Since We Are Apart

Actually, we don’t really grow up. Kserton, 1999 Maria looked at her reflection in the elevator mirror. No loose clothing could anymore hide her rounded belly from curious eyes. A new life was growing inside her, and Maria awaited the birth of her daughter with impatience. With impatience, and at the same time, with fear. Fear born from the joy she had never dared to dream of. The doctors’ verdicts still echoed in her mind, sounding more like sentences — “infertile.” Maria had learned to live with it, as much as possible. She had managed to get married despite her mother’s words that no one would want someone “defective” like her. Though Masha understood those were just cruel words, she believed them, focusing all her energy on studying at the art institute and her naive dream of illustrating children’s books. That way, she felt she could at least touch the universal celebration of life, to which nature had forgotten to invite her. Everything changed when she met Kostya. The moment their eyes met at one of the house concerts their mutual friend loved to host, fate’s thread tightly bound the young man and the girl together. Masha was not even twenty then, and she had never before felt attraction to a man. But she wanted to get to know Kostya. To see him, to hear him. For every possible minute near him, she was ready to sacrifice everything — but she didn’t have to, because he felt the same. Their unconditional and all-consuming love led them to the registry office in less than six months. Even when Maria told him her biggest and most shameful secret — the heavy burden on her shoulders — Kostya did not turn away. For him, a vague future with unimaginable possibilities meant nothing if she was not in it. And for her humility, the world must have rewarded Maria with the most precious miracle of all. But fate, as it often does, had its own plans. The elevator climbed painfully slowly, making Maria’s heart beat faster with anticipation. She felt her palms sweat and hurried to wipe the moisture on the skirt of her dress. Ding. The elevator stopped on the right floor, and the doors slid open, inviting Masha to step into the half-darkness of the stairwell — but she didn’t dare move. The fear of rejection was so strong that Maria would have preferred to be anywhere but here, in the home of her former best friend. They hadn’t spoken since the wedding. And this was the price Maria consciously paid for her love for Kostya. Gathering her courage, she reached for the doorbell and pressed it twice with short, quick taps. Mechanical trills of birds sounded, followed by the creaking of floorboards. Maria could only pray that Lyudmila would open the door, and not her husband — he wouldn’t give Masha even a chance to exchange a few words with her friend. Someone clicked the lock, and the apartment door creaked open. Maria’s eyes met Lyudmila’s frightened expression. The friend hurried to close the door without a word, and Masha’s heart skipped a beat: she wouldn’t get a second chance. In despair, without fully realizing what she was doing, Maria managed to catch the door with her foot. “Lyudmila, wait!” she pleaded and cried out in pain. “What are you doing?” Lyudmila pushed the door to free her friend’s foot, then immediately crouched down to examine the bruise. “You shouldn’t be here.” Her last words were softer, and notes of regret did not escape Maria’s attention. “I have nowhere else to go.” “And that’s your choice. You knew the coven would turn away the moment you married that…” Lyudmila pursed her lips and shook her head, dismissing a curse that wanted to escape. “You have to leave.” Looking down, Lyudmila stood up and reached for the door handle. Maria understood this was her last chance. She grabbed her friend’s hand and placed her own palm on her belly. For a moment, Lyudmila’s face was expressionless. The child inside Maria stirred, kicking the new acquaintance with a small foot. Lyudmila’s eyes immediately widened. She shifted her gaze from Maria’s face to her belly and back several times, and Maria couldn’t tell what Lyuda felt more: joy for her or fear of what the child might become. “But you… you couldn’t get pregnant.” “I thought so too, but, as you see…” “How far along?” “Thirty-four weeks.” Lyudmila looked puzzled at something behind Maria, but when Maria turned, her friend held her by the shoulder and nodded toward the door. “Come in.” Silently, the girls went into the kitchen. Thick silence enveloped the space, absorbing sounds. Lyudmila drew the curtains and began filling the kettle with water. Maria sat on a chair pushed to the wall, placing her bag on her lap, nervously gripping its edges with her fingers. Here she was, in Lyudmila’s house, but why did her anxiety only grow inside? Maria searched for the right words, afraid to finally say aloud why she had come, biting her lips until she tasted blood. “Damn,” she whispered and instinctively pressed the edge of her dress sleeve to her lips. “Did you say something?” Lyudmila asked while measuring tea leaves into the teapot. “No, nothing.” The kettle whistled. Lyudmila poured boiling water into the teapot to the brim and waited by the counter while the tea brewed. She spread her arms on either side of her. Her tense palms pressed against the worn table surface. From the outside, it seemed like an ordinary gesture, but Maria knew her friend too well: