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I tuck the documents back into the envelope. “You really do consider yourself a force of nature, don’t you?”

“No. Nature is much less vicious.”

I laugh again. Then I put the envelope in my purse.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t thank me, Lilah. I’m only doing what is right.” Kane rises. “Let’s go rejoin the party.”

As usual, accepting gratitude for an emotionally thoughtful act seems to make him very squeamish.

We return to the dining room for coffee and whatever remains of dessert. Niko is guarding a second slice of honey cake with a serving knife laid across his plate.

“For you,” he explains as I sit. “I had to guard it from six children and a grandmother.”

The grandmother in question smacks the back of his head.

“As you can see,” he adds, “I suffered a lot on your behalf.”

I giggle and accept the cake.

The gathering has softened and settled during our absence. Two children sleep across their parents’ laps. An older man tells a story in Russian while everyone interrupts repeatedly to dispute the details. Coffee has replaced vodka for most of the adults, although Yuri appears committed to honoring both beverages at once.

I watch happily as I munch on the honey cake, content to simply be in the same room as people who are enjoying themselves and each other like these people are.

When I finish the cake, I stand and reach for Niko’s empty plate so I can take the dirty cutlery to the kitchen.

His hand comes down on it first. “No.”

“I’m getting up anyway.”

From his other side, the grandmother points a gnarled finger at me. “Sit.”

Anton joins from across the room. “Sit, Ms. Dorsey.”

I look at Kane. “Are they always this bossy?”

“I taught them well.”

Niko pulls his empty plate out of my reach, then leans over and takes my stuff from my hands, too. “You brought the food. Now, you sit there and relax, okay? You’ve done enough. Let other people take care of you.”

Well… okay then.

I stay seated.

It’s an odd position for me. Very new.

Nobody asks me to refill a cup. Nobody hands me a serving dish. The conversation flows around me, and when an older woman tells a story about Kane at age eight, she touches my wrist before delivering the best part to make sure I am listening.

I have spent my life earning my place in rooms. Tonight, they say I simply belong here.

I look toward the old photograph again, the one that made Kane turn inward earlier.

A woman stands behind the crowded table with a dish in her hands. Every other guest has a plate.

She has nothing but the dish.

“Was your mother from Sunset Park?” I ask Kane.