Page 25 of Porcelain Vows

A soft knock on my door pulls me from the hazy limbo between sleep and wakefulness.

I blink against the afternoon light streaming through the curtains, momentarily disoriented.

“Come in,” I call, pushing myself up against the pillows.

A woman stands at the door, and I recognize her as Aleksei’s sister Diana— partly from the photo in his study and partly because a memory flickers at the sight of her. The two of us are sitting at the pool. We’re friends… of sorts.

Diana enters, immaculate as always in a cream-colored pantsuit that makes her look like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her dark hair is swept into a sleek chignon, not a strand out of place. She carries herself with such composed elegance that I feel rumpled and disheveled in comparison, even though I’m wearing one of the expensive maternity dresses I found in my closet.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice carrying that same slight Russian accent as Aleksei’s, though hers is softer, more refined.

“Better, I think.” I smooth my hand over my belly absently. “The headaches are less frequent.”

Diana nods, her dark eyes assessing me carefully. “Bobik is asking for you. He returned from the hospital yesterday.”

“Bobik,” I repeat, the name triggering a flash of warmth. A small face. Intelligent eyes. A smile that could light up a room.The boy from the photo holding Aleksei’s hand. His son. “Yes, I’d love to see him.”

Something in Diana’s expression shifts— relief, perhaps? “Good. He’s missed you terribly.” She tilts her head. “Aleksei told me about your amnesia. How much do you remember?”

“Not a lot,” I say ruefully. “But things are coming back to me in flashes. Some things more slowly. But I think I’ll be fine.” I say it with more confidence than I feel.

She gives a nod, then waits as I rise from bed and straighten my clothes self-consciously. It seems all I do is sleep these days.

As we walk through the corridors of Blackwood Manor, Diana fills the silence with careful conversation, explaining the layout of the Left Wing, mentioning routines and schedules in a way that suggests I should already know them. I nod at appropriate intervals, trying to absorb as much as I can, desperate for any information that might trigger my memory.

“Bobik’s apartment is on the upper level,” she explains as we climb a gently sloping ramp. “It was renovated specifically for him.”

“Because of his wheelchair?” The question comes naturally, and I realize I must have known about his condition before.

Diana gives me a quick, appraising glance. “Yes. Aleksei had everything customized for maximum accessibility.”

We reach a door at the end of the hallway, and Diana knocks gently before pushing it open. The space beyond is unlike anything I expected— bright, airy, filled with books and technology. Large windows offer sweeping views of the estategrounds, and the walls are covered with star charts and scientific posters.

In the center of it all, a small boy sits in a wheelchair, his face lighting up when he sees us.

“Stella!” he exclaims, wheeling himself toward me eagerly. “You came!”

Something inside me melts at the sight of him. Despite my fractured memory, I feel an immediate connection to this child. His dark eyes shine with intelligence and warmth.

“Of course I did,” I say, smiling as I move to meet him. “How could I stay away?”

Diana watches our interaction with careful attention, her eyes missing nothing. “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” she says after a moment. “Bobik, remember what your father said about tiring yourself out.”

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I know, I know. I’ll be careful.”

When Diana leaves, closing the door softly behind her, Bobik gestures toward a comfortable armchair near his desk. “Sit down!TetyaDeedee says you’ve been sick, so I mustn’t tire you.”

I lower myself into the chair, touched by his concern. “How are you feeling? I heard you just got back from the hospital, too.”

His smile dims slightly. “I’m okay. The operation didn’t work like it was supposed to, but Dr. Malhotra says they can try again later with better technology.”

My heart aches for him. “I’m sorry, Bobik.”

He shrugs with a casualness that doesn’t quite mask his disappointment.

“It’s fine. I’m used to this chair anyway.” He wheels himself to a shelf filled with books. “Want to see what I’ve been reading? There’s this amazing new book about quantum entanglement that explains it so even kids can understand!”

For the next hour, Bobik chatters enthusiastically about science concepts that I struggle to follow. Before my memory loss, I must have been able to keep up with his brilliant mind, because he keeps referencing conversations we apparently had— discussions about neuroscience, astronomy, theoretical physics.

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