the velvet wingback chair beside the piano.
In his fist is a tiny note. I pluck it from between his fingers. On the paper are words scribbled in Cyrillic letters. One near the bottom is circled. Even in sloppy Russian, I can read my father’s slanted handwriting: Nemcova.
I go into the den. The map has moved to the bottom right whiteboard on the grid. On it dozens of strings create a web of words; my father constructed it using his own encryption technique. It isn’t undecipherable, but it slows someone down to translate a sentence of mixed-up Hmong-Arabic-Swahili-Portuguese-Latvian-Icelandic.
Nemcova is written as an acronym in the bottom left corner of the top centerboard. One end of a string is attached to the name. The other end is hooked around a pushpin jabbed into the center of Helsinki, Finland.
“Godmorgen, Sophia.”
I turn, startled. Discreetly, I tug on the hem of my sweater and slide the note into the waistband of my pants.
“Any clues?” I ask, motioning to the board. The fire is burnt embers, and the room smells faintly of peppermint. My mother’s teacup teeters on the corner of the mantel.
My father tidies his cluttered desk, stacking papers, files, and three open laptops.
“To what?” he asks.
“To how Farhad found us in Tunis—how he got into the safe house?”
“None, Sophia.”
My mother enters the den from the kitchen. “Good morning, darling.” Although she is dressed in pleated slacks and a cardigan, she looks disheveled; wearing no lipstick, she looks as though she hasn’t slept in three days. Two days with no sleep she can fake. But on day three? The shadows around her eyes darken. The pallor of her skin alters.
By the drawn looks on their faces, I know they’ve been up all night. And I assume they know I can tell, so why are they pretending otherwise?
“Why are you working?” I demand.
The teakettle whistles from the kitchen. My mother switches off her desk lamp and kisses me on the forehead. “Old paperwork, Sophia.”
My father nods at my clothing. “Going somewhere?”
The teakettle is still whistling from the kitchen, and my mother leaves the room.
“Skiing, with Aksel,” I answer.
His face reveals his surprise. “How nice.” He taps the desk with his fingertips. “I suppose I should be worried about you spending so much time with Aksel,” he says, “but it’s part of being an American teenager I suppose, dating American boys.”
I twist my hair around my fingers. “You’re okay with it?”
A contemplative expression appears on his face. Behind him through the window, wind rustles the branches of the barren oak tree in the back garden. A clump of snow plummets to the ground.
When he finally meets my nervous stare, his steel-gray eyes are moist and vulnerable. “My dear Sophia,” he whispers, “I’m just happy to see you smiling again.”
In addition to a Gruyère soufflé, my mother makes cardamom waffles with apple streusel topping and hot cocoa with freshly whipped cream.
“She’s fattening you up in case you get buried in an avalanche,” my father says with a wink.
“False,” my mother objects. “I’m making waffles because I haven’t eaten Bisquick in a decade.”
After breakfast, my father disappears and doesn’t reemerge until Aksel knocks a half hour later. Rushing to beat my parents to the foyer, I fling open the door.
“Hi.” He grins. Aksel is wearing a ski jacket and snow boots. His eyes are bright in the morning sun, and the little azure flecks in the green sparkle.
My father shakes Aksel’s hand. “I’m Kent Hepworth.”
My mother steps forward. She has applied lipstick and put on an ironed blouse—she no longer looks tired.
“I’m Mary Hepworth,” she says in her soft, melodic voice. “We must thank you again for bringing Sophia home safely a few weeks ago.”
Aksel shakes her hand too. “Sure, Mrs. Hepworth.” He says this easily, but I sense a wariness in him and wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that my mother is watching him in a peculiar, inquisitive, slightly unnerving way.
Now I know why Charlotte detests introducing her boyfriends to her parents.
“Okay, well, we need to leave.” I tug Aksel’s hand and promise my parents we won’t enter the backcountry.
It isn’t until we reach the Defender that I see them—shiny, white, waxed pristinely. Propped against the bumper is a pair of new Stöckli powder skis.
My father must have kept them hidden in the garage this whole time. Perhaps, I think with a rush of affection toward my father, he knows me better than I know myself.
When I look over at the house, the