Lyudmila was as worried as she was. “What can I do for you?” Lyuda said quietly without turning around. “I can’t get rid of the baby. Don’t even ask.” “No, of course not. Would I come all this way at this stage for that?” Maria fell silent, delaying the inevitable. Her fingers gripped the leather bag even tighter. There was no turning back. “I need a prophecy.” Lyudmila turned with a surprised look. “A prophecy? But you know: once spoken, it forever defines fate. Your prophecy was spoken many years ago and cannot be changed. No one ever has.” Maria gave a sad smile and finally put the bag on the table. “I have long accepted my fate, and it no longer worries me much,” Maria softly stroked her belly in circular motions. “I want to hear a prophecy for my daughter.” Lyudmila took two cups from the shelf and began pouring tea. The room filled with the aroma of peppermint and the slightly sour notes of lemon balm, which awakened Maria’s appetite. “Don’t worry. She won’t become the High Priestess for sure,” Lyudmila placed a cup in front of Maria, then sat down nearby and took a sip from her glass with pleasure. “That’s not what I’m afraid of.” “What then?” Maria sighed deeply and warmed her hands on the cup’s surface. Avoiding Lyudmila’s eyes, she spoke with shame: a hereditary witch who never planned to have a child had married the greatest enemy and now might be carrying destruction for the entire coven inside her. “I’m afraid my daughter will take after her father.” “You should have thought about that before marrying Konstantin.” “Lyuda,” Maria’s voice faltered. “You know as well as I do that I was infertile.” “I was infertile.” They fell silent. Neither wanted to start the verbal battle they had had so many times with the same result: Maria always chose Kostya, and Lyudmila could only watch her lose her best friend. “I shouldn’t help you. If the coven finds out…” “You’re not helping. You’re just giving a prophecy to an unborn child by right of blood. She didn’t make the decisions that broke the code — I did.” “But you’re the one asking for the prophecy, not the child. Besides, if a boy is born, there’s no question of inheritance.” “It’s a girl. And she might become either the new High Priestess or inherit her father’s power. The sooner we know, the sooner we can figure something out.” “Figure out what, Maria? Whatever her destiny is, once spoken, there’s no going back. Sometimes it’s better not to know…” “But I need to know!” Maria grabbed Lyudmila’s hand and looked pleadingly into her old friend’s eyes. “I really need it. Lyuda, please.” “You’ll owe me,” Lyudmila warned. “Anything,” Maria answered quickly. Lyudmila nodded approvingly and gently freed her hand from her friend’s grip. “Alright. Finish your tea. You know what comes next.” Maria hastily drank her tea until only a little remained at the bottom — just enough for the leaves to float. She turned the cup upside down on the saucer and pushed it closer to Lyudmila. The women took each other’s hands and softly chanted two short lines in an ancient language, calling on magic. But instead of a prophecy, there was a loud c***k: the cup shattered into three pieces. Surprised, Maria looked at Lyudmila, who only shrugged. “That’s new to me. I feel nothing.” “Maybe because the child isn’t born yet?” “Unlikely. At this stage, the child is fully formed, has personality and spirit. Her fate should already be decided.” “Then why don’t you go into a trance?” Lyudmila picked up one of the shards. “I don’t know. Let’s try the old way,” she said, studying the tea leaves with interest. “I see forest and sun. No, wait, more like a waxing moon. The circle is too asymmetrical.” “Kserton.” “Maybe,” Lyudmila reached for the second shard and frowned at what she saw. “I see lightning…” “An evil omen.” “Do you really need me for the prediction?” “Predicting for myself is bad form.” “Then shut up and listen. Lightning doesn’t always mean an evil omen. It could be shocking news, unpredictable events, a sudden choice.” Lyudmila reached for the last shard. As soon as she touched it, the girl screamed and pulled back her hand. A crimson drop appeared on her fingertip. "A bad omen. Don’t look." But it was too late to warn her. Maria quickly lifted the shard and turned it toward herself. What she saw dried her throat, and her lips trembled. "A wolf." The silence in the apartment was broken by a sharp, almost animalistic cry from the next room, which smoothly shifted into something else. So familiar and clear, it made Maria’s heart clench. She wanted to get up right then, find the source, and... comfort it. The heart of the expectant mother was already beating on special frequencies. It longed for the place from which the child’s cry came. Lyudmila stared at Maria with eyes full of horror. Only this stopped Masha from rising. She froze, afraid to make an unnecessary movement, seeing how Lyuda’s hands tensed like a predator’s. Her widely spread fingers pressed into the table, ready to react as soon as she sensed danger. One of them had to speak first, but no one dared utter a word, as if fearing that any word could push the situation beyond return. The problem was the impossibility of freezing in the moment. The future Lyudmila so desperately wanted to delay was relentlessly approaching, and she hardly had a choice. A cocktail of a simple spell, a pinch of wit, and years of practiced dexterity could bury