by Lana Sky
“And you went there?” I ask, craning my neck to better see his face.
He nods. “I wound up before a modest estate in Germany, wearing rags, my mental state in ruins. I think at that point, Ena had to force-feed me bits of bread during the trip, or I would have died from starvation by then. When Hiram saw me, shivering on his doorstep, he brought me into his garden. Gave me a cup of tea. He offered his home to me so that I could rest… And I don’t think I left once for six whole months.” A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he strokes the flesh with the tips of his fingers. “And that entire time, he kept me fed. Clothed. He let me heal my fractured psyche, and when I was ready to reenter society, he gave me his name. More than that. He used his connections to get me a world-class education more comprehensive than what the children of some dignitaries are privy to. He guided me to a prominent position in his own company, Eingel Industries, which was a fledging, but promising, venture. When the time came, he ceded control to me, and even when my wealth far surpassed his, never did he ever ask me for anything. Not once. I think… He was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father.” He sounds confused, even as he says it. As though it’s a realization he’s only just come to. “He was the one who helped me navigate Magdalene’s sudden appearance,” he adds. “Nothing ever caught him off-guard, not even her existence. He encouraged me to gain custody of her, in fact. When she was sick, he was preparing to come on the next flight from Munich just to see her. That bear she has? That came from him. His idea anyway. But in the middle of her illness, he died suddenly of a heart attack, and I couldn’t even leave her side to go mourn him.”
“That’s why you dedicated the garden, the one at your building,” I say, my eyes widening as everything clicks into place. “For him. It’s your way of saying goodbye… I’m so sorry.”
“Maybe it worked out for the best.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t ready then.”
But for some reason, I doubt that he truly believes that. Maybe it’s just easier for him to reconcile it.
But the reminder of his vigil over her bedside triggers a thought I can’t seem to suppress. “When Magda was sick… Did you ever sing to her?”
He frowns, lowering his mouth to my forehead. “That is a strange question to ask after sex.”
I have to croak out a laugh at that. “I’m serious. Humor me. Did you?”
He purses his lips, thinking it over. Then he nods. “Yes. I think I sang to her. Some silly song about a group of hens. It was the only thing to come to mind—”
“Was it in French?” When he raises an eyebrow, I add, “Sing it to me?”
He sighs, but slowly, his voice forms the words of a lilting melody. He sounds rougher, and reluctant, but I can barely smother the shock dawning on me like a blow. It’s the same song.
“Satisfied?” Vadim asks playfully when he finishes. “Though I will admit that in terms of ways you might seek to exploit my devotion, forcing my humiliation via song was fairly low on my list.”
“You said she was on a ventilator,” I say, referring to Magda. “But was she awake at all? Is there any way she could have heard you?”
His expression darkens. “No. She was in a medically induced coma. The moment she regained consciousness, I left.”
“But you were there for days,” I point out.
He nods. “Over a week. Day and night. She wasn’t placed with a family then, so I could pull the right strings to have access. Why are you asking this?”
I bite my lip, torn between telling him my suspicion or staying silent. It’s a stretch, yes. But so is the fact that a seven-year-old who’s only grown up in America could know the same obscure French melody about “a group of hens” sung perfectly in tune to his halting rendition. Though…
As much as it stings to admit, she could have learned the song from anywhere.
“What made you sing that to her?” I ask him. “Why that song?”
His eyes go distant, and I fear I might have gone too far. Softly, he says, “My mother used to sing it to me. I was so young… I have no idea how I’ve remembered it. As for why? I don’t know. What else could I do? I read to her, sang to her, recited the laws of physics as Hiram did for me… And yet I couldn’t even face her the moment she got well. I ran. I left her. What good is a fucking song now?”
He releases me and rolls onto his side with his back to me. “Goodnight.”
I nestle into him, melding against his rigid contour even as he stiffens against me. I stroke my fingers down his forearm, finding his hand and capturing it. Then I settle my mouth against the crook of his neck and inhale him deeply.
