Page 139 of Feral King

"No, no, it’s not enough. And it’s yours now. No argument, my dear.”

Kuznetsov gives me a hand-painted icon of the Madonna and Child. Orlov presents a certificate for a college fund. Semenov, who has spoken approximately fifteen words to me in total since the day we met, gives me a pair of antique silver candlesticks.

"For the Friday table," he says. "When the child is old enough to light the candle."

I begin to cry. Then Mama cries, and Anya joins us. EvenEthan looks suspiciously misty before he excuses himself to "check the security perimeter.”

I don’t believe him for a second.

After dinner and several impromptu toasts, Julian stands with a champagne flute and a microphone, reciting a speech that I’ll remember for the rest of my life—partly because it was beautiful, but mainly because halfway through it, I feel apop.

The pop is followed by liquid warmth, and then a slow, unmistakable trickle.

I look down, then I look at Julian, who’s in mid sentence.

“Julian.”

“—and so on this day, with all of you here as witnesses?—”

“Julian.”

“Yes, my love?”

“My water just broke.”

He stops, the microphone amplifying the silence across the reception area. Everyone freezes.

And what happens next will go down in Volkov family history.

“Get the car,” Julian says into the microphone.

“Julian, put the microphone down?—”

“Get the car.”

“Julian.”

I feel a surge of panicked energy flow through the crowd, every dangerous man at the wedding losing his professional composure at the same time. Baranov drops his fork. Kuznetsov stands up so fast, he knocks over his chair. Orlov begins shouting in Russian. I even see Yang, calm as can be, slip out his phone and issue a command.

Julian stands at the head table, still holding the microphone, his eyes wide.

“Julian, sit down before youfalldown,” Elena says.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re as white as the tent. Sit.”

Mama is already at my side, gathering my bag. Anya is texting. Dr. Okafor—who I’d made sure to invite both out of friendship and for such a possibility—is moving toward us through the crowd in a beautiful periwinkle dress.

"How far apart are the contractions, Lyra?"

"They haven't started yet, I just?—"

A contraction hits and I freeze, sucking in air.

“Now they have."

"Right. Car. Now."