Page 17 of A War Apart

“Three days. Do you not remember…?”

I’d been unconscious for three days? “Remember what?”

He pulled back to look at my face. “You woke up, but you didn’t say anything. You didn’t even move, just laid there, staring off at nothing. You don’t remember any of that?”

I’d been awake? And I’d missed my son’s burial by just a few hours. The tears were more insistent this time. I jerked from Han’s grasp. A bolt of pain shot through my torso, and I screamed.

“Mila—” he started, but Anna rushed in.

“You’re awake!” She hurried to the bedside, taking my hand. “Where does it hurt, dear? What can I do?”

I shook my head, clutching my stomach. There was nothing she could do.

Anna swatted Han’s arm. “Get off the bed! You’re going to hurt her more.” He scrambled off, and she turned back to me. “Should I send for the doctor? Do you need anything?”

I shook my head again, fighting against the flood of tears.

“It’s alright, Mila,” she said, stroking my hair. “You’re safe now. It’ll be alright.”

It wouldn’t be. Nothing would ever be alright again. I nodded anyway.

“I’ll go fix you some kasha,da?You need to eat something.” She patted my hand and hurried out the door, leaving me alone with Han again.

“Mila—” he began, but I held up a hand.

“I need to be alone.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue, but after a moment, he nodded once. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”

I waited until the door had closed to let my tears out in full force again.

Chapter six

Aftermath

Mila

The following weeks dragged by. As the first of my bruises began to heal and frost formed on the ground outside, I was finally allowed out of bed, but only as far as the chair by the window. Han and Yakov sat with me when they weren’t working, and Anna was a near-permanent fixture in the room.

They hadn’t yet deemed me fit enough to relocate from the guest room on the ground floor to the upstairs bedroom I shared with Han. While Han and Anna worried that the stairs would be too much of a challenge for my injured body, I had a more personal reason to avoid the bedroom. I wasn’t ready to share a bed with him again. I didn’t want to be touched.

A stream of well-wishers trickled through the house as time passed. I was spared their attentions by virtue of my bedroom confinement, but I could hear their hushed expressions of sympathy from my room.

After a month of confinement, the constant hovering had begun to grate on me. That morning, I sat by the window between Han and Anna. Han stared at a set of papers—financial statements from the year, I assumed, but he hadn’t actually done anything with them in over a half hour. Instead, he tapped his foot incessantly, rubbing the scar on his forehead. Whenever he thought I wasn’t paying attention, he looked up at me, as though afraid I would disappear if he didn’t keep me in his sights.

“By Otets!” I finally swore, throwing down the shirt I was mending—the only work I was permitted to do. Han jumped at the outburst. “Your fidgeting is going to make me lose my mind. Go. Away.”

He reached out and put his hand on my knee. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

I clenched my teeth. “Anna is here. Kyril Kyrilovich is working in the stables. Please. For the love of all the Sanctioned. Go away.”

He let out a breath. “If that’s what you want, Milochka. Yakov is chopping firewood; I can join him.” Leaning down to kiss my head, he added, “I’ll be back for supper. You’ll send for me if you need anything?”

“Go!” I screeched, pushing him toward the door. He left with one last worried look back.

Anna clicked her tongue. “He’s mourning, too, you know.”

“He’s treating me like a porcelain doll,” I huffed, picking up the shirt I’d thrown down. “I can’t handle his hovering. And he’ll feel better getting back to normal. Back to work.” I stabbed my needle through the cloth. “We all need to get back to work.”

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