Twenty-One.

Mikhail.

I trudge into the living room, bleary-eyed from a restless night. My sister Larissa is already here, standing in front of a window, looking out. She’s not interested in art, but she pretends to humor me as she’s always done since I was a little boy. Upon hearing my footsteps behind her, she glides toward me, smiling her sad smile, and fixes my collar and tie. She smooths my hair with a maternal flourish, reminding me she comes before me in the birth order.

“My dear Kolya.” She sits on the edge of the couch with her chin held high. “A pakhan in name, but still the little boy whose hair I used to muss.”

I can feel the weight of everything she doesn’t say. Sighing, I remain on my feet and wonder how much Rurik has told her.

“You’re here early,” I say. “What’s on your mind?”

“What else?” She spreads her hands like Rurik. And I wonder who was the first to use the gesture in their marriage. “Them.”

Nothing else needs to be said. Since we were children, we have only ever referred to