“I think it meant more to her than you know,” I tell him. “Your presence meant more to her. I think that you don’t need to spend thousands on ponies or pianos to buy her affection. You have it. But she’s as stubborn as you are. Trust that she’ll come around. I think you’re connected to her, more than you know. She feels it too.”
In fact, I suspect that Magda may know far more than she’s led him to believe...
If he feels the same, he doesn’t admit as much out loud. Maybe it’s easier for him to ignore the small, subtle signs?
I let him have this one victory and remain silent. God knows he’s earned it.
I don’t know what startles me awake. Just that I wind up blinking through the darkness as Vadim stirs beside me.
“Did you hear that?” he asks, his voice sharp with concern.
It’s enough to make me shrug off exhaustion entirely and sit upright. Together, we strain through the silence until…
“Magda!” He lunges from the bed, stopping only to grab a pair of boxers before peeling into the hall. I follow him, snatching a robe for myself. The further I go, the more apparent the sound becomes—sobbing.
Magda’s. She’s huddled beneath her blankets, her face buried in the crook of her arm.
“Ma chérie,” Vadim murmurs, switching on her light. He crosses to the bed and crouches down, stroking her hair until she faces him. “Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas? What’s wrong?”
Redness paints Magda’s cheeks, and I can almost see the battle within herself. To recoil from him even as a part of her is lulled by his soothing tone. There’s no denying his concern. No ignoring the fact that he would do anything in this moment to help. She can’t resist.
“It,” she says, though she looks at me as she does so. “I lost him. I think he’s out there.” She points to the window where a flash of lightning illuminates the landscape, making her flinch.
“Is that all?” Vadim stands. “Stay with her,” he tells me as he enters the hall.
Sighing, I sit on the bed beside her. She lets me pet her hair, and I try not to notice as she inches closer to my side. It might break the spell. Together we wait as the storm rages beyond the window until finally, heavy footsteps ascend the steps, and a soaking wet Vadim reappears.
“Is this what you were looking for?” he asks, brandishing a relatively dry It by one of his floppy arms.
Magda sniffs and reaches for him, swiping away any lingering tears with the back of her hand. She cradles the bear to her chest, and Vadim’s expression softens in a way I’ve never seen. Hopeful.
At least until she catches him staring and flings the bear violently across the room.
“I don’t want him anymore.” She burrows beneath the blankets, drawing them over her head. “Can you get out, please?”
“Yes…” Vadim retreats, his expression stricken.
I remain behind just long enough to switch off the light, but as I close the door behind me, I notice a tiny figure crawl from the bed and dart across the room for a small object that she crushes to her chest.
These two will be the death of me.
When I reenter the bedroom, Vadim is sitting on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands. Eyeing me through his fingers, he exhales an exhausted chuckle. “What was that about her softening to me?”
I sigh in sympathy and join him, leaning against his shoulder. “I need to ask you an
other seemingly pointless question.”
He grunts. “Oh?”
“How did you explain the bear?” It’s a weird question on the surface, but not so weird when her attitude toward him is taken into context. I know firsthand that she has other stuffed animals she has yet to mutilate. But that one she vandalized. That one she carries with her everywhere. The only one she sleeps with at night and panics if she’s without.
“I’m sure they told her it was donated by a nurse,” he says offhandedly.
But what if she already knew that it hadn’t been? What if that one bear mattered to her so much because she knew its original source. And through that very same bear, she loved tormenting said source.
“We should get some sleep.” I crawl up the mattress and slip beneath the covers. “I need you well rested for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Vadim wonders as he follows me, snatching me into his arms.
“Yes,” I say, arching into his touch. “Magda needs some toys. You’re taking us shopping.”
