Now I knew why Sevastyan hated surprises. Now I understood why he’d nearly gone ballistic when Maksim revealed that “quiet was rewarded.”
“The last night I saw my brothers as boys, I was scarcely twelve. Maksim was eleven and Dmitri seven. Over the years, we’d all suffered concussions, broken limbs and ribs.”
How casually Sevastyan related that—life-threatening abuse reduced to background information.
“Yet on this night, my father’s rage seemed even sharper than usual. Though it was the dead of a Siberian winter, we had no choice but to flee outside.” Sevastyan’s eyes went vacant, as if he was reliving it. “I dressed Dmitri as warmly and as quickly as I could, then we waded through snow to reach the closest outbuilding, a drafty toolshed. We waited there, freezing for hours, staring at the shelter of our home. The manor was aglow with light, the windows fogging from the warmth inside. Our family had such wealth, but we were about to die of exposure.”
I could imagine the scene so clearly: three traumatized boys yearning for that brightly lit manor, while fearing the monster within it.
“When Dmitri’s lips started turning blue, I knew I had to go inside, to see if the old bastard had passed out. . . .” Sevastyan’s eyes flashed toward me. “I don’t want to remember any of this. I never did! I’ve never told another about this night.”
“Please, trust me with this.”
Seeming to steel himself, he began again, confronting this agony for me. “I hadn’t gotten past the kitchen before he spotted me. I ran, but my legs were so stiff from cold it was like my feet were trapped in quicksand. He caught me, repeatedly bludgeoning my face. One of my eyes swelled shut, and I could barely see from the other.”
Sevastyan had started sweating, his chest sheening with it. Was he aware that his own fists were clenched till his knuckles were white? I wanted to touch him, soothe him, but feared he’d go silent.
“He demanded to know where his other sons were, vowed he’d beat me to death if I didn’t tell him. Somehow I managed to get loose, fought my way up the stairs. On the landing, he caught me again.”
Eyes watering, I whispered, “Go on.”
“For the first time in my life, I did more than brace for a blow. I . . . I hit back.” Even after all these years, Sevastyan’s tone was filled with astonishment. “He was stunned, but hurt too. I was big for my age—and all of the sudden my fists felt unyielding. I’d never struck another, not even Maksim in play. When my father recovered from his shock, his gaze turned lethal. I knew he was about to kill me.”
“What happened then?” My heart was in my throat.
“Years’ worth of rage welled up inside me, and I . . . beat him. Over and over. He’d backed to the edge of the stairway, swaying there unsteadily. Our eyes met. I’ll never forget the uncanny feeling I had at that moment—I knew this was exactly what had happened to my mother. He’d beaten her, driving her to the brink. Stranger still, he . . . he registered my comprehension. And he . . . had this bloody smirk as he said, ‘You’ll grow up to be just like me. Whenever you look in the mirror, you’ll see my face.’ The idea was so horrific—I launched my fist, knowing he would fall, hoping he would die. He snapped his neck against the first-floor wall.” Sevastyan slid another glance at me.
“I’m here. What did you do after?”
“I knew I’d be sent to prison for murder. So I covered his body and retrieved my brothers. Afterward, I gathered what cash I could find and ran into the night. I had enough to reach St. Petersburg, to get lost among the other children there.”
“How long was it before Paxán found you?”
“A year and a half. Long enough for me to suspect Paxán was some sort of deviant when he offered to take me in. Long enough to be mystified when I recognized he was a good man.”
“How had you survived before then?”
Sevastyan rubbed a tattoo on his finger. I remembered that one signified thievery. “I stole. But as I got older, it became more difficult—I was getting taller and couldn’t slip away in a crowd as easily. There were times I was caught.” His voice broke lower. “If you crossed the wrong protection gangs and couldn’t fight your way free, things were . . . done.”
He’d been attacked by street thugs?
“Your father told you about how he first found me. But what I never confessed to him was that I didn’t always win on those streets. And when I didn’t”—he stared down at his fists—“I lost . . . much.”
Oh, God, no, no, no. I’d read about preyed-upon runaways in the States, read things that made my skin crawl; what had those men done to Sevastyan as a boy?
He glanced up. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Shame is more painful . . . ?
But he had nothing to be ashamed of ! Did he not understand that? Tonight, I might not be able to overturn twenty years of thinking, but so help me, ultimately I’d convince him.
His eyes went hazy once more. Was he reliving those agonies as well? I didn’t want him to, only wanted to comfort him.
In a hollow tone, he repeated, “I lost much.”
“Will you tell me?”
He closed his eyes. “I will. Just not today. Don’t ask that of me today.” His eyes shot open. “But you don’t leave.”
My heart was shattering, shards all around me. “I won’t,” I assured him. How easy it’d been for me to demand equal disclosure about our pasts when I had nothing shocking—or even noteworthy—to disclose. I’d wanted us to be equal, yet I hadn’t realized that our histories weren’t. “Why don’t you tell me what happened to your brothers?”