Page 91 of Owned By The Bratva King

“But I have to say,” he picks up a macaron and turns it in his hand, “these are perfection. I couldn’t do better myself.”

I flush with pride. Marcel Chevalier is my hero, and his nephew Gerard has a new establishment in Boston. Marcel was delighted to fly to New York and take me on as his apprentice in return for Roman’s generous patronage.

He’s an excellent teacher, encouraging yet firm. He tells me it’s because he sees my passion and wants to nurture it.

“Do you want a challenge next week?” he asks as he helps me into my jacket. “Gerard has a wedding to cater. Généralement, he would call on the restaurant staff to help him prepare, but he needs a thousand champagne and rose macarons, and I know of no one more talented than when it comes to that particular petit four. Tu es d’accord?”

“Of course,” I say. “Thank you for having so much faith in me.”

He gives a flamboyant bow. “De rien, cherie. Go now before Roman comes looking for you.”

I have to smile at that. Roman has eased up on following me, but it’s not a habit he’s kicked entirely yet. On more than one occasion, he parked outside, waiting for me when my lesson with Marcel ended.

I push open the door and see that this is one of those days; Roman is just pulling up at the curbside.

It’s not until I reach the car that I see Roman’s face, and he looks desolate, avoiding my eyes as he gets out and opens the passenger door for me.

“Rusalka, I just got the call,” he says. “I knew you’d have your phone silenced, so I came straight here.”

“What’s the matter?” I clutch his hand, searching his eyes. “What could?—”

“It’s Carrie.” His voice is leaden. “It’s almost time.”

Carrie stopped eating and drinking three days ago. I was furious, demanding feeding tubes and IV fluids until Roman gently explained that her body knew what to do.

I wanted to stay at her bedside, but she made me promise I’d go to school every day, so as soon as my lessons were over, Roman and I drove out to see her at her beachside home.

Yesterday, she lapsed in and out of consciousness, unaware of the loss of time, and I had to leave her to rest, terrified I’d never hear her voice again.

I sob silently in the car as we leave the city behind. There’s nothing to say; we’ve talked about it for hours over the last few weeks. Carrie is comfortable, in no pain, and relaxing in the house that holds her sweetest memories. It was all she wanted.

When we arrive, the sun is already low in the sky, with bands of pink and orange striping the sky where it meets the sea. The water is tranquil, the tide easing in as it always does.

I feel mocked by the relentless rhythms of life. How can the world carry on when my dearest friend is dying?

As I climb out of the car, Esmeralda catapults herself down the patio steps, looking flustered but happy.

“Miss Quinn!” She clutches my shoulders. “Miz Carrie, she was asleep, but now she’s awake! Up and in her chair. It’s wonderful to see.”

I turn to Roman and frown. He smiles, but his eyes are filled with sadness.

I remember now. Those actively leaving this life can experience a kind of rally, sometimes called terminal lucidity. It can be distressing for the individual and their loved ones, but in some people, it’s a chance to say goodbye to their life and everything in it that matters.

“Is she okay?” I ask as we head inside. “In herself, I mean.”

“Sure.” Esmeralda pats my hand reassuringly. “Nothing is hurting her. She will be so glad to see you.”

Carrie’s bedroom is in near darkness, illuminated only by a nightlight. The last time I was here, she was in bed, hooked up to a stats monitor and her syringe driver, with oxygen being delivered via a nasal catheter.

Now, she’s framed in the open doors, sitting straight-backed and sturdy in her favorite chair. A thick blanket is wrapped around her frail shoulders, and she holds a china teacup.

Despite her fragility, the sun behind her makes her seem to glow like she’s already imbued with the light of another place. She has one foot in the future, whatever it may be, and the sense of peace is almost holy.

“She uncoupled herself from the medical things,” Esmeralda whispers as we walk through the room. “No breathing help, no monitoring, no drugs. I ask her if she is in pain, but she says no.”

She stops as we reach the patio doors. “I will stay in the kitchen,” she says, “but if you need me, please call.”

I give her a nod, and she departs. Roman squeezes my hand, and we step into the hallowed space.

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