“We are happy Mikhail shows good taste.” Grinning, he used a stage whisper. “His mama, she didn’t like the dancer with the blond hair.”

“Thanks, Papa.” Casually Mikhail draped an arm over Sydney’s shoulders—felt her resist the urge to shrug it off. “Where is everyone?”

“Mama and Rachel are in the kitchen. Alex is later than you. Alex sees all the girls, at the same time,” Yuri told Sydney. “It should confuse him, but it does not.”

“Yuri, you have not taken the trash out yet.” A small woman with an exotic face and graying hair came out of the kitchen, carrying silverware in the skirt of her apron.

Yuri gave his son an affectionate thump on the back that nearly had Sydney pitching forward. “I wait for Mikhail to come and take it.”

“And Mikhail will wait for Alex.” She set the flatware down on a heavy table at the other end of the room, then came to Sydney. Her dark eyes were shrewd, not unfriendly, but quietly probing. She smelled of spice and melted butter. “I am Nadia, Mikhail’s mother.” She offered a hand. “We are happy to have you with us.”

“Thank you. You have a lovely home.”

She had said it automatically, meaningless politeness. But the moment the words were out, Sydney realized they were true. The entire house would probably fit into one wing of her mother’s Long Island estate, and the furniture was old rather than antique. Doilies as charming and intricate as those she had seen at Mrs. Wolburg’s covered the arms of chairs. The wallpaper was faded, but that only made the tiny rosebuds scattered over it seem more lovely.

The strong sunlight burst through the window and showed every scar, every mend. Just as it showed how lovingly the woodwork and table surfaces had been polished.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement. As she glanced over, she watched a plump ball of gray fur struggling, whimpering from under a chair.

“That is Ivan,” Yuri said, clucking to the puppy. “He is only a baby.” He sighed a little for his old mutt Sasha who had died peacefully at the age of fifteen six months before. “Alex brings him home from pound.”

“Saved you from walking the last mile, right, Ivan?” Mikhail bent down to ruffle fur. Ivan thumped his tail while giving Sydney nervous looks. “He is named for Ivan the Terrible, but he’s a coward.”

“He’s just shy,” Sydney corrected, then gave in to need and crouched down. She’d always wanted a pet, but boarding schools didn’t permit them. “There, aren’t you sweet?” The dog trembled visibly for a moment when she stroked him, then began to lick the toes that peeked out through her sandals.

Mikhail began to think the pup had potential.

“What kind is he?” she asked.

“He is part Russian wolfhound,” Yuri declared.