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“How hard did you hit your head?”

“Elle!” She nudges my arm, laughing. “I’m serious.”

“That’s a very personal question for someone who won’t tell me which boy Lily likes.”

“That’s a secret.”

“And this is an interrogation.”

She smiles, pleased with herself, but when I look back toward the window, she catches my sleeve. “Papa needs you.”

I turn back. She has stopped smiling.

“He’s different with you,” she says. “I like him more.”

My chest squeezes. I brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear, grateful for something to do with my hand.

“He loves you very much, baby.”

“I know. But he laughs now.” She picks at the rabbit’s ribbon. “And he stayed for the whole movie. Usually, he goes back to work.”

I remember his hand finding mine behind her back, the awkward way he stayed against that ridiculous bedframe because neither of us wanted to move. I had thought about it for days. I hadn’t realized she had too.

“I liked that evening,” I admit.

“We could do it again when my head stops hurting.”

“I’d like that.”

She settles against my shoulder, apparently satisfied that she has made the necessary arrangements.

I look down at her and let myself imagine telling Nikolai about the baby. Perhaps he would sit beside me and take my hand. Perhaps, once he got over the surprise, he would be happy.

For the first time since I saw those two pink lines, I wonder whether I have been preparing myself for an answer he would never give me.

We get through three chapters before she falls asleep again.

Hours pass before I hear Nikolai in the hall.

I ease myself out from under Anya, replace my arm with a cushion, and hurry to meet him.

“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you.”

He shuts the front door and turns toward me. “I know.”

“You missed her discharge. She kept asking where you were.”

His eyes move past me toward the sitting room. “How is she?”

“Asleep. They’ve given us follow-up instructions, and her medicine is in the kitchen. Nikolai, where were you?”

“Breaking the man who might finally give us some answers.”

I stop close enough to see his hands.

There’s dried blood across his knuckles. More of it marks the cuff of his shirt, with a smear near the buttons where he must have touched himself without noticing.

My stomach drops. “Kirill?”