Into the Flame Page 4

  ‘‘No!’’ She kicked him.

  He staggered backward, arms flailing, and hit the dresser so hard the mirror rattled in its frame. ‘‘What do you think you’re doing?’’ He sounded as if he were struggling to get to his feet.

  Miss Joyce leaned over him.

  Zorana heard a thump, like the sound a ripe melon made when dropped.

  Miss Joyce rose, blue eyes bright with excitement. ‘‘He passed out.’’

  ‘‘That fool.’’ Zorana’s voice shook with ferocity.

  ‘‘You didn’t want him anyway.’’

  ‘‘I expected him to stay conscious!’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry.’’ Miss Joyce rolled up her sleeves and took his place. ‘‘I can deliver this baby.’’

  There wasn’t a doubt in Zorana’s mind that she could. The rumors said Miss Joyce was from Houston, that she’d taught at a tough school on the Ship Channel, that she’d been brutally attacked by knife-wielding students and had spent six months recovering in the hospital. Yet if she ever suffered residual pain or angst, none of it showed. Miss Joyce had moved to this small town in the Washington mountains not long after Zorana’s boys were born, and had taught at the local school ever since, earning a reputation for unshakable resolve. No student ever got the better of her. Neither would a simple thing like childbirth.

  Miss Joyce leaned over. ‘‘Push, Zorana. Push!’’

  Zorana pushed, grunting with the effort of delivering her son. He was almost here. He was almost here. . . .

  The lightning flashed so brightly, Zorana was blinded. The thunder snarled.

  The lights went out.

  She gasped, released.

  ‘‘Here. I was ready for this.’’ Miss Joyce turned on a flashlight, resting it on the night table. ‘‘It’s okay.’’ She smiled at Zorana, but in the weird light, her teeth were too white, her nose a wrinkled blob, her eyes dark caverns.

  And from somewhere, a tiny wail pierced the air.

  That sound. Zorana would know it anywhere. In a panic, she rose onto her elbows. ‘‘I can already hear my baby crying.’’

  ‘‘It’s the doctor,’’ Miss Joyce corrected her. ‘‘He’s pathetic.’’

  ‘‘No, that’s a newborn.’’

  ‘‘It’s the drugs. You’re hallucinating. Now pay attention!’’ Miss Joyce bent over Zorana.

  Zorana pushed. Pushed as hard as she could, and felt the infant slip from her body.

  She collapsed against the pillows, drained from the effort, soaked with sweat.

  The baby screamed, his lungs strong.

  Zorana smiled as she listened.

  Then her smile faded.

  Two cries . . . ? Two babies?

  She was going insane.

  She lifted her head and saw Miss Joyce holding the bloody infant under her arm as she cut the cord.

  Zorana blinked, fighting the effects of the drugs, the ones that urged her to collapse. She needed to see her son before she slept, to assure herself he was all right.

  Miss Joyce reached toward the flashlight—and somehow, it flickered out.

  In a panic, Zorana struggled to sit up. ‘‘Can you clean him? Can you wrap him up? Don’t let him get cold!’’

  ‘‘I’ll take care of it.’’

  A single flash of lightning illuminated every corner of the world, and for a second, Zorana clearly saw her son, his wrinkled face, his long body.

  He was beautiful. Healthy. Perfect. A boy child. Her son. Another son for Konstantine.

  ‘‘All right,’’ she muttered. ‘‘All right.’’ Her formidable will gave way beneath the twin assaults of drugs and exhaustion.

  She slept.

  ‘‘Let me see. Let me see!’’

  Adrik’s high, young voice woke Zorana, but she kept her eyes closed and smiled as she heard the other boys, and Konstantine, vigorously shush him.

  Adrik was the youngest, and perhaps a little spoiled. Certainly he paid no heed to the demands for quiet. ‘‘I want to hold it!’’ he insisted.

  ‘‘It’s not an it, stupid. It’s a baby.’’ Rurik’s voice was scornful, the experienced middle child.

  ‘‘A very special baby.’’ Konstantine’s deep rumble warmed Zorana right down to her soul.

  She peeked under her eyelashes.

  It was morning. The sun shone through the windows. She was clean. She’d been changed, as had the sheets. All the evidence of childbirth was gone.

  Most important, her three boys were gathered around the bassinet, staring at their little miracle.

  But Konstantine was staring at her. Staring at her with such love and pleasure, her heart wanted to burst from joy.

