Page 34 of Vengeful Embers

I take the box and go.

The bathroom is warm, with soft light filtering through the frosted window. I sit, pee on the stick. Put it on the counter as I wash my hands and set the timer. Then I wait. My heart drums against my ribs like a warning bell. Then I stand. And I stand. Suddenly, three minutes starts to seem like an hour. Finally, the timer dings.

I’m too scared to look. I don’t even know what I want the result to be. If I’m not pregnant, will I feel relieved or disappointed? The truth is, I’m terrified of being pregnant. But I also want this. I want to do this for Irina and Gavriil. And then the doubt hits, sharp and sudden, and I realize maybe I didn’t think this through at all. There are so many unknowns swirling in my head, it’s like I’m not just standing in the middle of an impossible equation—I am the unsolvable problem.

Just look at the fucking stick Tara and stop freaking out.

I do and then wish I hadn’t.

Two pink lines bloom.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

I stare at them for what feels like forever.

By the time I step out, Irina is waiting anxiously, pacing outside the door.

I hold up the stick. “Two pink lines.”

Her face lights up when she sees them and squeals like a little girl who just got a pony for Christmas.

“I’ll book the blood test,” she says, hugging me tight.

“Really?” I shudder. “Can’t we just trust the stick?”

“No.” Irina rolls her eyes. “Come on.”

That afternoon, I’m dragged back to the same doctor who knows me better on the inside than anyone else after having had a good look up there a few weeks ago. I still feel violated by it. This time. He sticks a needle in my arm and draws out a syringe full of blood.

“You should have the results by tomorrow,” the doctor tells Irina, like she’s the one that he just pulled a huge syringe of blood from, and I’m not even in the room.

“Thank you, doctor,” Irina says excitedly, then turns to me. “Why don’t we stop at the frozen yogurt shop on the way home?”

“Are you bribing me?” I look at her suspiciously.

“I’m trying to say thank you and sorry for having to go through this,” Irina tells me.

“In that case,” I say, grinning. “I want the real deal. I want ice cream.”

“Are you sure?” Irina says. “It’s sugar and…”

“I want some!” I look at her with raised eyebrows. And then push on the band-aid on my arm where the needle had gone in.

“Fine!” Irina gives in. “You are such a drama queen.”

“I’m allowed to be,” I tell her. “I’m pregnant. There is this little bean inside me starting to sprout into a whole little person inside me.”

“This is going to be a long nine months.” Irina sighs.

The next morning, Gavriil is on the phone trying to find out where we could get information on Anya Novikov, and all we get is a bio of her from her fan club manager.

“We’re never going to find out anything,” I moan.

“I keep telling the two of you, you need to go to Russia,” Irina says.

“Irina’s right,” Gavriil says, agreeing with her.

We’re interrupted by the sound of Irina’s phone ringing—it’s the doctor.

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