Page 31 of Crowned

The following afternoon, I board a train in Dijon with my backpack containing a clean T-shirt, some underwear, a toothbrush, and holding a cup of coffee and a sandwich in a paper bag. The train is half empty and I settle into a seat by a sunny window. As soon as the carriage shudders and we start to pull out of the station, my shoulders unclench, but just a little.

As I watch the countryside flash past and sip my coffee, my heart starts to feel lighter.

I switch trains in Germany with a few furtive glances over my shoulder. The platform overflows with people walking this way and that, pulling small suitcases behind them. For a moment I catch sight of a tall, proud-looking man in a white shirt, and when he turns toward me, my stomach flips. Only his eyes are brown, not gray.

My eyes close, and sleep envelops me in a velvet blanket.

There’s a warm weight in my arms and it’s making soft, sleepy noises. I gaze down into her cherubic face and realize it’s her. My daughter. She’s only a few days old and her tiny hand is clenched on the blanket that swaddles her. I’m so full to the brim with love that I pay no attention to the presence behind me. Several presences.

One moves closer and a large hand squeezes my shoulder. He presses his lips to my temple and breathes in my ear, “She is beautiful, Lilia.”

I come awake with a gasp, my eyes wide and staring around me. The dream was so vivid that, for a moment, I don’t know where I am. The dimly lit train carriage rattles through the night.

I slide a hand over my belly. A girl. Will it be a girl? My heart aches at the thought that my daughter might grow up among dangerous men who will use her as the men in my life have used me.

Just past eight in the morning, the train pulls into Prague Hlavni, and I alight along with the other weary travelers. It’s a morning filled with watery sunshine, and the crisp, dry air smells like pastry. The seasons will soon be turning, and as I make my way to the exit, I smile at the thought of watching the trees of this beautiful city turn red and gold.

The first thing I do in my new city is find an apartment to rent on the east side of the river, as close as I can get to the city center. It’s small and the bed is narrow, but it’s cheap and quiet and looks out onto a peaceful garden.

A few days later I manage to find a waitressing job in a restaurant by Wenceslas Square. They’re short-staffed and she can offer me up to ten shifts a week. It’s a thirty-minute walk from home, and the walk will get harder and harder the bigger my belly grows. Still, it’s a start and a little bit of hope.

Czech food shares a great many similarities with Russian food, I’m pleased to find. The hearty stews, soups, and pickled vegetables remind me ofBabulyaand help me remember the orders. At the end of my first four-hour shift, my feet are aching, but the manager is smiling at me. I have the job.

Morning sickness comes and goes. Most of my shifts start at midday, and I feel better after my walk to the restaurant. Most of the food we serve smells heavenly, except for the cheeses. If someone wants to finish their meal with cheese, I have to hold my breath and avert my face.

On Halloween, I carve a pumpkin and light it, and set it in the living room window. The candle dances merrily within, casting spiky shadows all around the room. The wickedly grinning face seems friendly to me, like it’s chasing away all my enemies.

On Christmas Day, I stand on Charles Bridge as flakes of snow flutter down. I’m thirteen weeks pregnant, and I think I can feel my baby with my hands for the first time. For weeks I’ve stared at myself sideways in the mirror, wondering if my waist looks thicker, but today I’m sure of it.

“Hello, baby,” I whisper, my vaporous breath curling around me. “Merry Christmas. Soon it will be New Year, and the year you will be born. I can’t wait to meet you.”

Will the baby have blue eyes, or gray eyes? Will I see one of my tormentor’s faces looking back at me when we finally meet or only the innocence of a child?

“Whatever happens, baby, I’m going to protect you from everything bad in the world,” I murmur, gazing out across the dark, frigid waters of the Vltava River. “I don’t have much to give you except my love. I hope it will be enough.”

I won’t be able to lavish this child with the luxury I once knew, but plush white carpets and gold-edged dinner plates don’t mean anything when a house is cold and cruel.

On my way home, I remember my resolution to track down the other pageant women and share the diamond money with them. As soon as I get in my front door, I boot up my laptop and start searching social media accounts. I know a few of their full names and find their Facebook and Instagram accounts. My hand hovers over the message button, but it doesn’t feel right to pop up in their inboxes and possibly retraumatize them.

Instead, I switch to a search engine and start reading about how to anonymously transfer cryptocurrency to people who don’t have a cryptocurrency account. I learn that it’s possible, but you need their email address or phone number.

A few hours later, I close my laptop and head to bed. It will take a lot more research to find everyone and somehow verify their contact information, but at least I have a plan now, and a plan makes me hopeful.

By the end of February, I’ve sent out three payments, one to Hedda, one to Deja and one to Olivia. Every transfer is anonymous but comes with a message that only they will understand.

One-sixteenth, with love from eleven.And I add a diamond emoji. None of the women will have forgotten Konstantin’s glittering tiara.

The day I log in and see that Hedda has transferred her portion of the money into a bank account, I stand up from my computer with a whoop of delight. My first win, and it sends a rush of happiness through me. I’m still a long way from tracking down everyone, but if I have to hire a private investigator to find some of the women, I will.

According to the internet, my baby is due on the tenth of June. A summer baby. I picture sitting on my tiny balcony, surrounded by potted plants, bathed in gentle sunshine, and nursing the little one in my arms. I still haven’t seen a doctor for a checkup, but I know I have to, and soon. I’m putting it off as long as possible because I’m terrified of being deported if an official discovers I’m in this country illegally. I don’t know how I’ll obtain a birth certificate for this child without showing my own passport. I lie awake at night worrying about it.

I don’t know what to do except keep putting one foot in front of the other, so that is what I do. I work at the restaurant and pay my rent. I eat nutritious food for the baby, and I scour second-hand markets to make a little nursery in the corner of my living room. A sturdy stroller. A yellow wooden crib. A mobile of elephants and tigers in yellow bowties to hang above. Baby clothes so tiny and adorable that they make me smile every time I look at them.

On my mornings off I’m so exhausted that I can do nothing but sit in cafés and watch the world go by, and I start to notice something about myself that makes me dig my nails into my palms.

I can’t stop looking at the men.

Tall, handsome men in tight T-shirts and running shorts, jogging along the river. Sleek businessmen in tailored suits that show off their muscular shoulders. Tradesmen in overalls, sawdust lacing their muscular forearms and strong hands. It’s infuriating to acknowledge it, but I’m hornier than I’ve ever been in my life.

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