Chapter Thirteen
Put a shopaholic and a shopper-lite into any Boutique in the fashion district with an unlimited credit card, and chaos will ensue. Put a man desperate to buy his daughter’s affections into a toy store—a man with no concept of money or boundaries—and watch as they fall into a silent power struggle that I’ll be lucky to survive without getting slung across a cash register myself.
By the time Magda makes her way toward the store’s extensive doll section, I feel compelled to put my foot down.
“She doesn’t need one of every doll, Vadim,” I scold.
Following dutifully in her wake, he eyes me the way I figure a kicked puppy might, and I march forward, prepared to put him out of his misery.
“Magda.” I crouch down beside her and meet her calculating gaze. She’s wearing a burgundy ensemble that enhances her eyes to an almost painful degree. With her curls held at bay by a matching headband, she looks every bit the little princess she must think she is. The only flaw in the façade is that battered, deflated teddy bear clutched to her chest. “I want you to get something you really want. Something you’ll play with every day.”
She frowns, mulling over the request. But as I hoped, she seems to take it as a challenge rather than a demand.
“That one.” She points to a particular doll high up on a shelf. Behind me, I sense Vadim already scrambling to find a salesclerk to retrieve it. It’s one of those porcelain frilly dolls decorated in an ivory Victorian-style costume with a straw bonnet and huge reddish curls.
Vadim pays for it on the spot and removes it from the box, handing it to her. I watch in awe as her lips part into one of those rare, incredible grins. Meeting my gaze, she says sweetly, “I’m going to call her Biphany.” She pats the doll’s head lovingly, shoving her bonnet down her face in the process. “She’s an orphan, poisoned by the queen. And everyone hates her.”
“Magda…” Vadim sounds horrified.
I, however, raise an eyebrow. “Is that the best you can do when it comes to a backstory?” I feign a yawn and rise to my full height. “Boring. I bet you can come up with something better.”
She pouts, the gears in her brain ever whirling.
When we finally leave the store—with about only half of it in tow—Vadim takes us out for lunch, where Magda makes a show of refusing anything from the menu he suggests to her. In the end, she winds up drinking only a milkshake, and pointedly ignores him for the rest of the trip.
It’s taking its toll. His usual enduring patience wears thin. His eyes turn hollow and distant. When we return to the house, he lingers in the garage to carry the bags while Magda marches inside, It slung under one arm and Biphany under the other.
I follow her into the foyer and watch her dump her toys on the lid of the piano before climbing onto the bench.
“Why are you needling him?” I do my best to sound as nonjudgmental as possible. I’m not angry with her. Just curious.
She taps a piano key, letting the note play out. “Because,” she says, just as heavy footsteps approach from the direction of the garage. Her head cocked, she whirls around and meets my gaze directly. “I hate him.”
A heavy thud draws my attention to the corner of the foyer, where Vadim stands amid a pile of fallen shopping bags. As I watch, his wall comes up too quickly to stop. His eyes darken, his expression rigid. Without a word, he gathers up the bags and carries them upstairs.
I watch him, my heart aching. I almost start after him, but tiny arms go around my waist, keeping me in place.
“I like you,” Magda says, her face in my hip. “You don’t lie like other grown-ups.” She draws back and snatches my hand, tugging me after her. “Can we go see my pony?”
“Okay.” I follow her, my heart in my throat. We venture out to the stable and spend time brushing down Zzazza and the other horses under the watchful eye of Ena, who appears from nowhere to stare from the shadows—on his master’s orders, I suspect.
“Can I ride?” Magda asks as we approach Dasha’s stall.
“You could ask Mr. Vadim to teach you?” I suggest, hopefully.
She gives me a look that sums up her thoughts even before she utters a terse, “Never mind.”
We settle for cooing over Dasha from afar. When we return to the house, an incredible smell reaches my nostrils the second we step inside.
“Don’t tell me you’ve decided to add chef to your list of accomplishments,” I exclaim in response to the sight of Vadim standing before the counter amid a variety of vegetables and ingredients in various states of preparation.
