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The noise from the hall carries through the door. Milana’s shriek of laughter. Galana’s voice, soft and happy, saying something to Natasha about the baby.

“He’s gone, boss,” Leo says. “Somebody told him we were coming.”

GALANA

Iwake up because someone’s watching me.

It’s early. The light through the tall windows is pale and gray, and the room’s so quiet I can hear the lake. Waves, small ones, folding over themselves somewhere at the bottom of the garden. The sheets are cool and heavy, and they smell faintly of clean linen and him.

I open my eyes.

Caleb is lying on his side next to me, one arm folded under his head. He’s awake, and he’s been awake for a while. I can tell by the way he doesn’t look away when I catch him.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Good morning, Mrs. Reznikova.”

My stomach does a slow, warm somersault. “Say that again.”

“Mrs. Reznikova.”

I pull the sheet up over my mouth and laugh into it.

He tugs it back down. Not roughly. Just firmly, an inch at a time, until he can see all of my face again. He’s got that look he gets, very serious and very intent, like I’m a code he’s trying to crack.

“How long have you been watching me sleep?” I ask.

“An hour.”

I lie there and look at him. My husband. The word still feels like a dress I haven’t grown into yet.

Yesterday I stood in front of Father Iestyn and promised myself to a man I met seven days ago. Last night he brought me here, to this house on the lake. He carried me over the threshold, because Milana texted him six times telling him he had to, and then he carried me straight up the stairs and didn’t put me down until morning light started bleeding through the windows.

Someone has filled the fridge.

I don’t know when. At some point between the chapel and this morning, someone came into this house and replaced the vodka and the ancient lemon with eggs, butter, milk, bread, three kinds of cheese, smoked salmon, fresh dill, a whole chicken, and a bag of good flour.

The vodka’s still there, in the door. The lemon is in the bin.

“Leo?” I ask.

“Leo,” Caleb confirms. He’s standing in the doorway in sweatpants and nothing else, his hair damp from the shower, a mug of coffee in his hand. He made it himself. I an tell from the smell that he’s burned the beans.

I take the mug off him, pour it down the sink, and start again.

It takes me an hour to make breakfast in that kitchen. Not because it’s hard, but because I keep stopping. To open drawers. To find out where things are. To discover there’s no colander, and no grater, and the knives are still in their original box, with the cardboard sleeves on.

Caleb sits at the island and watches me.

He doesn’t offer to help. He knows I don’t need it. He just watches, the way he did at Papa’s table on Wednesday. Except now there’s something different in it, something softer around the edges. Every so often I catch him looking at the ring on my finger.

I make blini. I don’t know why. Muscle memory. I make a stack of them, thin and golden, with sour cream, the salmon and the dill. He eats eleven of them, and then he puts his hand out flat over the plate, the way he did in Papa’s kitchen.

“Sit with me,” he says.

I sit. He doesn’t let me take the stool beside him. He pulls me onto his lap instead, and I squeak in surprise as he wraps one arm around my waist and holds me there while he finishes his coffee.

“This kitchen needs a colander,” I tell him seriously.