Page 17 of Maksym

“Yes.”

“He made me drink.”

Her hands stilled.

“Yes.”

The honesty hurt, but less than evasion would have.

“He commanded me.”

Millie’s gaze lowered for a moment. When it rose again, I saw sorrow there. Not pity. Sorrow had more respect in it.

“That is also something he must answer for.”

I swallowed. My throat no longer felt raw. That seemed like betrayal.

“Then why should I eat with him?”

“What sort of profession were you in before?”

The question startled me so badly I stared.

This woman drew answers from me without effort. “I, I was an attorney.”

Millie’s mouth tucked into the smallest smile. “I could hear education in the way you choose your words.”

My eyes burned again. “I was a prosecutor.”

“Then you know the value of questions.”

“I know the value of indictments too.”

This time, the small smile became real.

“Good,” she said. “Hold on to that. Ask him everything when you can bear to. Demand answers. Demand truth. Eat first, perhaps, because fury is exhausting on an empty stomach.”

I looked down at the bathwater. It was no longer clean. Pinkish-gray, clouded with salt and soap and what the night had left on me. Still, I felt cleaner under it than I had before. Not whole. Not close. But the surface of me had been returned to me by inches.

“I’m scared,” I said.

The confession left without permission. Millie set the cloth aside and rested her forearms on the edge of the tub.

“Of course you are.”

“I don’t know what I am.”

“No,” she said. “But you are still Grace Marlow.”

The tears came again, silent and immediate. She reached for my face then, slowly enough that I could turn away. I did not. Her thumb brushed a tear from my cheek.

“You are overwhelmed,” she said. “That is allowed. You are angry. That is allowed, too. You may feel ten things at once and none of them politely. There will be time for all of it.”

“Am I safe?” I asked.

I hated the childlike shape of the question.

“Yes,” she said. “You are safe now.”