34

Maria
The sheer curtains stretch across my bedroom window, concealing Manhattan below. I don’t care what’s going on outside. My attention is on the painting Mikhail has hung on the wall across from my bed.
It’s the same Kuzma Fedorov from the gallery.
I smirk, noticing it’s turned right-side up. In this orientation, I can see that there’s more than just a face. The splotches of purple and blue that had been unrecognizable against the green background now transform into a field of wildflowers. And the face, previously upside down, now smiles at the view.
I lean in close and close my eyes, imagining I can smell the flowers, even though they’re strokes of paint.
There’s something strangely appropriate. It’s like a part of me is trapped within the canvas, forever pictured sitting by a window while staring wistfully outside ever since my world was turned upside down.
Yesterday, I watched Mikhail talk to the wedding planner from the corner of my eye. He didn’t say it, but he wanted to be alone with her. The thought that he wanted to be alone with another woman while planning my wedding sent a flurry of jealous anger through me. My heart leaped to my throat when I saw him reach out to touch her shoulder. For a dizzying moment, I thought he was going to kiss her.
And when she greeted me, I could feel a coldness there. It’s almost like she didn’t think I belonged with him.
“Come in,” I answer the knock on my door, though it’s open.
Mikhail stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching me with a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you like it?”
I can’t hide my delight. “It’s fantastic.” I scramble to the end of the bed, messing up the silky comforter. “It’s the first time I noticed that this room had no paintings.”
“I have one more surprise for you.” Mikhail pushes himself off the doorframe and walks toward me. “A visit to the Met.”
“The Met?” I leap up and clasp my hands. I stop bouncing on my feet, wondering if it looks like I’m doing jumping jacks. “I would love to go,” I reply awkwardly. “Thank you.”
A thrill races through me at the thought of visiting the museum for the first time. Growing up in Holtsville, I always dreamed of exploring all the museums in New York. Getting lost in the quiet halls and discovering forgotten masterpieces.
Finally, I’ll have a chance to experience firsthand the paintings and sculptures I’ve only seen in books.
“Good,” Mikhail says, his smile widening. “Anton will drop us off in a bit. We’ll make a day of it.”
I like it when Mikhail smiles. When he smiles, I can pretend that the worst will never happen and that Mikhail will always be like this. Thoughtful and sweet to me.
And I can pretend that I’ll be okay.
As the Mercedes pulls up to the curb, excitement races through me, and my knees shake. Traces of fear disappear, and a growing sense of gratitude for Mikhail places a massive smile on my face. It’s a dangerous mix of emotions, to know I should be alert to trouble but also to be too stupid-happy to care.
My footsteps slow as I walk toward the Met steps, and my gaze is drawn upward to the top one. I place my foot on a granite step and sigh. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. A woman sitting on the steps a few feet away looks at me, scoffs loudly, and then ignores me.
New York, I love you, I think. Even when you’re bitchy.
We walk up the granite stairs side by side. My heart flutters as we step inside the main entrance of the Met. I’m struck speechless by the massiveness of the place. The Great Hall is packed with visitors from all over, their voices echoing against the marble columns.
Mikhail guides me through the labyrinth of columns and people, his hand warm and reassuring against mine. We approach the grand staircase, and my eyes trace the elegant sweep of the steps. Anticipation shortens my breath, knowing that the treasures inside will surpass the stunning first impression.
We wander through the exhibits, and Mikhail takes my hand, bringing me closer to his side as we stop in front of a painting. The woman has flowing red hair and an expression of longing on her face. Her beauty and emotion mesmerize me as she holds a fully bloomed rose to her nose to sniff with her eyes shut tight.
“It reminds me of you,” he says.
I shake my head. “Do you really think so?”
He nods. “You should be painted in a garden.”
I stare at him, feeling shy, and heat blooms across my face.
