Page 58 of Conquer
Did you learn anything about her mother? Her father? Her origins?
“She told us her name,” the woman says, wrinkling her mouth. “Though, she had a slip of paper in her clothing. It had her name written on it, along with her birthday and immunization records—all validated, of course.”
“A slip of paper?” Vadim raises an eyebrow, and I recognize the intense set to his jaw. He wasn’t aware of that detail.
“Yes. The police took it in their initial investigation,” the woman admits. “But… I made a copy. I’m not sure why, it all felt so strange. I think I felt compelled to remember it somehow. If you wait right here, I’ll be back.”
She disappears down a winding hallway while Vadim starts to pace, stroking his jaw, the gears in his brain whirring. I watch him, even as I find myself imagining this place two years ago, with a five-year-old Magda walking haughtily through its halls. She would have been even smaller, twice as frail, and under the assumption that neither parent wanted her. My heart breaks for that girl, and I’m more resolved now than ever to live up to the commitment Vadim admittedly goaded me into. Adopting her—no matter who may stand in the way.
“Here it is!” The woman returns brandishing a slip of neatly folded photocopy paper. Vadim scans the surface, his eyes widening.
“That logo…”
“You recognize it?” The woman tilts her head thoughtfully. “Eingel Industries is one of our main contributors. In fact, for well over a decade, their donation has far exceeded all others. It was an odd coincidence, but there’s a factory not too far from here, and the workers tend to scatter their promotional materials all over. I’d thought her parents may have worked there, but honestly, it could have been taken from the local library just as plausibly.”
Something I sense Vadim doubts. His hands shake as he scans the page over and over again. From over his shoulder, I make out a few lines written in crisp, neat handwriting. A series of unique flourishes make the style stand out—far more elegant than one might suspect of a desperate guardian dropping off an abandoned child.
Does he recognize it as Irina’s?
“May I have this?” he asks of the woman.
“Of course. I’m so glad to hear that Magdalene is safe and thriving. I think about her often. I wonder… Does she still have that quirk when it comes to roses?”
Vadim frowns, still reading the note. “Roses?” From his tone, I doubt he understands the significance of that one statement.
But I do.
“Quirk?” I ask, turning my full attention toward the woman.
She purses her lips, wringing her hands. “It was around Valentine’s day when she arrived—which was why I couldn’t imagine someone bringing herhere. It was freezing. Anyway, we host a few children’s groups throughout the year, and we prepare crafts for them to complete during the holidays. That month, we had them design rose vases that we displayed throughout the facility. They truly were beautiful.” She smiles faintly, only for the expression to drain from her face, replaced by utter confusion. “When poor little Magdalene stepped foot inside, she vomited. It was one of the first things she said—not to ask for her parents, but simply‘I hate that smell.’We had to clear away any trace of the flowers from the area we kept her in. I was wondering if she had grown out of the aversion.”
In some ways, she has. While playing with my parents in their garden, she can frolic amongst a sea of roses unbothered. But when sensed while caught off guard, she panics. So much so that she crawls into her father’s bed at night and breaks down at the mere thought of someone taking her from him.
“Thank you for your help,” Vadim says, leading the way to the door. I follow him out, and as we enter the car, I notice that he still has that note clenched in his fist, his gaze unfocused.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, bracing my hand over his forearm as he settles beside me. “Is that handwriting… Is it Irina’s?”
“No,” he says hoarsely, looking hopelessly confused. “It’s not.”
I frown. “Do you think she had someone else—”
“Irina didn’t write this,” he says, as if he has to repeat it just to drill the fact into his own understanding. “But I know who did.”
“Who?” I ask.
Carefully, he folds the paper and slips it into his breast pocket. With his gaze on the window nearest him, he says, so softly, I almost don’t hear him, “Hiram Gorgoshev.”
