While I worked, Vanya brushed his hand through her thinning hair, gathering it behind her head. The moment I tied off the final stitch, he placed one hand gently over her face and the other upon her wasted chest.

At Inga’s factory in Detskaya, his power had been fuelled by rage and grief. But now, he seemed in absolute control of himself, his features as solemn and measured as those of a corpse guarder.

The table groaned, splinters raining to the floor as willow twigs burst from the wicker panels. Blood oozed from the bracelets of embroidery around Vanya’s wrists and landed on Galina’s neck.

A barbed-wire knot of fear twisted in my gut at the sight of his blood. “Vanya—”

“It’s okay.” His voice was strained, each breath shallow and abrupt. “Just don’t talk.”

Slowly, the sutured incision on Galina’s neck began to close. He slid his hand through her hair, smearing his blood over her forehead. Her wrinkles and folds receded into smooth pink skin. My stitches unraveled and fell apart, uncoiling down her neck to reveal a circlet of silvery scar tissue.

Awe and shock filled me. It was working. I bit my inner cheeks to keep from crying out in joy, afraid that any noise would puncture this moment like a dream.

Galina’s cheeks filled out and regained the soft flush of life, her lashes growing in dark and thick. Her chest swelled as she inhaled, the first breath I had ever seen her take. I felt witness to an extraordinary birth.

As Galina opened her eyes, Vanya shut his. He staggered against the counter, breathing even more heavily than before, then slipped to his knees.

In an instant, my excitement was replaced by stomach-churning terror.

“Vanya!” I rushed around the table, my heart slamming into my breastbone. At any moment, I expected him to topple over, dead as before, as if in saving Galina, he had exchanged his rebirth for her own.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, pressing his hand against his throat. Thin rivulets of blood oozed between his fingers.

“No, you’re not!” I tried to touch his throat to stop the bleeding, but he pushed my hand away and shook his head.

“I said I’m fine, just—just check on her.”

“Toma?” a tiny, clear voice said from behind me.

I turned around.

Galina sat up, holding the white sheet against her chest. She rubbed her eyes with one hand. Eyes. Actual eyes—a dark and gorgeous brown.

As I hurried to her side, she reached out to touch me. I grabbed her hand and held it against my chest, marveling at her skin and body heat. She was so heavy, so warm. I stroked her thick, silky hair, for once not afraid that clumps would fall out under my fingers.

“Galechka, look at you,” I whispered, my voice choked with tears. “You’re beautiful.”

She laughed, a soft, sleepy sound like the cooing of mourning doves. She leaned against me and propped her index finger against her lips, sucking the first knuckle lightly. In the past, I had always admonished her whenever I caught her doing it, afraid she’d tear her skin. Now, she could do it for as long as she wanted, and oh, she was alive. She was alive again, and safe.