Page 71 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

It didn’t even matter if the place was a shack.My parents’ dacha was practically held together by string and superstition, but I thought of falling asleep beside Petyr… waking up with him in the soft morning light, his arms around me, undisturbed by alarms or knocking…

“Is this the place where I turn?”Papa’s voice cut through my fantasy.

I blinked, looked down at the folded directions Vera had scrawled on the back of an old party flyer.“Yeah.That’s the turn.Another two miles after that.”

He nodded and took the left, the tires bumping along a narrow, rutted road.More pine trees.A clearing up ahead.I tried to focus on his story about someone’s cousin getting a rooster drunk, but my brain slipped back to the dacha.To Petyr.To wanting him.

Not just holding-hands-in-the-moonlight wanting.But wanting.The kind that curled deep in my gut and made my chest tight.The kind that had me counting the minutes until we could be alone, really alone.I hated when my thoughts turned crude, but Petyr brought that out in me.Before him, desire had been something abstract.Something you buried.Something you feared.

Now?It was fire.Constant and unrelenting.

The dacha appeared like a miracle, small but standing.Wood walls, freshly painted in dull Soviet green.A bit crooked at the roofline, but it had a little porch and even a chimney.

“Not bad,” Papa said as he cut the engine.

There were three rooms inside, Vera had said.Living space, kitchen, bedroom.It even had indoor plumbing.My parents’ dacha didn’t even have a well.

Papa helped me carry my bag inside.He whistled when he saw the little kitchen and the clean enamel sink.“Damn.This is better than ours.Who’d you bribe?”

“I guess the factory wants us to feel appreciated,” I said, barely keeping the sarcasm out of my voice.

He dropped the bag by the sofa, then turned to me.He took my shoulders in both hands and looked me dead in the eyes.

His voice dropped low.Not angry.Just serious.

“Don’t forget where you are.”

The smile on my face faltered.

Then he let go, patted my cheek once, and turned for the door.“Enjoy your weekend, synok.”

“Thanks, Papa.”

The door shut behind him.

I stood in the silence for a long moment.Then I crossed the room and flopped onto the couch.The cushions groaned under me, probably older than I was.A puff of dust rose and settled in the shafts of morning light, cutting through the window.

I stared at the ceiling and let myself exhale fully for the first time.

“I can’t wait for tonight,” I murmured.

Just the two of us.

And an entire weekend that might as well have been a lifetime.

* * *

The dacha smelled like onions and cabbage, with a hint of dill and something vaguely smoky I couldn’t identify—probably the ancient stove’s contribution.I stirred the pot again, then adjusted the heat.Not that the dial actually did anything.I’d scrounged together something that resembled a stew.Enough for two.Hopefully not terrible.Definitely edible.

The sky outside the small kitchen window had turned a deeper shade of gray-blue.Dusk was slowly creeping in.I kept glancing at the path beyond the porch, hoping to see movement.A figure.A miracle.

Petyr had said Vera would try to let him leave early.But factory schedules weren’t known for their flexibility, even if your wife was the one giving the orders.He’d said if he was lucky, he could catch the 4:40 elektrichka.Then it’d be a walk—maybe two, three kilometers—or a ride if someone heading out this way owed him a favor.I pictured him standing in the aisle of the rattling train, the countryside slipping by through cracked windows.

I caught myself smiling again.Couldn’t help it.

The dacha, despite its ruggedness, was charming.I’d swept, dusted, even washed the little windowpanes.I found a squat record player tucked into a cabinet, along with a warped stack of state-approved vinyl.A few jazz records.Some orchestral stuff.I picked one that sounded like romance and let it play.The scratchy sound was warm, familiar.Like being wrapped in an old sweater.

In a drawer, I found candle stubs—mostly melted, half-bent—and placed them around the main room.They flickered like little beacons, casting golden light over the battered couch and low table.

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