. I press my palm flat against the marble counter as the room sways just slightly.
When was my last—
My pulse starts pounding. Hard.
The cook continues talking about rising agents and almond paste, completely unaware that her comment just ripped open a door in my mind.
I force myself to breathe. To move. To finish spreading the batter into the pan. But everything suddenly feels sharper. Brighter. Fragile.
Later, after my father has left and the cake is cooling and my hands won’t stop trembling, I find Diomid in his office. His shirt sleeves are rolled up revealing tattoos that coil along his forearms as he signs off on some document that probably affects a hundred lives.
He looks up the moment I enter. Sees me. Comes to me.
“What’s wrong,zolotse?” His thumb strokes my jaw, concern tightening his voice.
I swallow around a truth that doesn’t quite fit into words yet.
