Page 152 of The Pucking Arrangement

She stirs, peeking out with bleary, hopeful eyes.

“Is Erin back?”

The question slices through me, clean and unforgiving.

I exhale slowly, trying to steady the ache expanding in my ribs.

This.

This is what I was afraid of.

It’s one thing for me to miss her. To carry this hollow, gnawing absence in my chest.

But Ris. God, Ris.

I don’t know how to protect her from this kind of heartbreak.

“No, Amnushka.” I keep my voice even. Gentle. Like saying it softly will make it hurt less. “Remember? She moved back to her apartment in the city.”

Her lower lip trembles. “But why? Why can’t she live with us?”

She blinks up at me, too innocent, too trusting, too fucking unprepared for this world.

“Doesn’t she like us anymore?”

I sit on the edge of her bed, gathering her into my arms. She feels small. Light. Or maybe that’s just my awareness of how easily things break.

“Of course she still likes us,” I murmur, smoothing her wild curls. “But her work is important. She has her own life.”

Ris pulls back, fixing me with Elena’s eyes.

“You miss her too.”

Not a question. A fact.

Brutal and honest in the way only a child can be.

“I’m fine.” The lie scrapes my throat.

She narrows her eyes. “Mr. Waddles says you’re sad.”

I huff a soft laugh, tapping her nose. “Mr. Waddles talks too much.”

She doesn’t smile.

Not like she would have a week ago.

Jesus.

“Come on,Babushka’smaking breakfast, and you need to get dressed.”

She sighs—one of those deep, full-body sighs that only a six-year-old can truly execute—but untangles herself from the blankets, setting her cello carefully on its stand.

“I’m supposed to practice,” she informs me seriously. “Erin says ten minutes every day makes a big difference.”

My chest tightens.

“After school,” I say. “Now, purple dress or blue skirt?”

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