“Have a seat,” he says without turning around. “Name your drink preferences, both of you.”
“Wine for me,” I blurt, alarmed as he turns around, his expression blank. Is he still hurt by Magda’s hostility? Yes. I can see the hurt coloring his irises, but he’s smothering that pain for her sake.
Turning his attention to the tiny figure climbing onto a stool beside me, he tentatively asks, “And for you?”
She frowns. “Orange juice.”
“As you wish.” After fulfilling our drink orders, he continues to cook, filling the room with incredible smells, while I attempt to prod what little information I can from Magda.
“What do you like to do with your friends?” I ask in between fortifying sips of wine.
She folds her hands with It perched on one side of her, and Biphany on the other.
“I don’t have friends,” she says. Her surly tone could betray the words as yet another lie meant to provoke, but her eyes tell a different story. A hint of vulnerability creeps through that unnerving blue and something in my heart throbs, rubbed raw. “I don’t need friends,” she adds firmly, rephrasing it.
“What about hobbies?” I ask. “Do you have any of those? Do you like to read? Play games?”
She strokes her chin and nods with sudden seriousness. “I like to plan world domination.” Damn. She utters that declaration without even a hint of mocking inflection.
“Oh, goody!” Feigning nonchalance, I clap my hands together. “Then, to get started on your merry way, you need to beat me at the one game perfect for world domination training.”
She eyes me skeptically. “What game?”
I wink and rise from the table to approach the lone figure slipping in through the glass door leading out to the terrace. Ena eyes me the way I figure one might either a hungry lion advancing toward them or a diseased rodent.
Writing it off for the greater good, I lean near his ear and make one whispered request.
I can’t tell from his surly expression just how he processes it. Finally, he nods. “I be back.”
I watch him scuttle off, utterly pleased with myself. I’m even more pleased by the results Vadim comes up with when he finally leaves the kitchen to adorn the dining table with platters of steaming, amazing looking food.
“Fresh vegetables, salad, and homemade garden burgers,” he declares, indicating each platter with a wave of his hand. “Let
’s eat.”
One bite, and I groan in appreciation. “This tastes incredible.”
Even Magda seems impressed enough to endure his physical nearness as she samples a burger with delicate bites. By the time we finish the meal, and Vadim has cleared the table, Ena arrives as if on cue, brandishing my sole request.
Barely suppressing a grin, I rise to my feet and accept what turns out to be a rectangular board game infamous among my family’s gatherings.
“You aim for world domination?” I ask Magda. “Let’s see what you’ve got, kid. Try your hand at the ultimate decider.”
I slam the game board onto the table as Magda and Vadim share puzzled looks.
“Monopoly?” He reads from the gameboard lid as though he’s never played.
And I’m alarmed to realize that he might not have. Neither of them may have.
“You poor innocent fools,” I tell them mournfully. “Prepare to have your butts kicked by the real estate queen.”
Chapter Fourteen
An hour later, I realize that, though untested in the ways of Monopoly they may be, both Vadim and Magda are fearsome opponents. I wind up going bankrupt early on, and the game quickly shapes up to be a brutal war between their two growing fictional conglomerates.
“I think you’re a sore loser,” Vadim remarks in response to my pouting. In the same breath, he completes his purchase of yet another block of hotels, extending the reach of his empire.
“Am not,” I hiss in indignation while fulfilling my new role as banker. “I’m just hoping that Magda kicks your butt and keeps your ego firmly in check.”
As if to rise to the challenge, Magda promptly proceeds to buy out an entire strip. I’m so impressed I ruffle her curls and beam at Vadim. “Long may she reign! Can you defeat the queen?”
What unfolds next is a long, hard-fought battle, but in the end, Vadim concedes with a groan while I shower Magda in a flurry of paper money. Her tiny lips twitch, resisting a smile that gradually unfurls despite her best attempts to squash it. And her pride only seems to grow as Vadim stands and bows to her grandly.