Smiling, Mikhail leads me away from the painting, but not before I whisper thank you under my breath. I’m grateful for this opportunity to pretend that we’re not captor and captive, for a chance to connect with something greater than myself. And my imagination is far from disappointed.
We travel back downstairs until we reach a gallery dedicated to modern art. Here, Mikhail stops and points out a painting depicting two people locked in an embrace among stars glittering in an endless night sky. With their eyes closed, they seem so content, as if nothing else matters.
“Is it a Chagall?” I ask.
He leans in to read the card. “It is,” he turns and smiles at me. “Good guess.”
I swat his arm. “It wasn’t a guess. Well, it was an educated one.”
An elderly woman stands beside me. She nods with approval before she walks away.
Being surrounded by all this art is like a shield against the dangers lurking outside. Inside this museum with Mikhail … this is where I belong right now. No matter what happens tomorrow or next week, or even next year …
Here, I can forget about the accusations against my father. I can forget about Nina the wedding planner. I can forget who Mikhail is and what I am to him.
I’d do anything to stay in the bubble.
“You haven’t stopped smiling since we got here,” he says teasingly.
“Have you ever had a dream come true?” I ask.
“No.” Mikhail looks away, and his expression darkens like he’s stepped into a storm cloud he couldn’t avoid. “Only nightmares.”
I swallow hard and give him a moment alone with his thoughts. Soon enough, I’m focused on another painting of two-dimensional shapes that seem to spin on the canvas. I look at the card, and it’s hard to believe it was painted over a hundred years ago.
I glance over at Mikhail, and the mood has passed. “What is your favorite exhibit?” I ask him.
He smirks. “Arms and Armor.”
I tug on his arm. “Let’s go there.”
“No.” He faces me. “It’s your day.”
“But I want to see it all.” I laugh like a goof. “Every corner of this place.”
We pass countless works of art, each more breathtaking than the last, but the Arms and Armor section amazes me. The actual armor is not only for people but for horses too. My mouth drops open as we pass by four figures in armor, each mounted on a horse. Silently marching in a straight line through the corridors of the exhibit as if they were alive.
“Look at that!” I exclaim, pointing to a display of medieval swords. “They look so heavy.”
“They’re lighter than you think,” Mikhail replies. “But it’s the craftsmanship that is astounding. The details of the designs, and the thousands of hours of labor that must’ve gone into them.”
He points, and my gaze follows until it rests upon the intricate designs etched into the metal. Mikhail is right. The designs are breathtakingly beautiful. But as much as I marvel at the beauty, an uneasy feeling creeps into the pit of my stomach.
These objects were created for violence and destruction. The beauty they inspire is nothing like the horrors they once inflicted.
Just like the world Mikhail is entangled in.
And now I am too.
“I wanted to show you this painting. It’s part of a special exhibition.”
He guides me toward a breathtaking masterpiece depicting a battle between two ancient armies. The painting takes up the length of the wall, and a wooden bench is situated in front of it.
Within the painting, the detail is breathtaking. Weapons gleam in the fading light of the battlefield. Limbs twist in agony. The closer I look, the more details I notice in this elegantly stunning display of raw butchery.
Each brushstroke captures the raw power and chaos of the scene. It feels both alive and tragic.
But all I can think of is another painting, locked away in the dark. A single chrysanthemum suspended above a body of water-brutish, violent, and filled with unmuted anger.
“It’s amazing what people are capable of doing to each other,” I whisper. “And the beauty that those horrors can inspire.”
Mikhail tilts his head, his eyes drawn to the small detail of a knight atop a horse. The knight has his lance high in the air, pointed at his enemy fallen on the battleground. The other man holds his hand up in a plea for mercy even though he is seconds away from death.
“Beauty and horror are often different faces of the same coin,” Mikhail whispers. “One cannot exist without the other.”
His gaze is a thousand miles away. And as I stare at him, I wonder just exactly what he means by that.
And I wonder if he’s talking about us.