her secret deep underground until someone else dug it up. If it were someone else in front of Lyudmila, she would have acted without hesitation, but killing her best friend carrying a child under her heart was too high a price. Lyudmila withdrew her palms from the table and ran them over her nape, as if that could help gather strength. Then she exhaled loudly, puffing her cheeks, and for a moment averted her gaze, searching for the courage to open up. Maria swallowed hard and noticeably relaxed, seeing the change in Lyudmila. The dark cloud of inevitability looming over their heads began to dissipate, giving birth to hope for a different outcome. Meanwhile, the child did not stop crying. "Seems like they’re already waiting for you," Maria said cautiously aloud, her voice hoarse. "Let’s go," Lyudmila got up from the table and disappeared around the corridor’s corner. Cautiously, Maria slowly followed her friend, holding her raised hand in front of her. Three fingers formed a pinch. Magic was leaving Maria’s body day by day, but there was still enough left to give herself a head start and try to escape if things took a bad turn. Turning into the room where the door was slightly open, Maria saw the edge of a white crib. Lyudmila was already bent over it, murmuring something in a honeyed voice. The tone hardly changed when she called to her friend: "Come closer. Closer," gently supporting the baby’s head, Lyudmila lifted the child into her arms. "I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine." Maria lowered her hand and stepped into the room. Standing beside Lyudmila, she watched the infant who was gently moving tiny fists over adorable chubby cheeks. Lyuda carefully pulled back the neckline of the baby’s shirt, and Maria could make out a distinct birthmark shaped like a pointed star near the collarbone. Unable to hold back her feelings, Maria gasped: "The mark of the High Priestess!" Lyudmila nodded. "But that means..." "Shhh," Lyudmila cut her off as the baby started to fall asleep again. The news lifted one burden from Maria’s heart and immediately placed a new one, robbing her of the relief she hoped for. The thought that her child would be bound by fate to several clans seemed unthinkable, almost impossible — like the very fact of the pregnancy — so Masha feared the worst ahead. But if Lyudmila’s daughter already bore the mark, such a scenario was off the table. Perhaps the girl would inherit some magical abilities, but they were unlikely to solidify: Maria had tested this theory on herself. The closer the birth approached, the less strength remained within her. She guessed the wolf blood of the fetus waiting to be born under her heart was to blame, and after the prophecy in the tea leaves, Maria had no doubts left. Lyudmila carefully laid the baby back in the crib, then approached the dresser and pressed a button on a tiny mushroom-shaped nightlight. An unobtrusive lullaby melody immediately filled the room. Lyuda beckoned Maria, and both, tiptoeing as quietly as possible, hurried out. When the girls returned to the kitchen, they spoke again. "Does the coven already know?" Lyudmila shook her head. "I hope they don’t find out. Otherwise, she won’t be allowed to grow up properly. To be a child, even for a little while." Maria sat down on a chair and felt relief. Her swollen feet were making themselves known. "Aren’t you exaggerating? Times have changed. The last High Priestess appeared in the coven long before we were born." "Do you hear yourself? Look how easily they disowned you after the wedding. If that rule is more alive than anything, why talk about the tradition of raising a High Priestess?" "Maybe you’re right. But how long can you hide her existence? A month? A year? Two? She won’t even understand what’s what by then, and there’s no question of a normal childhood." Lyudmila reached for the kettle and refilled the cup. "We could help each other." Maria smiled. "If you need a prophecy, I’ll help with the ritual, of course, but in my opinion, your daughter’s fate is already obvious." "I mean something more." Maria stared at Lyudmila in surprise, running through all imaginable and unimaginable options, but none of them came close to the truth. "But what can we do? My powers are almost gone. Yours must be too. Bearing a High Priestess leaves no mother untouched." "That’s true. Maybe if we joined forces for the ritual, it would work. We’d need someone else for the triad, and then definitely." "I know what you’re hinting at. Don’t even ask." "Did your mother turn away from you too?" "No, of course not." "See!" Lyudmila looked as if she’d just won a multimillion-dollar lottery. "The three of us could protect both girls." "How? Build a shield around them? Make them invisible?" "Almost," Lyudmila took a sip from her cup. "What if I told you I found a way to seal their power? But the price will be high." Maria hesitated to answer. Involving her mother seemed risky. She was ready to give anything to protect her unborn daughter from what she herself possessed. But did Masha have the right to use someone else’s life as a bargaining chip? Weighing pros and cons in her mind, she reasoned that the request itself was harmless. Her mother could decide carefully if told honestly, explaining all the risks that Maria was not sure she could fully foresee. "Alright," she finally said. "Where’s your phone?" "In the living room."