Summary:

Ilya. He is still sleeping fitfully in Irina’s bed, face crumpled and lips turned down. Irina leans over him and presses a single kiss to the crease between his eyebrows, and then leans back just enough to watch Ilya’s big, blue eyes blink open at her. She holds a finger against her lips, waiting until Ilya nods before she straightens up and beckons him to get out of bed. When Ilya is standing, Irina helps him into a clean sweater, his coat, scarf, and hat. Ilya looks terribly confused, but allows himself to be dressed like a toddler, watching his mother curiously but without question. He is twelve years old, certainly old enough to dress himself, and maybe Grigory has a point when he insists that Irina coddles Ilya too much, but, good heavens, that face, how could she not? It is not until Ilya notices the suitcase by the bedroom door that his expression changes. His eyes darken at first, and then his face screws up minutely, looking at Irina with thinly veiled horror. “Be completely silent, solnyshko,” Irina breathes. “We have to go.” Irina Rozanova chooses differently.