lose all, grasp all  |[epilogue]|
Sun flashed off the Admiralty spire. Gulls coasted over the crowded Neva. Boatmen exchanged shouts across the water, and the air carried the scent of the sea. This was a city Ivan knew as well as his own mind, and it was one he would not see again for a very long time.
Whether as an aristocrat or as an urchin, every corner was one he had turned before. Ahead was a cafe whose owner never kicked him off his stoop, and whose wife offered tea on frigid mornings. Beyond it was a lamppost under which he had nearly lost himself to the cold. There passed a bus he had ridden with Sasha, each with a hand on a case that should have held a cello.
The sun was at its zenith when Ivan came to a dead stop. Although his eyes were pinned ahead, he did not have to look to know what was to his left. His hand closed around Rosalie's. Next to him was an alley, and from its mouth moved warm air as though by exhale. He ground his teeth. He could feel the way Nikolai thrashed and thrashed, and he could feel the way he suddenly, without warning, stopped. Ivan's head swam.
Dusk fell more quickly than he would have liked. The estate smelled of grass freshly cut. Water features caught the last few minutes of sun. He led Rosalie down a path lined with topiaries and when he found her a spot in the garden, he stepped away. Alone, Ivan steeled himself and entered his home of fifteen years for the last time.
"УбОŃĐ°ĐčŃŃ," the Volkovs said. Get out. And while they insisted on covering travel, they made their wishes clear: they never wanted to speak with him again. When Ivan stepped outside, it was with a heart at ease. Patient ears and a cold goodbyeâthat was more than he could have asked for.
· · ·
Grozny was not the same. Ivan did not remember cafes or lampposts or buses. The streets were not the wastelands from his memories, and it was spice on the wind rather than ash. These days the city was alive, and that stirred something in him that he could not place. His hand was damp. His feet took him where he needed to go.
The bakery was gone, and with it the basement he had once called home. When by chance he found a man he recognized, Ivan was not surprised to learn that his mother was gone too. Learning that his brother had passed, however, was not so easy.
It was difficult after that to keep from lapsing into long silences. Lulls in conversation were filled with dim thoughts of lost friends and family, and when he searched himself for home there was nothing to find. But in the evenings when his thoughts were darkest, he could weave his fingers into Rosalie's and the world would remember its colours.
Home moved with the woman at his side, and in New York awaited a handful of passengers he could call family.
· · ·
"Đ Đ°ĐŽ ŃĐ”Đ±Ń ĐČОЎДŃŃ," Ivan greeted, and held the door for Rosalie. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. "I will buy the first round."
