I stop at the top of the stairs, glancing toward the wing that’s often unoccupied. Then I hear it—her voice.
I follow the sound down a different hallway, pausing outside the ajar door. Push it open to a very unexpected sight—my mother and Carina. Together. Sewing?
They both glance up.
An immediate smile appears on Carina’s face. “Lev! You’re home!”
“Yes.” I smile back, but it’s a weak, forced one.
My conversation with Igor, followed by finding our room empty, ruined this reunion. I’m wary, and I hate the apprehension. Hate doubting myself. Hate doubting her.
“I heard voices,” I explain.
“You just returned?” my mother asks.
When I glance at Elena, she’s studying me closely. The question could mean she knows I spoke to Igor or returned to an empty room, or it could be a simple inquiry. It’s impossible to know with my family. They’re all so fucking secretive.
“Yes.”
Carina lifts the fabric on her lap. “Your mom is teaching me embroidery.” Her smile turns sheepish. “It’s mostly knots.”
“We all start somewhere,” my mother comments as she continues to thread, which is exceptionally magnanimous, coming from a woman who’s rarely accommodating about anything.
Did Igor put her up to this? Or is this Elena’s own form of attack?
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say awkwardly, taking a step backward, toward the door.
“I’m almost finished,” Carina replies, lifting her head. “And by finished, I mean frustrated enough that I need to take a break.”
I swear I see my mother’s lips twitch before I turn away.
She never had a daughter. Doesn’t have a close relationship with Victoria. Maybe that’s all her spending time with Carina is. I’ve never mistrusted my family this much, never felt the constant need to be on guard here. It’s exhausting, and I’m already tired.
“Lev.”
I pause and glance back at my mother.
“I’m glad you’re home.” She says it in Russian, which confuses me until she continues, “And I’ve decided you could have done worse.”
Carina’s focused on her embroidery, either truly absorbed or trying to give us a private moment. Speaking in Russian isn’t a subtle signal that my mother told me something she didn’t want Carina to hear.
It’s far from a resounding endorsement in my choice of wife. But my mother doesn’t share resounding endorsements about anything. Her approval is normally silence, a lack of sharing criticism, so her bothering to say anything speaks volumes. Ifshe’d said this to me before I left, I would have been thrilled. I would have felt far more comfortable leaving Carina alone here.
Now, Igor’s words echo in my ears.
“You won’t notice the knife in your back until it is too late, and this entire family will suffer the consequences of your idiocy.”
I nod and say good night before returning to my room. There, I follow my usual routine. I pour an icy glass of vodka and carry it into the shower, letting the warm water pour over me between sips.
“Good trip?”
I glance toward the doorway. It’s a testament to how distracted I am that I missed hearing the outer door open and close when Carina returned to our room.
I drain the rest of my drink, then set the glass on the shelf. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I’m being ridiculous. She stayed. She befriended my remote mother, for fuck’s sake. Yet I can’t shake the strange, sinking feeling that appeared in my father’s office. The sense that I’m stepping into something I won’t be able to escape from. I still haven’t told her what Misha found. I keep coming up with excuses to wait, and that guilt is eating at me too.
“Oh.” Her smile wavers. “Okay.”
