I don’t know if my instincts about Aksel are correct, or what he was like before, or why he moved here after his parents’ plane crash. I know so little about him; the avalanche remains a complicated tangle of emotions.
And Berlin has thrown a wrench in the turmoil.
However, Berlin is a coincidence, so it shouldn’t necessarily affect—
“Ms. Hepworth?”
Blinking, I look around the Art History classroom. The shades are drawn over the windows. The room is dark. “Yes, ma’am?” I say to Mrs. Bernhardt.
“Can you please tell us about this?”
I squint at the building on the screen. The image is out of focus, but I would recognize it anywhere.
Immediately, my throat constricts. I have no time to prevent it. Hot moist air. The adhan echoing in my ears. Running through the souk. Dirty hair. Dirty uniform.
I clutch the desk. I have to block it out.
“Sophia?”
My nails dig into my palms.
I have to do this, or I have to run.
Mrs. Bernhardt gives me an encouraging nod.
“Hagia Sophia,” I exhale.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. “It was a Byzantine Christian church before it became an Ottoman mosque. You can see the gleaming minarets from both sides of the Bosphorus; it’s cavernous inside … stunning … every tile is hand-glazed …”
I’m trying so hard to block it out, I am dizzy. A thin layer of sweat coats my skin.
Emma is braiding her hair, prepping for swim practice after school. She stops with the three sections pulled apart, dangling beneath her ear, watching me keenly.
Mrs. Bernhardt’s eyebrows rise. “You’ve been there, Sophia?”
Clenching my hands, I nod.
Emma’s large eyes are like saucers, glued to me. Who has cold sweats in Art History?
“Can you tell us more?” Mrs. Bernhardt asks me.
I unfist my hands. “We lived in Sultanahmet, nearby. Hagia Sophia means ‘Holy Wisdom’ in Greek, because it was also a Greek Orthodox cathedral.”
“Like your name, Sophia.” Mrs. Bernhardt beams. “It must have been a special place for you to visit.”
My cheeks burn. I pinch the edge of my seat between my fingertips. It is everything I can do to stay seated and not bolt.
I nod.
To my relief, she begins asking Abigail Montgomery about Gothic gargoyles.
Emma catches my arm after class. Her voice is maternally fierce. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I look down at my trembling hands. I twist the cap off my water bottle. “Fine,” I say.
“Sophia, you’re not fine, you’re white as a ghost—”
“It was hot in there.” I swallow the water, avoiding eye contact with Emma.
After so long, the places from my past all blend together, like a watercolor in a puddle—murky layers of incongruent memories.
Everything about my past scares me.
Every place has a story.
I need to find out why Aksel was in Berlin.
CHAPTER 20
My parents encourage me to sleep in, but by seven I am dressed and in the kitchen.
“No running today,” my mother says, eyeing my sneakers. She is pulling baking ingredients from the cupboard and tapping her foot to Nina Simone.
I push aside the curtain—another blizzard.
“The point,” she laughs, “is to relax.”
Relax? The woman talking looks like my mother, and is dressed like my mother, but she sounds nothing like my mother.
For Thanksgiving dinner, we order Indian food from the one ethnic place in town and eat two apple pies I help my mother bake. In the evening, we watch American football on my father’s laptop. I learn all sorts of rules about a game that makes little sense. Why do they wear so much padding? Rugby players don’t wear pads.
Friday, we decorate the living room with white ceramic stars, boxwood wreaths with red velvet bows, and a Swedish angel chime I haven’t seen since I was eleven. However, after two days of hygge, I’m eager to get out.
When Emma honks outside, I step into my parents’ study to say goodbye.
“Be safe,” my father says, looking up from his book. “No avalanches.”
My mother is standing at the bookshelf, admiring her antique encyclopedia collection—faded binding, gold lettering, and purchased at an auction in England.
“Have fun, darling,” she says over her shoulder.
“See you at midnight,” I respond—I adopted Charlotte’s curfew weeks ago, and my parents didn’t object.
As I turn on my heel to leave, my father holds up his forefinger. He reaches into the drawer of his desk and removes a shiny black box with a white ribbon tied around it.
Passing me the box, he motions for me to open it. I unravel the ribbon and lift the lid.