  Quietly he leaned over her. He brushed her hair back off her forehead, away from her cheeks. And in the soft voice he saved only for her, he said, ‘‘Thank you, liubov maya, for this great gift you have given me.’’

  He had tears in his eyes, this big barbarian she called her own, and her ready tears sprang up and ran down her cheeks. ‘‘Thank you, my love, for all the gifts you have given me.’’

  He wiped her tears, then turned to his sons. ‘‘My boys, your mama is awake at last. Shall we let her hold the baby?’’

  ‘‘Mama!’’ Adrik jumped onto the bed, bouncing until she winced.

  Konstantine lifted him off the mattress and stood him on the floor. ‘‘Gently, my boy.’’ He went to the bassinet.

  Jasha slung his arm around his younger brother’s shoulders.‘‘You’re the big kid now. Like me and Rurik.’’ He shot a meaningful look at Rurik.

  Rurik slung his arm around them both.

  Adrik wasn’t stupid. He knew he was being played, but the lure of being one of the big boys was too much. He smirked and wiggled.

  Konstantine exchanged a smile with Zorana; then he brought her her brand-new son.

  Carefully she embraced her baby, looked at the red, wrinkled face, wondered how this tiny being could have caused her so much agony. ‘‘So much smaller than the other boys.’’

  ‘‘Well, of course. I have been thinking of a name.’’ Konstantine puffed up his chest. ‘‘It has to be the right name, one with meaning. I believe it should be Firebird.’’

  ‘‘Like a car, Dad? Like the Pontiac?’’ Jasha looked as if his father had gone crazy.

  Konstantine laughed, a big rumble in his chest. ‘‘Like the Russian legend. Firebird Maryushka. It is perfect.’’

  Zorana blinked. ‘‘But . . . that’s a girl’s name.’’

  ‘‘Exactly. The firebird symbolizes change, and its plumage symbolizes light. Maryushka is the name of the seamstress who was transformed into a firebird, so it is a good name for this child. Yes?’’

  He was babbling. He must be babbling. ‘‘Why would we want to name our son for a bird and a woman?’’

  ‘‘Our son?’’ Konstantine gave a bellow of laughter. ‘‘Did no one tell you? This is not a son. This is a daughter!’’ He slid his arm under her, embracing both her and the newborn child. ‘‘This is our daughter!’’

  ‘‘That’s impossible.’’

  ‘‘When the doctor told me, I said the same thing. No girl born for a thousand years. But this is a girl. Our daughter.’’ He hugged Zorana tighter. ‘‘We have made a miracle!’’

  ‘‘No.’’ She pulled away and stared into Konstantine’s eyes. ‘‘I saw him. I saw our son.’’

  ‘‘The drugs they gave you . . . You were seeing things. Dreaming.’’ Konstantine fetched a diaper and changed the infant with the brisk efficiency of a man familiar with a baby’s waterworks. ‘‘When I came in last night, you were so hard asleep, I couldn’t wake you to feed the child. I had to give her a bottle.’’

  ‘‘Yes, they drugged me, but I saw him. We have a son.’’

  Konstantine frowned with concern. ‘‘She is a daughter.’’

  Zorana shoved Konstantine away. Sitting up, she unwrapped the baby from the blanket that swaddled her, unzipped the sack, peeled off the diaper.

  The boys
peered from one side of the mattress. Konstantine peered from the other.

  Adrik spoke first, and he sounded glum. ‘‘That’s for sure a girl, Mama.’’

  ‘‘This is the only baby we have, Mama.’’ Jasha tried to sound reassuring, but it was obvious his mother had him worried. ‘‘Look. She’s pretty.’’

  ‘‘No, she’s not!’’ Adrik said.

  Rurik stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Jasha. ‘‘And we love her.’’

  ‘‘No, we don’t!’’ Adrik said.

  ‘‘Where’s Miss Joyce?’’ Zorana asked. ‘‘She’ll tell you it was a boy!’’

  ‘‘As soon as the flood subsided, she left,’’ Konstantine said. ‘‘But she congratulated me on a daughter.’’

  Panic rose in Zorana’s throat. ‘‘What about the doctor?’’

  ‘‘Miss Joyce took him with her,’’ Jasha said. ‘‘He hit his head. He had a big bruise on his forehead.’’

  ‘‘I gave birth to a son.’’ She had. But her certainty was fading.

  Konstantine looked scared. ‘‘You had a lot of drugs,’’ he insisted.

  Zorana looked down at the baby.

