“So there are no mini-Mikhail lookalikes already running around?”
He laughs, loving my jealous tone before he boinks my nose. “Nope, not yet.” He nudges his head to the maternity ward. “Might be one day soon, though. She’s cute as fuck.”
For the first time in my life, I don’t get jealous about his immediate bond with his niece. I use it to my advantage to guide him toward a softer landing spot for when the truth comes out.
“You’d do anything for her, wouldn’t you?”
He nods before saying, “Don’t be jealous, Em. I’d do anything for you too.”
“I know, but it’s different for Amaliya. She’s blood. Nothing is off the table when it comes to blood.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but he’s paying too much attention to the groove between my brows to remind me of how horrible he was treated by blood when he was a child. “What is this about? The groove between your brows I’ve not been able to shift for a week is back.”
“I’m just trying to emphasize that sometimes, even if there is a possibility of them being hurt, we do things others may not approve of to protect our blood.”
“It’s almost noon, and I’m running on fumes, Em. You’re gonna need to spell out what you’re trying to tell me.”
I weigh up my options. My deliberation is nowhere near as long as it deserves. It isn’t my fault. This place is full of good memories, and since I want Mikhail to be a part of them, I need him to know the truth.
I’ve not yet told him about Wynne because I’m worried he will piece the puzzle together incorrectly as Andrik and his advisor did. The only way I can avoid that is by telling him what Andrik did before announcing that he isn’t the only one with a baby sister.
“I—”
I’m interrupted by a highly recognized voice. “Emerson, finally. I was starting to think I’d have to deliver my messages in person.”
My mouth dries when Aunt Marcelle joins us in the foyer of the hospital where I spent both the renovation budget for the pub and all its savings on my mother’s prenatal care.
Her pregnancy was high-risk from day one, and she needed the best doctors in the country to make it through the harrowing odds unscathed. A two-hour drive wasn’t ideal, but Wynne is proof that sometimes you get what you pay for.
“Aunt Marcelle, what are you doing here?” My aunt is well past breeding age. She has also never given up her “kids aren’t for me” stance since she was nineteen.
Her rapidly whitening face has me gasping for air.
I can’t catch my breath.
This can’t be good, and my thoughts shift straight to my mother.
“Mom!” I shout, startling the people exiting next to us.
Pushing off my feet, I enter the emergency ward and search the closest cubicles. Memories of the first time my mother collapsed threaten to stream hot tears down my cheeks. She was nursing Wynne when she undertook a massive coughing fit. Like me now, she couldn’t catch her breath. She fell awkwardly to avoid taking Wynne down with her.
I found her three hours later.
Doctors at our local hospital told her it was just a chest infection. It was only when I saved up enough money to bring her back to Vlotz did we learn the truth.
That means my aunt wouldn’t be here unless it was something urgent. We can’t afford this caliber of health care.
“Mom!” I shout again, my heart aching.
I have no clue how I’m moving. I put one foot in front of the other, my walk guided by the strength of a man shouting to be updated on the location of Inga Morozov.
“Inga Morozov!” Mikhail yells again, startling the desk clerk. “M-O-R-O-Z-O-V.”
He tells me to take a left just as my mother’s head pops out of the curtains of an emergency resuscitation bay three spots up. She looks well. Good, actually. Albeit a little panicked.
I learn why when I dart my eyes to the occupied hospital bed. Wynne is swamped by the oversized bed and plugged into multiple machines. She’s smiling, though. Shockingly.
“It’s okay,” my mother assures me. “She’s okay. It’s just the tests Doctor Clestonv ordered. This is the hospital he suggested we attend for additional testing if we could afford the admittance fee.” I feel the blood rush back to my cheeks when she twists to face Aunt Marcelle. “I thought you texted her to tell her we’d secured an earlier appointment?”
