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“Something wrong with the soup?” Galina asked.

Felicity shook her head. “No. It’s good.” She met the older woman’s concerned stare and — before she could stop herself — blurted, “Ronan Murphy wants to be my friend.”

Galina, too, set her spoon down. “It’s good to have friends, milaia devochka.”

Sweet girl. A derisive huff slipped out before she could stop it. “I’m the spawn of evil.” Her mouth twisted. “Some things don’t wash off. Why would anyone want to be near me?”

Galina held her gaze, unflinching. “What was done to you is not what you are,” she said quietly.

“But it made me who I am.” Felicity’s voice broke, then softened. “He says my life is empty.”

“I agree.”

Felicity flinched. “Galina—” The name came out tortured.

Galina didn’t look away. “Empty of what should have been given to you,” she said. “Not because you are lacking. Because you were denied.”

The words landed. Deep. “If I let people in … they’ll want to know.”

“The shame belongs to the ones who caused it. Not to the innocent.”

Felicity’s throat tightened. She looked down at her bowl, the red of the soup suddenly too bright. “Easy to say,” she muttered. “You don’t know—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

For a stretch of time, the only sound in the kitchen was the ticking of the clock and the uneven breathing of the dogs.

Then, as if nothing had shifted at all, Galina reached for the bread and set a thick slice on Felicity’s plate. “Eat your soup before it goes cold,” she said simply, and picked up her spoon.

Felicity obeyed, but the warmth no longer reached her.

And the weight of the dog on her foot, once grounding, now felt confining.

*

Felicity parked beneath a lamppost and stared up at the four dark windows above the neon outline of a flower cart. The very last thing she wanted to do was climb those stairs and face the empty apartment. “Don’t go soft on me, Felicity.”

Putting action to her reprimand, she opened the door and stepped out, reaching back in to drag the quilt — a gift from Galina — and the basket beneath it free. She shouldered the foyer door open and climbed the stairs, letting herself into her apartment moments later.

Felicity stowed the leftovers Galina had insisted she take, then stood there, staring at the quilt on the counter.

She had never received something so … personal.

Galina had made it. From scratch. Cut the shapes, pinned them, sewn them together. And then given it to her.

To her.

With a muttered oath, she grabbed the bundle and flicked it open, spreading it across the couch. Deep red, cobalt blue, mustard yellow, and forest green squares formed a vivid patchwork, the colors startling against the muted tones of her apartment.

It didn’t belong.

Or maybe … it did.

Ugh. What did she know.

Only that an old Russian woman who saw too much and knew not to pry too deeply had given it to her.

Leaving her questioning everything she believed about herself.

The shame belongs to the one who caused it. Not to the innocent.