Chapter Fifty-Nine
I’m sitting on a bed, brushing a woman’s hair with an ornately designed brush.
My hand is strong and masculine—evidence I might be in Rasputin’s memories, or those of some other male seer.
The woman is turned away, so I can’t see her face. Her pale shoulders and graceful back remind me of a ballerina, and the way she moans and purrs in pleasure when he/I groom her is the kind of seductive that borders on pornographic.
Could this be my mother?
Am I about to see a memory of my own conception?
That would be like walking in on your parents, but exponentially weirder.
Or is this their post-coital bliss?
“I love how unpredictable you are,” I say in Russian in a deep male voice. The language is another clue that this is my father’s memory.
“That’s not the only thing yo
