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The library is the most spacious room on the second floor, with tall windows looking across the expansive property to the other house. I spend some time moving all the chairs and tables to the edge of the room, imagining the floor covered with newspaper to catch any paint droplets. It’s easier than thinking of blood, gunshots, the ringing in my ears, and my own breath attempting to choke me.
Going to the window, I see a woman walking toward the house, a bag slung over her shoulder. She’s thin, wearing black jeans and a tank top, highlighting her build. The doorbell to the house sounds old and grand when it goes off.
I go to the front door. The woman smooths her straight black hair from her face and smiles nervously at me. Maybe she’s not a woman but a teenage girl. It’s difficult to tell her age. She looks young and innocent but also world-weary, as though she’s seen too much in her life. Or maybe that’s just the overactive artist in me searching for something that isn’t there.
“Hello,” she says after a pause, making brief eye contact before looking at the ground. “I’ve brought you some clothes. It’s Lia, right? Dimitri said your name is Lia.”
“Yeah, Lia. And you are?”
“I’m his sister. Well, half-sister.” After a breath, which seems designed to give her more courage, she thrusts her hand out. “Ania.”
I shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’d invite you in, but I don’t think I need to.”
Stepping aside, she walks into the grand foyer. Everything in this house is like walking through some nineteenth-century lord’s mansion, with the paintings and the décor. Ania puts the bag down.
“My friend left some clothes here by accident in the winter. She lives on the East Coast, so she won’t be able to pick them up for a while. Do you want them?”
“Are you sure your friend won’t mind?”
Ania shakes her head. “It’s fine. We spoke earlier. Well, we chatted online. She’s an online friend through the ballerina group. Anyway…” She waves a hand.
“Should I make us some coffee?” I say.
“I don’t drink coffee,” Ania mutters.
“Hot cocoa or something?”
“Yeah, sure,” she smiles. When I turn and walk away, she giggles. “The kitchen’s the other way, Lia.”
I grin back at her. “My bad. Why don’t you lead the way?”
Together, we go to the large kitchen. In contrast to the rest of the house, this is modern, as though the Sokolovs wanted the best combination of contemporary and traditional. Ania sits at the kitchen bar as I search for everything I need.
“How old are you, Ania?” I ask once I’ve started heating milk for her cocoa and the coffee machine is running.
“Eighteen,” she says. “Why?”
“I was just wondering,” I tell her. “You seem…”
“Younger?” she cuts in, almost seeming angry about it, but it’s hard to tell when she looks down most of the time, not at me.
“Uh, a little.”
“I hate it,” she says. “I know I look young, but I don’tfeelyoung. I feel old sometimes—ancient.”
“I know what you mean,” I mutter.
Finally, she looks up at me. It’s like the shock of my statement forces her to. “Really?”
Fidgeting in the loose-fitting hoodie I found in the closet, clearly a man’s, I nod. “Yeah, Ania. Really.”
“Why?” she asks.
I shrug. “It’s morbid.”
“I’ll share mine if you share yours,” she says.
I turn to the coffee machine, stir the mug, then start mixing her cocoa.
