Dark, glittering eyes meet mine mockingly, crushing that hope. He’s still here—in more ways than one. An address in the corner of the advert refers to a location in Hell’s Gambit—a port city so close it’s laughable. I scan it over and over, burning every last letter into my memory. Only then do I turn away and continue forward.
With every step, trivial observations creep into my brain, and I gladly let them, trading the past for stupid, nineteen-year-old thoughts. I’m overdressed. It’s still stifling hot this early in summer. Sweat slips beneath the collar of my blouse as I exit the airport for the sweltering fresh air. I’d give anything to trade this beige wool skirt and sweater for the light linen shifts I used to wear as a child.
Holding the door for me, my father’s trusted bodyguard, Evgeni, stands beside a cart containing many of my suitcases. He smiles the moment I’m in view, but I know him too well. His eyes scan my face with undisguised concern.
“It seems your mood has changed between you stepping off the plane and now,” he teases. “I’m sure you heard the news? About your not-so-secret birthday party, that is.” He makes a show of cupping his hand around his mouth, his voice a mock whisper. “I think your papa’s invited half the world by now.”
I blink to show I’m unsurprised, and he chuckles. As suspected, I know. Mischa couldn’t keep a secret, even with me out of the country. He’s too proud, not to mention unsubtle, in posing many “hypothetical” questions regarding which kind of party ornaments I might enjoy during our video calls.
“You’re too smart for your own good,” Evgeni remarks as we approach the black car waiting nearby. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you made your flight come in two hours early on purpose. Your papa had a whole grand welcome planned, but you’ve managed to skirt it. So far, at least.” He winks, alluding to the event I’ve both dreaded and anticipated for weeks.
“Don’t be too mad,” he says as we approach the sleek sedan my father sent to collect me. He loads my suitcases into the trunk and faces me, rubbing his hands together. “If my daughter got into that fancy school of yours, I think I’d at least throw her a party, even if she hated them.”
I smile warily at that, but I can’t shake a niggling sense of dread that has loomed over this date for weeks. Mischa means well, I know he does—but he has no idea what the symbolism of this birthday means, not even after seven years since he adopted me.
Nineteen. It’s a chilling reminder of everything I’ve lost. It’s a sickening anniversary of the day I became someone else apart from who I was born as. A shadow. A mouse. Someone trapped in limbo between two worlds. Two families.
I can’t forget his voice…
“I will throw you a grand debutante celebration when you come of age, little cucciola. No other shall compare…”
“I’m not supposed to tell you,” Evgeni warns, his voice cutting through the memory. Blinking, I turn to find him watching me in a way that warns distracting me was his goal. “So if you snitch, I’ll deny it, but I hear he’s gone all out for you, your papa. He even bought a suit. Give it a chance; you may find that you enjoy having a little fun.”
He crinkles his mouth, seeming so much younger than a man in his early thirties.
“Come on, let’s get going.” Clapping his hands, he ushers me into the back of the vehicle and then claims the driver’s seat. “And, only for you, I’ll let you decide if I let your papa know in advance that you got in early. If you want, you can mount a surprise all your own. Turn the tables, so to speak. Should I call?”
Even the thought of arriving to fanfare and drama makes me cringe.
“Thought so,” Evgeni says with a nod.
He takes off toward the countryside, and the sprawling fields and swaths of green forests usher in a nostalgia potent enough to distract from everything else. I’ve been so desperate for the change in scenery, and a sigh escapes me, soft and wistful. I’ve missed this place. While away in Vienna, longing for my old home plagued me constantly. The stone manor, with its familiar walls, draped in ivy and the abundant rose gardens dotting the property. I’ve missed Mischa and his booming laugh, and my mother’s soft grace. I’ve missed the many children who fill the manor with more noise and clamor than the busiest orchestra.
But beneath those charming memories, my past festers. Ripped open by one chance sighting, not even the delightful views from my window can soothe the wound. He corrupts me, creeping into my skull. Donatello, dwelling in a nearby city. It almost seems too cruel to be reality. I’ve pined for home, but now I wish for nothing more than to be back on the plane.
It’s strange. Time used to seem endless when I was a child. Despite how overwhelming a stretch it feels like now, in reality, I’ll only have a few short months before I’ll be back in Vienna—an education made possible only by the man who took me in when everyone else in my life turned their back.
Mischa deserves my focus, no one else.
“Don’t stress about the party,” Evgeni calls from the front seat, still troubled by my expression. Apparently, he thinks the party is the cause of my unease, but I don’t have the courage to correct him. “It isn’t until tomorrow night, after all. If you really don’t want it, I’m sure your father would cancel it if you asked him.”
He’s right, and I purse my lips at the prospect. Mischa would do anything I asked him to—but a man like him isn’t the type to plan parties without a reason well beyond some trivial age milestone. Years ago, another man spoke of my far-off debutante debut in more stark terms. Your ball will be the best in the world, he’d boasted. No one will doubt which family you come from.
Mischa’s pride is entwined with this celebration as much as his love is.
As I settle into the back seat, I try to imagine what such a party might look like. Something grand, but presumably no different than any gala or performance I’ve suffered through this past year. And yet, it promises to be worlds apart from the modest events that peppered my childhood. Before…
My life was even more sheltered than it is now. Most girls would be embarrassed by the lack of traditional milestones, I think. I had no real mother to guide me then—mine was too busy partying. No, my modest presents were always clumsily wrapped by a man who could master a weapon but never understood the concept of a ribbon. Still, he tried if only to make me happy. Even my cakes, he would bake himself, coloring the icing whatever happened to be my favorite hue that year. Without fail, he’d attempt to write my name across the top and always run out of room, forcing him to condense it into his affectionate moniker—Safy. Afterward, he would sing to me in Italian despite his preference that we practice English at home. To make me laugh, he’d sing in as high a pitch as he could, straining his deep baritone so that it comically broke as the song went on. Happy birthday to you, my Safiya…
His voice has never left me. Long after he turned his back on me and walked away, I can still hear him, echoing inside my skull. “Do with her what you will,” he’d said to the stranger keeping me restrained. “I don’t care.”
My throat thickens as my eyes blur, obscuring my view from the windows. Desperately, I blink back any threat of tears, choking them down. The past is the past—and I made peace with mine a long time ago.