Page 18 of Marrying the Savage

“My autonomy.”

“Tragic. Did she suffer?”

“Long illness.”

Anya sighs dramatically. “I’ll send flowers.”

I sit on the edge of my bed, holding one of the blank envelopes. “I need something.”

“That depends. Is it illegal?”

“Probably not.”

“Disappointing.”

“It may become politically dangerous.”

“Better.”

I look toward my closed bedroom door, then lower my voice. “Do you know how to get an address?”

“Whose?”

I hesitate. Even saying his name feels like opening a window in a locked room.

“Damir Volodin.”

Silence.

For the first time in our entire friendship, Anya doesn’t immediately have a joke.

Then she says, very calmly, “Sofia.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Why the hell do you need Damir Volodin’s address?”

“For the wedding.”

Another silence. Longer.

Then she starts laughing.

Not a polite laugh. Not a nervous laugh. A full, horrified, delighted laugh that makes me pull the phone slightly away from my ear.

“Oh my God,” she says. “You’re inviting the devil to your wedding.”

“It’s not confirmed he’s the devil.”

“Sofia, my father once called him the reason men lock doors.”

“That could mean many things.”

“It means don’t mail him embossed cardstock.”

I look down at the envelope. “Dmitri suggested it at lunch yesterday,” I say. “My uncle nearly had a stroke.”

“Ah,” Anya says. “So naturally you decided to help.”