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“May God have mercy on our souls.”
Masha sighed and rolled her eyes.
“It wasn’t my fault. I only meant to give her a scare. And think of that boy.”
“What about him?”
“He deserved it. For all he did. It’s justice. It is. And it turned out well for you. For us. Because of your prayers. On Sunday I want you to take me to church.”
Sophie nodded. That was fine. She had discovered an Orthodox church in the Silver Lake section of East LA, the Church of the Holy Virgin Mary. She took Nikolai and taught him to pray, to feel and stay connected to God, and to Russia.
Rachmaninoff himself, the Russian composer, had worshiped in this parish in the 1940s. And Sophie joined the Sisterhood there. They protected her and it felt like family. For free, she’d go and scrub the tile floors, wipe the pews, and polish the altar. It made her feel pure, as if she could scrub away all of her sins.
Maybe the world’s.
At East California Boulevard, Masha turned right and headed east toward the Langham hotel. A few blocks on, a château sat waiting for them, behind a gate on Charlton Road.
