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He holds the box up to me and smiles. "Alana Volskaya," he says. "Will you marry me?"

I can't stop the dam from breaking and the flood overflows. I almost tackle him to the ground as I throw my arms around him. "Yes! I will," I squeal, too happy to contain my joy.

I'm getting married, and he's going to flip out, but I want to do it soon.

Like in a few days, at Christmas.

39

ALANA

The dressing room is small and overcrowded with my mother and sister and a few ladies my mother plays bridge with all hovering. I sit on a velvet chair, holding still while Mamochka fusses with the clasp at the back of my neck. Her fingers work the tiny hook deftly, adding the last piece of this outfit to its place on my body. Dimitri is going to be so shocked I pulled this off.

"Stop moving," she says, pulling more of my hair back. She's been crying on and off all morning, happy tears she keeps trying to hide by turning away to adjust the flowers on my veil. I don't think she was quite prepared for me to announce a wedding. Three days is sort of fast for planning, but Christmas Day is when I've always dreamed of being married and I didn’t want to wait a full year.

Natalia stands by the window, peeking through the heavy curtains at the nave beyond. "The Council just arrived," she reports, letting the fabric fall back into place. "Mr. Petrov's wearing that ridiculous gray suit. Who wears gray to a wedding?"

"He thinks it makes him look neutral." I chuckle as I catch my reflection in the mirror.

The dress is nothing like the one Natalia wore last year. This one is lighter, silk that drapes instead of constraining, but still formal enough for what this day represents. This isn't just a wedding. This is a symbolism of the love I have for Dimitri, an open display of how much I care for him and how I’m giving myself to him fully.

My mother finishes with the clasp and steps back and dabs her eyes with her tissue again. "You look beautiful," she whispers, so choked up she can barely speak.

I stand up, and the fabric pools around my feet. My heels are new, like most other things I'm wearing. We had a mad rush to put this whole thing together, though the decorations were easy. The cathedral is already decked out for the holidays before December starts. I can only imagine the expense my father paid to make this day perfect for me.

Since that apology he's done nothing but lavish me in anything I want. I know he isn't trying to buy my affection. He just doesn't have a clue how to actually love someone. Money and gifts are the best I can do on short notice, but I hope to teach him what it takes to be a real father—and a grandfather now with Misha growing like a weed.

When someone knocks on the door, it makes my stomach jump. My mother looks at me, asking permission without words, and I nod.

She opens it to find my father standing in the hallway, immaculate in his black suit, the Volskaya crest on his lapel in small, discreet embroidery. When he steps in, his eyes sweep over to me and I see fondness in them, a crack in that hard exterior I've come to understand is the way he protects himself. He won't admit it, but this day is something to him too. He knows he's losing a daughter because I'm growing up and leaving home, but I see how he respects my ability to make a choice. It's easier now with peace on the table for our families.

"It's time," he says, forced to clear his throat when his voice cracks.

Natalia hands me my bouquet—white roses and winter berries—and my mother kisses my cheek, first one side, then the other, the Russian way, holding my face in her hands like I'm still twelve and heading to my first dance.

"Be happy," she says. "And be free now." Her eyes are still spilling over. Her makeup is all but washed off, and she'll say she looks hideous but to me, she's lovely. I've never felt more loved than I do right now.

Mamochka and Natalia head out, and I follow my father into the hallway. The walls of St. Michael's are familiar. I walked them in terror a year ago, convinced Natalia was marching toward a life sentence. Today, the same paintings hang on the same plaster, the same light shines through the same windows, but everything has shifted.

The building hasn't changed, but I have.

We stop at the double doors that lead into the nave. From here I can hear the organ, the low murmur of hundreds of people settling into pews. The Council is here along with my extended family and Dimitri's, friends of friends, men on our fathers' payrolls, people we have never met but who support our parents. Everyone who tried to break us or bind us is gathered in one place to watch us wed, and it makes me feel a little nervous.

My father offers his arm. I take it, feeling how strong he still is despite his age. He covers my hand with his own and turns to me. "Alana," he mutters in a gravelly voice. "I don't deserve to be the one to give you away. I know that. But I'm grateful you're letting me."

I smile at his old, rugged face. The lines around his eyes that weren't there five years ago. The gray at his temples that he doesn't bother to dye anymore. The man who betrayed me and the man who is trying to be my father exist in the same skin, and I'm learning to live with both. He raised me, and I owe him so much. It's the only reason I'm here still trying to heal this divide.

"You're here," I say. "I love you, Batya, no matter what."

The doors open to reveal the sanctuary packed with bodies. I see the Council members first, occupying the front rows on both sides. Mr. Petrov catches my eye and nods, that ridiculous gray suit indeed making him look like a specter at a feast. But he's smiling. They're all smiling.

Then I see our families. The Volskayas on the left, the Sokolovs on the right, separated by the aisle but present in the same space without armed guards between them.

My uncles and cousins, men I haven't spoken to in years because the war made us strangers—they're all here, dressed in their best, watching me with pride on their faces as I walk toward Dimitri to the beat of the music on my father’s arm.

And at the end of the aisle, in front of the altar where a priest waits in gold robes, stands Dimitri. The dark suit fits him perfectly, and his hands hang loose at his sides until he sees me. When his eyes meet mine, I notice his hands tugging at the cuffs of his suit coat sleeves. He's as nervous as I am, maybe because this step is a forever step. When I say "I do", I intend for it to be until death do us part.

As my father and I step forward, the organ swells. Everyone rises to turn and watch me. We walk slowly as camera flashes capture the moment, but I keep my gaze locked on Dimitri. He's the fixed point in the room, the axis around which everything else rotates.