Connections

[Oriena]

She didn’t want to be here already. The ritual of Christmas had been enough. But the weather was grim, and Dezhda was adamant the domovoy had warned her the sky was going to fall. It was just snow, but Ori rarely argued the toss over her mother’s delusions. She was sat at the kitchen table, where she’d been muttering in Russian the whole time Ori had been pouting the groceries away. Prayers. Repeated phrases. It wasn’t a bad day necessarily, just a fixated moment. Ori smoothed the hair at her brow as she placed a glass of water by her elbow. The rosary was twisted tight in her fingers, biting skin. Ori ignored that too.

The knock, when it came, slanted her brows low. Nadezhda didn’t get visitors, and Oriena paid local gopniks to keep it that way. There was rarely trouble, though she’d walked in to find Mik here once. He hadn’t been back so far as Ori knew. Her mother never spoke of company anyway.

She could have checked the viewer, but she didn’t, just pulled the chain and yanked it open. Surprise flared before her expression deadened hard. Betrayal chased the immediate anger. Her first instinct was to slam the door on his face.