Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Miraculously they had stopped the progression of his illness, but the tumors were still there. We knew now the size and location of every cancerous growth inside him. It would take time before we knew if they were actually shrinking, or if remission was even possible.
But for now, we knew they were not growing. He was not getting worse. The decline had been halted. For how long, no one knew.
It was enough. It had to be enough. I was afraid to hope for more, for better, but I could not help myself.
“Mishka?” I brushed my tears away quickly, glancing over my shoulder at the imposing man standing there. Anton was physically impossible to ignore. Tall and strong, not to mention indescribably handsome. He had a surprisingly concerned look on his unfairly perfect face. That look sent a shiver through me.
Usually, he was cold. Or hot. But right now, he was tender. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. I will be quick. I know the plane is waiting.”
“That’s not why I was asking,” he said with a frown. For a moment I thought he might say more. But I was off, running to my bedroom and riffling through my dresser drawers, worried that I might displease him.
It was so strange to see my little bed, in my little room. So different from my chamber on the Aslanov Estate. I heaved a sigh of relief as I found the passport. I looked around for a moment, taking it all in. I did not know when I would be there again. If papa’s health failed, the Aslanov’s would take possession of the shop and the apartment.
This was no longer my home, I realized with a pang.
The view from the window was surprisingly lovely, I realized. I had been so used to being it every day, I was not sure I had truly appreciated it. I could see the surly, but somehow beautiful old apartment building across the street. It had ornate stone carvings around the windows and under the roof. Like our building and most of the block, it was unusual for Moscow, where most of the old buildings had replaced with new, brutalist style buildings.
The gray Moscow sky was broken up with the fading green of several trees, their branches empty of leaves at the moment. I remembered telling the time of year from the colors outside my window. Yellow green in early spring, green in summer, yellow, red, and orange in fall. Or black with a blanket of white when snow came. And when I lay in the bed each night, I could see the stars.
It could have been any city in the world. Paris. New York. But this was Moscow.
And this view was mine.
I was tempted to lie down on the bed, just to see my little patch of sky one more time. To say goodbye to it.
I felt Anton’s presence before I heard the creak of the floorboards.
“So this is where my little Mishka grew up,” he said, stepping into the room. I stiffened at his words. He must have seen it because he added “it is only a term of endearment, Mishka.”
I said nothing. There was no point in arguing with him. He would not stop taking liberties. He acted as if I was close to him sometimes. A friend, a girlfriend, or even a daughter, at times. Not his servant. Not his slave.
This was not a battle worth fighting. I knew without a doubt that there would be more important hills to stand on. And I would. I would serve him dutifully and respectfully, but that was all.
I turned, ignoring the pang of longing I felt when I looked at him. He was my employer, and my captor. Nothing more, nothing less.
He looked unusually soft today. His suit was perfectly cut. Of course, but he had skipped a tie and his shirt was open around the neck. He looked impossibly sophisticated and indescribably handsome.
But he was acting differently.
Anton was looking around my room with real curiosity. He touched the scarf draped over the lamp on my dresser, used to soften the harshness of the light, then inspected the few personal items sitting on a little tray. He picked up one of the pictures of my mother that sat there, in a tarnished cloisonné frame.
“Is this your mother?”
“Yes.”
“I see where you got your beauty.”
“I… thank you,” I said, taking the frame from him and setting it back on the dresser.
“I met her once, you know,” he said, stunning me momentarily. “She was pregnant. Your father doted on her.”
I stared at him, surprised by his words. I swallowed against the painful lump in my throat.
“Bring it with you if you like.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling like the roles were reversed.
Anton was being uncharacteristically kind. Meanwhile, I was being uncharacteristically ungracious and unkind. “Perhaps this one,” I allowed, picking up a smaller folding frame with pictures of both my parents in either frame. It was another antique, or close to it. They were so young. I wasn’t even sure they had even known each other yet in their respective photos. But when I folded the frame shut, they were together again.