Ghost (Boston Underworld #3) - A. Zavarelli Page 0,52

filled with longing. For me.

But he does not act on it.

So I leave.

28

Alexei

“Talia has made breakfast this morning,” Magda announces cheerfully.

“She has?” I question, my lack of excitement clearly deflating hers.

She nods. “She is getting better.”

“It always gets better before it gets worse,” is my answer.

Magda frowns and then moves her attention to the reports I’m working on.

“You will eat together this morning,” she tells me.

I cock my head to the side, and she smiles.

“You must, Alexei. You must reward her progress. It is the only way.”

“My time and attention is not a reward.”

“I think Talia would disagree.”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair and glance out the window. The seasons have changed so quickly now that she’s here. Tonight is the Christmas party. Which she will attend with me. And do her duties as my wife. And for this reason, I tell myself, I will go downstairs and indulge her this once.

I can’t have her moods changing when I need her to play her part.

When I tell Magda this, she frowns.

I ignore it and file my papers away before going downstairs.

Talia is in the kitchen, just as Magda said. And in a good mood, just as Magda said. I turn to Magda, who is trailing behind me.

“You should not have left her alone in there,” I warn.

Again, she frowns.

“It is not an act, Alyoshka.” She shakes her head. “She is getting better.”

“Until she finds a knife to set herself free.”

I do not wait for Magda’s response. Instead, I take a seat at the table, unsure what else to do. I usually dine in my office unless there is company. Magda delivers my meals, and I rarely give it any thought. But now, I feel uncomfortable. Out of place. Watching her move around the kitchen.

When she turns around and looks my way, there is flour on her nose and shirt. And some sort of batter tangled in her hair.

But also, a smile on her face.

I clear my throat to hide my own.

“Good, they are all ready now,” Talia says. And then she delivers a heaping plate of fresh waffles to the table, followed by a bowl of Strawberries.

I reach for one waffle, and she stares at me. So I take another. Magda does the same, and we all eat in silence.

During the meal, I watch Talia carefully. Her good mood dissipates quickly. Magda glances at me, silently telling me to do something. But I don’t know the answer. So we wait in stillness.

And eventually, Talia speaks. Trapped by old memories. Locked inside the darkness in her head.

“She made waffles that day,” she says, as though she is just remembering.

She blinks up at me with glassy eyes. “I should have known, because she made waffles.”

“Your mother?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers, her fork clattering to the plate. “She never cooked. She barely let us out of the room. I should have seen it.”

“You couldn’t have,” I tell her from experience. “When someone is that far gone, they make you believe what they want. They fool everyone.”

Both Magda and Talia are staring at me now, and I look away. Pushing my chair back, I reach for Talia’s hand. She does not hesitate to give it to me. But the despondency has set in again, so she cannot walk. I lift her into my arms and rest her head on my shoulder while I carry her up the stairs.

I don’t know what to do with her. How to help her. And it weighs on me.

I can’t leave her alone, so I simply sit down with her and cradle her in my arms. She rests her face against my chest and relaxes. Her fingers move over the soft material of my sweater, sliding the material between her thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she says.

Live.

That’s what she means by those whispered words.

“You can, and you will,” I tell her.

She is quiet. Thinking dark thoughts. And I know that I need to coax them from her. I know that helping her means facing my own fears. That she will not recover. That I can’t ever help her.

I reach for her fingers and place them over the star on her hand. And without further insistence, she moves them of her own accord. Into a rhythmic pattern. Tracing the lines and my name, over and over again.

“Tell me about your mother,” I insist.

She meets my eyes, and hers are violent with emotion. More than I’ve ever seen in her before. It wants to break free, but