  The little one opened her eyes. Babies didn’t focus. They couldn’t see anything but blurred images. But this baby looked at Zorana—and saw her.

  She was so tiny. So perfect. Her toes . . . and her fingers . . . her soft, sweet-smelling skin . . . the baby fuzz on the top of her head . . .

  Zorana had had a lot of drugs. Maybe she had been hallucinating.

  The baby made a mewling noise; then, opening her mouth, she bellowed. Bellowed as loudly as any of Zorana’s boys had ever bellowed.

  ‘‘Wow.’’ Her sons stared, wide-eyed, at the infant, and backed away.

  ‘‘We’ve been giving her formula.’’ Konstantine was seldom unsure of himself, but he was unsure now. He fumbled with the words and shuffled his feet. ‘‘I can feed her . . . if you don’t want to.’’

  As the baby’s screams blistered their ears, Zorana’s breasts grew full and hard and ached with tension.

  ‘‘Mama.’’ Adrik’s face twisted with horror as the baby shrieked. ‘‘Do something! Do something now!’’

  Konstantine looked miserable.

  Most of all, the baby glared right into Zorana’s eyes.

  ‘‘All right!’’ Zorana unbuttoned her nightgown. ‘‘All right, I’ll feed you.’’ She put the baby to her breast.

  The infant needed no coaxing. She clamped onto the nipple and suckled hard.

  Zorana jumped; then, as her milk let down, she relaxed.

  Adrik stared, wide-eyed and horrified. ‘‘What’re you doing?’’

  ‘‘She’s feeding her.’’ Jasha stared stoically at the wall over Zorana’s head.

  ‘‘Euw. That’s gross!’’ Adrik said.

  ‘‘Yeah.’’ Rurik shoved his little brother toward the hall. ‘‘But that’s how it’s done, so get used to it.’’

  In their rush to leave, the two boys got stuck in the doorway; then Jasha caught up with them and shoved them out.

  Zorana laughed softly.

  Konstantine shut the door behind them and came back to her. ‘‘So it is a fine thing that we have a daughter?’’

  Zorana looked down at the baby.

  She didn’t remember giving birth to this tiny creature.

  But there was no other baby, and this one held her tiny fist against Zorana’s breast and sucked with such strength, love rose in her like a tide. Zorana cupped the soft head nestled against her arm. ‘‘Firebird Maryushka, did you say?’’

  ‘‘Do you like the name?’’ Konstantine sat on the mattress beside her.

  ‘‘I like it very much.’’

  Chapter Four

  Hostility, pain, and bitterness mixed like poison in Firebird’s soul. ‘‘Is that really what happened?’’

  Zorana’s remembering smile faded, and she turned her gaze away.

  ‘‘Firebird! Don’t talk to Mama that way,’’ Jasha rebuked in that familiar big-brother tone.

  But he wasn’t her big brother, and she didn’t have to put up with his patronizing ways. ‘‘Why not?’’ She looked right at him. ‘‘She lied to me before. She always told me this dramatic story of the storm and the drunk doctor and how he fell over and how Miss Joyce saved the day and delivered me. . . . Now it sounds as if Miss Joyce didn’t deliver me at all.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me.’’ Zorana stood, fled toward the bathroom, and locked the door.

  The silence that followed would have oppressed Firebird . . . if she were a part of this family. Which she wasn’t.

  ‘‘If you want to abuse someone, daughter of mine, abuse me. Your mother told me the truth. I did not believe her. I believed it was the drugs.’’ Konstantine’s voice was low and steady, quite unlike his usual bellowing.

  More than anything, that informed Firebird how truly angry he was. That and his clenched fists. But also he was concerned about his wife, and hurt that Firebird had been so cruel. He looked between the corridor where Zorana had disappeared, and Firebird, sitting on the floor clutching her little boy, and his lids sagged over his troubled brown eyes.

  ‘‘All right,’’ she mumbled. ‘‘I’m a jerk.’’

  ‘‘That’s for sure,’’ Rurik said.

  Maybe these people weren’t her family, but she loved them. She loved Zorana.

  A big, hot tear spilled onto her cheek.

  Konstantine, Jasha, Adrik, and the strange guy all glared at Rurik.

  ‘‘Nice job,’’ Adrik snapped.

  ‘‘Like you all weren’t thinking the same thing.’’ Rurik looked beleaguered.

  ‘‘Yeah, but we’re smart enough not to say it,’’ Jasha said.

  ‘‘I didn’t know she’d cry,’’ Rurik said.

