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“Never,devochka, never,” he promises with fierce resolution, tightening his arms around me to make me feel his promise deep in my bones.
The ominous feeling lingers, but I believe Grigory with all my heart. I believe he won’t ever leave me again, and I believe he’ll keep me close as long as he can. But I’m not sure that something else won’t take him away from me.
So I cling to him for the rest of the day, needing to feel that he’s still here. As with Markus yesterday, I go from one extreme to the other in the blink of an eye. Whenever Grigory tries to release me to go get coffee or use the bathroom, he has to pry my hands off and spend several minutes reassuring me that he’ll be back.
He doesn’t ask me to play more piano for the rest of the day but lets me sit at his feet and press myself up against his leg as he plays beautiful pieces of romantic music for me.
I’m not sure what’s happening to me, and I don’t waste energy trying to figure it out. As long as Grigory is here, keeping me afloat, nothing else matters.
— CHAPTER 28 —
CLARA
I wake from a warm hand touching my shoulder and a familiar voice telling me it’s time to get up.
Blinking my heavy eyes, I find Grigory standing above me in Markus’s bedroom.
I barely remember how I got here. I don’t even remember Grigory leaving. The last thing I recall is sitting on the couch, tightly enclosed in his embrace, blinking my sleepy eyes at the TV.
“Have you slept here?” I ask.
“No, I left after tucking you in.”
I briefly wonder if he has a problem staying here because it’s Markus’s place—maybe he’s afraid to overstep a line. But my brain is too riddled with sleep to linger on it.
Lifting my phone on the nightstand, I see that it’s after nine. Grigory could easily have had several cups of coffee, read the paper, and gone for a morning walk before coming here.
“Have you just come?”
“I came several hours ago,” he says, surprising me. “But I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful.” He brushes his knuckles over my cheek, watching me with startling concern.
Struck by a wave of vulnerability, I flicker my eyes between him and the deep blue sheets that make me think of Markus. I can’t handle the reminder, nor the depth of compassion in Grigory’s expression, so I shut my eyes with an urge to forget everything.
Grigory’s hand lingers on my cheek for a moment before reaching for the comforter and flipping it aside, making a gush of chilly wind skate across my skin. “Let’s get you some breakfast,” he says. “I’ve brought fresh croissants—though they might not be warm anymore.”
He offers me a small smile when I open my eyes again. I try to reciprocate, but I’m too dazed and out of sorts, and it takes all my focus just to stand on my own two legs when he helps me out of bed.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, I join Grigory in the kitchen, where he has set out breakfast for me at the kitchen island. I manage to eat most of a croissant and some fruit, which is more than I would have managed if I were alone.
I’m not even sure I’d have gotten out of bed if it wasn’t for him.
“I can work from here most of the day, but I have a show tonight,” he says. “Can you take care of yourself for a few hours?”
Any other day, I’d find such a question offensive. And even if the phrasing didn’t bother me, I’d sayyes,not wanting to be a nuisance. But today, there’s no room for propriety or offense. So I shake my head.
Pressing his large hands to the counter surface, he hones his focus on me as if gauging me. Then he gives a determined nod. “You’ll come with me then.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at being so fragile I can’t be on my own. The predominant feeling, though, is relief for not having to be alone in Markus’s apartment tonight.
***
We arrive at the opera a little before six—an hour before the show starts. People are already arriving, creating a bustling life at the main entrance, so we use one of the staff entrances at the side of the building.
Then we go up to the third floor, where Grigory leads me down a wide carpeted hall, which he tells me is the administrative wing. The place is quiet to the point of eerie. During the day, there must be a lot of activity here, but right now, all life is centered around the concert hall and the corridors with changing rooms.
“This is my office,” he says, unlocking a door with a bronze sign that saysGeneralmusikdirektor—the German word for chief music director. In a prestigious opera house like this, it’s as good as having a sign marked CEO in a billion-dollar company.
I can’t help gaping when he opens the door and gestures for me to enter. It’s so unlike the small changing rooms I’m used to when accompanying Markus backstage.
