I shake my head, cutting her off.
“Yes, but I just want you to know that we didn’t plan this on a whim,” she insists. “We’ve…”
She turns away, gazing through the gap in my white curtains to the view revealed beyond my bay windows. The vast stretch of the manor looms below, a yawning mass of emerald green lawns and sheltered forests. What does she see within such a realm? Safety? Or another looming reality that makes her bite her lip and clasp her hands?
One look at the slim fingers symbolizes the violent start to her relationship with Mischa that most wouldn’t expect when seeing them now. Rather than sporting a wedding ring as it should, the digit on her left hand itself ends abruptly at the knuckle, severed years ago.
“He’s been worried, you know,” she admits, her voice soft. “About what your proximity to him might do to your future. If doors might be slammed in your face, that otherwise wouldn’t be. He knows he isn’t perfect, but you and the other children… You mean the world to him. To give you what he thinks you deserve, he will do anything. I need you to know that. He loves you.”
So he lies to me. I could assert as much, but I don’t. Regardless, I’m startled by the anger building in my chest, so raw it hurts. I try choking it down and grit my teeth against it. Try to rationalize it away—he loves me, I know he does.
But so did Donatello.
“This means a lot to him,” Ellen continues, still gazing from the window. “Think of this party as his way of trying to make amends and bridge the gap. He’s even planning on wearing a suit. Can you imagine?” She laughs as I attempt to picture it—Mischa in anything other than fatigues or simplistic clothing.
Her amused grin lasts for only a second before she’s frowning. “It’s funny how things change. There was a time when I would have never imagined him plotting and scheming something other than revenge or retaliation…” She trails off and clears her throat. “Well, get some rest. I’ll keep the children away for the day, and later, if you want, I can help you get dressed?”
I nod as she crosses to me and kisses my cheek. “Happy birthday, Willow.”
I watch her go as more memories return, but these thankfully don’t star Donatello. I can still remember the first day she and I met. Back then, we were nothing more than captives held at the mercy of one man we both love now.
Sometimes it feels like I’m dreaming. That one day I’ll wake up, and I’ll be that scared little girl again.
More often than not, I used to pray that day would come soon.
At least then, I’d stop dreading it.
7
Willow
The day slips away until it’s evening before I know it. Night paints the world beyond my windows in hues of navy that serve as a backdrop to a swollen full moon. Already shuffled off to bed, the children’s boisterous playing has been replaced with faint music and the bustle of footsteps from down below.
My heart pounds with every new sound to invade—the growing din of numerous voices, along with the musical clangs of silverware and delicate china. The swish of ivory silk as I spin before the mirror and try my best to smile. Ellen’s soft gasp as she oversees me, her hands clasped in approval.
“What do you think?” she asks, already wearing her own frothy pink gown.
I observe my reflection in the glass without conveying an answer right away. A stranger looks back at me, her teeth bared in a seemingly painful expression. She looks far from a debutante—just a stone-faced pretender. Large brown eyes stare blankly, and I can’t even tell what she might be feeling. Happiness? Contentment? Terror?
I look away from her, eyeing the skirt billowing out around me. Gratitude thickens my throat, and all I can do is finger a section of intricate lace over and over. I’ve never worn a dress like this. Even for my recitals.
“You look so beautiful,” Ellen murmurs. She smooths her hands along my hair, brushing the tresses from my face, but with her next to me, the contrast between us is stark. I barely come to her shoulder, gangly and gaunt with cheekbones that are far too prominent. In comparison, she’s willowy and lithe, her beauty unmarred even by the jagged scar on her left cheek, fully displayed with her hair swept into an elegant coil.
I could be self-deprecating if I wanted to, drawing on the few descriptions of myself I’ve heard from various colleagues while training in Vienna. I’m pretty, they say, but far too serious. My looks alone aren’t enticing enough for most of my classmates to broach a conversation with me. According to some, my father may even be a mobster, explaining my need for security and seemingly unlimited funds.
Physically, at least, my nose is longer than Ellen’s and blunter. With my thin lips, even my best smile is no comparison to her charming grin. I used to wish she really were my mother. That I was as calm as her. As quiet and strong. Mischa’s name alone could make grown men piss themselves, but one word from her could restrain him like nothing else.
In some ways, their relationship is inconceivable. A man with such a capacity for violence, shouldn’t be capable of love. A woman so gentle should be unable to tame a monster.
Their love is comparable to the most complex concertos involving a wide range of instruments to perform—intricate and intimidating, but undeniably perfect when played. Some might compare their union to a fairy tale.
Or a curse. If my life has taught me nothing else, it is that peace is fragile, and when it ends—and it always does end—the resulting chaos renders the happier times nothing more than a weapon. One
