Page 31 of Porcelain Vows

“This is delicious,” I say. “Your mom’s recipe is wonderful.”

Diana’s expression softens slightly. “I gave it to the cook. She makes it almost the same way.” She smiles. “Almost.”

We talk as I eat, our conversation flowing more naturally than it did in those first awkward days after my return from the hospital. Diana has a dry wit that emerges when she’s relaxed, and I find myself laughing at her deadpan observations aboutthe staff and her subtle mockery of some of Aleksei’s more intimidating mannerisms.

“He thinks that scowl terrifies everyone,” she says, rolling her eyes, “but really, he just looks constipated.”

I nearly choke on my water. “Please don’t tell him I laughed at that,” I say when I’ve recovered.

“Your secret is safe with me,” she promises, a rare smile playing on her lips. “Besides, he’s different with you here. Softer, somehow.”

Her words send a flush of warmth through me. It’s true that Aleksei has been attentive, almost gentle, in the weeks since my memory loss. The intensity is still there— I don’t think that’s something he could ever fully suppress— but it’s tempered by a tenderness that seems to surprise even him sometimes.

After Diana leaves, taking the empty dishes with her, fatigue washes over me like a wave. I lie down on the bed, not bothering to change out of my dress.

Just a little nap… A few minutes…

My eyes are already growing heavy, and I drift into that strange twilight state between wakefulness and sleep, where reality blurs and memories surface like bubbles in still water.

Nick.

My brother’s name is Nick.

I see his face clearly now— younger than mine, with the same green eyes but sharper features, a crooked smile that could charm anyone. Where is he now? Why isn’t he here? I try to remember the last time I saw him, but the memory won’t solidify.

And what about our parents? I know they’re dead— Aleksei confirmed that much— but the details… they still escape me. When did they die? How? Why? The questions swirl in my mind, frustrating in their persistence and my inability to answer them.

Perhaps Nick could provide answers; if only I could reach him. But how? I don’t even know where he is, let alone how to contact him.

The memory shifts, and suddenly I’m a child again, sitting at a kitchen table. A man with my mother’s eyes is speaking in slurred Russian, his breath heavy with the smell of vodka.

“Your sister,” he’s saying, leaning in conspiratorially. “Boyana. They gave her away, you know. Not supposed to tell you. Secret.”

Uncle Igor.

The name comes to me suddenly, along with a flood of disconnected images— a shabby apartment in St. Petersburg, the smell of cigarettes and cabbage, a collection of colorful stamps he used to let me look at but never touch.

Boyana. My sister. Given up for adoption before I was born.

But that can’t be right. I remember her. I can feel her presence. Real, and yet not.

I shift onto my side, curling into myself as details trickle back.

Boyana isn’t real— she’s the imaginary friend I created as a child, the one I used to talk to in my head when I was lonely or scared. I remember those conversations vividly—sharingsecrets, asking for advice, finding comfort in her imagined presence.

Yet I haven’t “spoken” to her since returning from the hospital. It’s like I’ve forgotten about my imaginary sister as well, this constant companion who was once so important to me.

Tears start rolling down my cheeks as my mind becomes a jumbled mess once again. Time seems distorted; I struggle to pinpoint exactly when certain events took place.

Did we leave Russia when I was twelve, or sixteen?

Did my parents die last year, or five years ago?

The timeline shifts and blurs, refusing to turn into anything coherent.

I don’t tell anyone about these flashbacks. Not Diana, with her careful concern. Not Bobik, who would try to explain the neurological processes behind memory recovery with innocent enthusiasm. And certainly not Aleksei, whose dark eyes miss nothing, who seems to be waiting for something I can’t identify.

I just want to be on my own with these fragments, these puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together. Aleksei seems to sense this need for solitude and respects it, leaving me to my thoughts. He’s gotten used to my mood changes, adapting to them with a patience I wouldn’t have expected from such a formidable man.

---