Page 20 of A War Apart

Mother had lost children herself—my older brother Sergei and I were the only two still living of the nine she had carried—but still, I couldn’t find the words to express what had happened.

I pray you are in good health. To Sergei and his wife, as well as the children, I send my love.

I regret that I must tell you of a tragedy that has of late befallen our house.

I scratched through the last line and began again.

Our house lies under a dark cloud. Great Otets, in His infinite wisdom, saw fit to call to rest our son before he drew his first breath.

I crumpled the paper and threw it in the fire. Picking up a clean sheet, I bit the end of the quill, thinking.

A cough sounded from behind me. I whirled around, heart pounding in my throat. Han stood in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Milochka. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around me.

I fought to breathe as I shrugged him off and scooted the chair back. “No, I’m fine. I didn’t hear you come in.” Damn my nerves! Most of the time, I could pretend nothing had happened, but some days, like this one, every unexpected sound sent me into a panic.

“Writing to your mother?” he asked in a tone of strained nonchalance.

“Trying.” I turned back to the paper. Maybe he’d go away.

Instead he placed his hand on my arm. “I can tell her, if you want.”

“No.” I shook his hand off. His touch made my skin crawl.Anytouch made my skin crawl. I knew it wasn’t his fault that I felt like this, but knowing that didn’t change my body’s reaction to him.

He cleared his throat. “I talked to Yakov today.”

He talked to Yakov every day. Why wouldn’t he leave?

“He said he has a reputation as a ladies’ man.” He laughed, but it sounded forced.

“He’s an idiot,” I snapped. “Maybe if he spent less time thinking with his fist, he might actually find a woman.”

“You’re probably right.”

I nearly snapped at him again for agreeing with me. Instead, I pursed my lips and didn’t answer.

He brushed his hand over my hair, and I willed myself not to flinch. I hadn’t bothered to cover it since the attack. No one saw me but Han, Yakov, and Anna, so I wasn’t concerned with the social dictates that required married women to wear a scarf or kokoshnik. Most days it was all I could do to get dressed.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “Will you be to bed soon?”

I gestured at the desk. “Once this is finished. Don’t wait up.”

“Try not to be too long. You’re still healing; you need your rest.” He bent down to kiss my cheek, and I clenched my teeth.

As his footsteps faded down the hall, I let out a sigh of relief. If I slept at all, it wouldn’t be in bed with him. Ever since the attack, Han took every opportunity to touch me, like he was afraid if he didn’t hold me enough, I would disappear. Every touch made me want to scream.

I spent a restless night on the divan in the sitting room, tossing and turning beside the fire. At the first light, I made my way to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of kvass. Taking a large drink of the sweet, fizzy liquid, I rummaged through the pantry until I found a bit of rye bread and gooseberry preserves.

If Marya Ivanovna could see me, she’d have had a conniption. I could imagine what she’d say. “Mistress! You ought to be in bed! And serving yourself. It isn’t genteel, the lady of the house fetching her own food.” Of course, she’d ignore my protests that I wasn’t a lady, just a farmer’s wife. Marya Ivanovna had always treated us like nobility. I smiled at the thought, but a pang of grief went through me.

We’d have to find a new housekeeper soon. I rubbed my aching chest as I walked into the dining room. We couldn’t rely on Anna Ilynichna forever. I could do some basic cooking, but I’d been educated as a seamstress, not a housekeeper. Yet another way I’d been a disappointment to my mother, by marrying a farmer rather than taking over the practice in Selyik.If Dobromila Nikolaevna, famed seamstress, found out her daughter was living without a housekeeper, she’d be appalled.

Footsteps in the hall interrupted my musings. Han came into the room, already dressed for the day, his face filled with concern. He leaned down to kiss me. I pulled back, and he frowned, tracing my cheek with his hand instead.

“You didn’t come to bed again.”

“I fell asleep writing,” I lied. I took another bite of bread and stood, leaving the rest of my breakfast untouched on the table. “I need to get dressed.”

---