Page 15
“Papa,” Ivy sobs, reaching one hand toward him without letting go of me.
Alexei moves closer and takes her small hand in both of his. “I’m here, solnyshko.”
“Why did she die?” Ivy asks, and the question breaks open the last little bit of composure I have left.
Alexei’s thumb moves over her knuckles. He says nothing at first, and I can see him fighting for an answer that won’t destroy her further. Finally, he lowers his voice. “She protected you.”
“I wanted her to come home.” Ivy’s voice turns so small it hardly sounds like her.
Alexei looks down at their joined hands. When he answers, his voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “So did I.”
That does me in. Tears spill faster, and I turn my face into Ivy’s hair so she won’t see all of it.
For a long while, none of us moves. Ivy cries until the sobs turn into tired little hiccups. Alexei remains seated on the edge of the mattress with Ivy’s hand wrapped around his wrist, and I keep one arm around her while my other hand rubs circles on her back. Eventually, exhaustion drags her under again. Her body grows heavier against mine, her breathing evens out, and her fingers loosen.
He returns to the rocking chair near the window and stays there. Every time I wake during the night, he's still sitting in the same spot. The faint light slipping through the curtains outlines his broad shoulders while the rest of the room remains wrapped in shadows.
The house never goes completely quiet. Air blows softly through the vents. Floorboards creak somewhere down the hall. A security radio murmurs faintly beyond the bedroom door. None of it seems to pull his attention away from Ivy.
Every time I look over, his eyes are on her. Watching. Waiting. Making sure she's okay.
The sight twists at my heart. He looks exhausted. Grief hangs on him as heavily as it does the rest of us. Yet he remains right there beside her because leaving never appears to be an option.
Morning arrives slowly, pale light sneaking around the edges of the curtains. I wake with a stiff neck, a dry mouth, and Ivy wrapped around me like a little vine. Her forehead rests against my shoulder with one knee thrown over my leg.
“Maggie?” Ivy whispers.
I look down to find her awake, blinking slowly as she shakes off the last traces of sleep. “Mornin’, sweetheart. I’m still here.”
Her shoulders loosen against me. “Okay.”
The rocking chair is empty now, though the blanket draped over one arm tells me Alexei stayed there most of the night. I don't know when he left, and right now I'm too tired to dwell on it.
I help Ivy get dressed, then change into clean jeans and a sweatshirt Mama packed for me. I pull it over my head, and the scent of laundry soap and lavender surrounds me.
Home.
A lump forms in my throat, and I have to blink a few times before I can look at Ivy again.
She stays tucked against my side as we head downstairs, Winston trotting so close to her heels that she nearly trips over him twice while Daisy keeps pace on her other side.
The mansion feels different this morning. Sunlight streams through the windows, brightening the stone floors and polished wood until the whole place looks almost ordinary. Then I notice a security guard near the front entrance and a camera tucked into a corner. No matter how beautiful this house is, it still feels like we're hiding inside it.
Winston trots ahead as soon as he spots the kitchen, while Daisy stays close to Ivy. A younger woman emerges from a side door carrying two stainless steel bowls. Winston immediately follows her. Daisy hesitates, glancing up at Ivy one last time before following him.
The kitchen is the warmest room I’ve been in yet. The smell of coffee and fresh biscuits fills the air. The coffee hits me first, rich and bitter. It makes my stomach turn slightly. I blame exhaustion and keep walking.
A woman in her sixties stands at the stove. Silver hair is pinned neatly at the back of her head, and despite the early hour, she's already moving between the stove and counter like she's done it a thousand times before. It takes me a moment to recognize her. Then I remember seeing her in the foyer last night, eyes red and grief clear on her face.
She turns as we enter. “Good mornin’.”
Her attention goes straight to Ivy before moving to me. “I don't believe we've properly met.”
“No, ma'am.”
She offers a small smile. When she speaks again, I catch the faintest hint of a Southern accent beneath her polished voice. “I'm Mrs. Bennett, but you can call me Agatha.”
“Maggie.”
