Page 86 of At Midnight

Stepmother

Flicka von Hannover

I hate it when people keep secrets from me,

most of the time.

The small, private plane flew from Gibraltar to Geneva early the next morning. The galley had been stocked with breakfast and coffee for the short flight, and an air hostess took orders and passed out the food.

Flight time was a shade over two hours, so Flicka ate her yogurtwith fruit and made sure Alina did the same. Morning sunlight shone through the airplane from the sunrise on the starboard side of the plane.

Two days.

Two days without birth control pills, and they’d had sex twice. It was kind of early in her cycle for her to ovulate, she thought, but she’d never tracked it because she’d always been on the Pill.

Would Flicka know if she were pregnant? Howwould she know? Would it just be a feeling, or would she need to measure her boobs or pee on a stick or something? How soon would it show up on a pee stick?

What would it feel like to have a . . . parasite, like that?

“Flicka-mama, how much?” Alina asked her, poking Flicka’s arm.

“Eat the whole thing if you can, Alina-baby,” she said, feeling the small bobbles of the plane as queasiness inher stomach. Was that morning sickness or just air sickness?How would she know?“It’s just a little yogurt, bananas, and berries. Breakfast will make you grow up big and strong. I ate all of mine, see?”

Alina glared at the food in the white coffee cup, but she ate a few more bites.

Raphael was sitting in the row behind them. The newspaper he was reading crackled as he turned the page.

They’darisen late that morning, as befitted newlyweds after their wedding night.

Arealwedding night.

Asatisfyingwedding night.

Anyway, they’d had trouble crawling out of bed, half-hungover and entirely exhausted, and Raphael hadn’t shaved that morning.

In the dawn’s bronze sunlight streaming through the plane’s windows, the scruff on his chin caught the light and turned gold.

Flicka told him,“You’d look good with a beard.”

Raphael raised one dark blond eyebrow at her. “I’ve never grown a beard.”

“When you used to come home from—” she caught herself before she saidoperationsormissions,“from vacations, you had a beard sometimes. I always liked it.”

He smiled. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“When you were—”

“I don’t know.Young.”

“And do you still like it?”

“Yes,” Flicka said, smilingat him over the seat back. “Yes, I like it.”

“Then maybe I’ll try growing a beard,” Raphael said.

“I like that you’re growing your hair out a little, too.” It was a little longer, in that it looked thicker on the sides and fell a little over his forehead.