  ‘‘She always cries,’’ Adrik said.

  ‘‘How would you know? You haven’t been around for seventeen years. And I do not!’’ Firebird tried to suck back the tears, which had the unfortunate side effect of making her sob and hiccup at the same time.

  Aleksandr patted her cheek and glared around the room. ‘‘Stop. Mean boys!’’

  ‘‘Enough.’’ Konstantine snapped his fingers at his sons, then gestured at Ann and Tasya.

  Her sisters-in-law swooped in, kneeling beside Firebird.

  ‘‘Don’t pay any attention to that idiot man of mine.’’ Tasya had electric blue eyes, a dark head of curly hair, and a sharp brain that matched Rurik’s. Passing Firebird a tissue, she said, ‘‘Here, blow your nose.’’

  Firebird blew. ‘‘I yelled at Mama.’’

  ‘‘The drugs . . . and those people . . . Zorana didn’t know or she would never have . . .’’ Ann hesitated.

  ‘‘Accepted me as hers? Ever stopped searching for her real baby?’’ Now that Firebird’s tears had started, she couldn’t stop. She hugged Aleksandr.

  He squirmed and protested, ‘‘Mama, don’t squish!’’

  ‘‘Mama’s sorry.’’ Firebird had yelled at Zorana, had hurt her son, all because she had learned the truth and hated it.

  ‘‘Aleksandr.’’ The lady on the couch patted the seat beside her. ‘‘Bring your book and come and sit with me.’’

  Aleksandr looked at his mother. ‘‘Can I go sit with Karen?’’

  Ann answered her question before she could ask. ‘‘That’s Adrik’s wife. They got married last week.’’

  Tasya indicated the gruff-looking older man who stood by the kitchen door, looking panicked by the overflowing emotions. ‘‘That’s Karen’s father. There was a battle with the Varinskis, and he helped.’’

  ‘‘I was only gone one day.’’ Firebird gazed at her long-lost brother, at his new wife. If things were normal, she would have spent the evening asking about his life, listening to his stories, meeting the people he’d brought home with him—his new wife and new father-in-law.

  Distantly, she was ashamed for ruining Adrik’s homecoming. But today . . . today she thought that things would never aga
in be normal.

  ‘‘Mama!’’ Aleksandr tugged at her shirt. ‘‘I want to go see Karen.’’

  ‘‘Go on.’’ She gave him a boost and watched him as he ran across the room. ‘‘He crawled at six months,’’ she murmured. ‘‘He walked at nine months. He talked early. He puts together puzzles. He builds with blocks. He’s so smart. . . .’’

  ‘‘We all love him.’’ Tasya fumbled for the right thing to say. ‘‘He’s still the only baby in the family.’’

  Firebird laughed, a brief, slightly hysterical laugh.

  The bathroom door opened and Zorana came out, her eyes red and damp.

  Firebird scrambled to her feet and stood awkwardly. ‘‘Mama, I’m sorry.’’

  Zorana hurried toward her.

  They met in the middle of the living room.

  ‘‘I know. I’m sorry, too.’’ With all her strength, Zorana hugged Firebird.

  Firebird hugged her back, and realized how great was the difference between them.

  Zorana was exotic, five-one, and wiry, with black hair, and eyes so dark they looked black. Her skin was a beautiful, clear brown, tolerant of the sun and proof of her Romany heritage.

  Firebird was five-four, blond and blue-eyed, with fair skin that required the constant application of sunscreen. Her heritage was probably Irish or English or German. Not Russian, and not Romany.

  Zorana said fiercely, ‘‘When you first looked at me, you captured my heart, and I don’t care what that stupid Seattle doctor said. You are mine. My child. Forever.’’

  All around the Wilders’ cramped living room, Firebird’s family sat or stood, sniffed or tried to smile or glared in impotent fury as they realized how they’d been betrayed by people they trusted. Firebird’s three brothers, Jasha, Rurik and Adrik. Her three sisters-in-law, Ann, Tasya, and Karen. Karen’s father. And Firebird’s parents. Oh, God, her parents. She loved them all so much—and she was nothing to them.

  Only her son was of her blood. Only Aleksandr, who sat tucked beside Karen, trusting because he’d never met anyone who wished him ill.

  ‘‘You are the best mother anyone could ever have,’’ Firebird told Zorana, and in a world full of sudden uncertainties, that, at least, was true.

  ‘‘Too bad she named you for a car.’’ Adrik had been gone far too long, yet he hadn’t forgotten the family joke.