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Mrs. Wentworth arrives before Maksim finishes removing his coat. She wears a robe beneath a buttoned wool coat, and her ladybird-shaped glasses hang from a chain against her chest.

“I’ve opened the west family suite,” she says, checking Misha first and the blood on me second. “The adjoining sleeping space has been prepared for the child, and anything breakable has been moved above his reach.”

Misha looks up at her. “I don’t break things.”

Mrs. Wentworth adjusts her glasses. “Then the vases have nothing to fear.”

Lidiya comes behind her carrying warm milk, crackers, folded pajamas, and two blankets.

Lidiya’s expression softens when she sees Misha. She approaches slowly enough not to crowd him.

“You must be hungry,” she says, lowering the tray so he can see it.

Misha presses the yellow car against his chest and looks at Vera.

“He can have the crackers,” Vera says, setting one hand on his hair. “Not all at once.”

Lidiya nods, then turns her attention to me. “And you?”

“I’m not hungry.”

She gives me the look she reserves for liars and men who make extra work. “You never are when you should be.”

“Doctor first,” Maksim says as we enter the private medical bay across from the family suite, but Vera is already moving past him.

Irina waits beside the exam bed. Dr. Yelena sent her over from the estate clinic with fresh dressings, antibiotics, saline, pain medication, blood-culture bottles, and everything needed to start an IV. She straightens when she sees me, then relaxes when Vera takes charge.

The relief lasts a minute.

Vera checks every vial, reads labels, and names the dose before handing Irina the pain medication.

Irina pauses. “That’s enough for a horse.”

Vera glances at me. “He’s built like one.”

“A sensible decision.” I nod.

She turns as I take one step toward the corridor. “Where are you going?”

“My office.”

Vera reaches for the medication again. “Back in bed. Now.”

Maksim folds his arms near the door. “You can obey the surgeon who restarted your heart, or Abramov can put you on the bed.”

Abramov glances at the exam bed, then at me. “I’d rather not.”

“You’d enjoy it.”

My dignity has already crossed Moscow in a wheelchair, so I lie down before what’s left of the night finds another way to humiliate me.

Vera opens my shirt and peels back the dressing. Her expression tightens at the blood along the incision. She presses carefully around the edges, checks for heat, then looks at Irina.

“Set up a sterile tray. Blood cultures and a CBC before the antibiotic. I also want his temperature chart and the drain record from the last twenty-four hours.”

Irina’s hands stop over the tray. “I don’t have access to those.”

Vera looks at her, then at the locked door, and passes a hand over her brow. “Sorry. Bring me whatever records came with him.”