Natalya sat up, still groggy. It took a while to rouse herself fully, her knees pulled tight to her chest.

A constant drip from the leak in the roof persisted into a bowl her grandmother had placed to catch it. The calls of the courtyard below dragged her out of bed. She couldn't help but scan it, unsure if she actually wanted to find who she was looking for.

Moscow life bustled on, as it always had. A cacophony of sellers peddling their produce carried up to her, all trying to chase the early morning rush. The potato seller, as usual, was the loudest. Children played rambunctiously around them, dodging and weaving new paths amongst hurried adults. The husband and wife that constantly argued in the apartment next door were at it again, screaming about his love of drink and her lack of sexual appetite. It was early, even for them.

Natalya took it all in. She'd be amongst them and on her way to work within half an hour.

            Slow yet definite footsteps carried her grandmother across the landing. Her knuckles rapped on the door.

'Come in,' managed Natalya, her voice raspy.

Ekaterina strode in, already impeccably dressed for the day, her silver hair twisted into a neat bun. Natalya glanced at her grandmother whose stare was stern yet never austere. Her countenance was regal, her slender frame delicate and somehow imposing.

'Still not dressed, I see,' tutted Ekaterina.

'I had a rough night,' sighed Natalya. 'I was taking a moment.'

'Another one?' asked Ekaterina, her voice softened.

Natalya simply nodded.

With a kiss to Natalya's head, Ekaterina stroked her granddaughter's hair, her fingertips light and soothing against Natalya's scalp. 'Your hair has always been so unruly,' she said with a smile, clearly allowing her memories to claim her. 'Such a mess of dark curls. I'm glad you're too old to need me to take care of it.'

'I've been too old for that for years,' returned Natalya. 'Secretly, I think you miss it.'

Ekaterina smiled and watched the world below. 'Are you looking out for Alexander?'

'No, grandmother, I certainly am not.'

'He's already tried to bring you home twice this week. How long will you keep rejecting him?'

Natalya flexed her fingers, as if to dispel the searing pain that racked her entire body. 'I'm not going back to him.'

Sucking her teeth, Ekaterina then let out a sigh. 'Husbands and wives fight, libimaya. It's natural.'

It took every effort for Natalya not to roll her eyes. 'You don't even really like him. Why support him now?'

'I am supporting your marriage, Liya. Someone has to.'

Staying quiet, Natalya's brow heavily furrowed. This was not something she wanted to discuss at all, let alone so early in her day.

'What happened to make this so final?'

Still, Natalya gave no answer.

'You've never stayed here more than a few days before... and his begging always made brought you home. It's been two weeks-'

'Grandmother, I beg of you, be quiet.' Her words were a hurried hiss, laboured with desperation.

Usually, she'd have had a swift cuff to the back of the head for such churlishness. Ekaterina must be feeling kind, as instead she grasped her granddaughter's face between her palms. 'So stubborn,' she sighed.

Finally, Natalya met her gaze. It was always odd staring into her grandmother's eyes. They mirrored her own; such a dark brown that the pupils were not always visible. Except Ekaterina's were filled with far more wisdom. They scrutinised her now, as though to peer straight into her innermost thoughts.

'I know you're sad about what happened to Micha and Yelena. The news was certainly a shock-'

Fidgeting, Natalya looked away, her cheeks hot with shame.

'He was your oldest friend, it was bound to upset you. And poor little Yelena-'

In an attempt to block it out, Natalya shut her eyes. 'Please stop.' She refused to think of them. Not now.

'Accidents happen, liybimaya. You need Alexander now more than ever. He loved them too.'

'No, he didn't.'

Ekaterina held her more firmly, unfazed by Natalya's insistence to behave like a petulant child. 'You have always told me your troubles. Now, I can barely get you to come through and talk to me.'

'That's hardly true.'

Ekaterina huffed loudly but pulled her into a hug. The healing sort, where troubles melted away. 'I love you so much. Never forget that.'

Whole heartedly, Natalya squeezed her in return. Despite her petite frame, her grandmother's hugs were always all encompassing. They banished hurt and cold in just one embrace. 'As I love you, grandmother.'

'Well now...' Ekaterina cleared her throat. 'You need to get to work. Washed and properly dressed, yes?'

'I'm not a malyshka.'

'Stop behaving like one, then.'

Ekaterina shot Natalya a smile before she bustled away.

Dragging herself from the window, Natalya began to get ready. Her movements were slow, as though she was hauling her limbs through deep water. Every day, it was the same. When she was respectable enough, she made her way into the living room.

As she strode through the door, Ekaterina pressed a steaming cup of tea into her hands and Natalya sipped it gratefully as she appreciated the room.

There was always something so uplifting about her grandmother's apartment. Perhaps it was simply a comforting reminder of her childhood. Ekaterina insisted on an old-world elegance to her décor. Not enough to arouse any suspicion that she sympathised with the old, imperial way of life, but enough to make her longstanding customers feel truly nostalgic as they stood for fittings.

A seamstress' mannequin stood in the corner of the room, Natalya's unfinished work pinned in place. It had been a favour for her grandmother; one she deeply regretted agreeing to. Eyes narrowed, Natalya regarded it with distaste. It's missing sleeve mocked her silently, teasing her tardiness.

Ekaterina only kept a few, longstanding and well-paying clients now a days. Stalin was absolute that everyone had to remain well dressed at all times, particularly the elite and Ekaterina was still a respected and highly sought after member of the fashion community. She'd taught Natalya well, her trade passed onto her granddaughter from a frightfully young age. In truth, it had always been Ekaterina's hope that her own daughter would follow in her footsteps and become a seamstress. But when Emiliya died in childbirth, Ekaterina had vowed to share her craft with her granddaughter.

That story had always been relayed to Natalya with a great sense of fondness, as though being forced to step into her mother's shoes should make her proud.

Even now, Ekaterina stood in front of the mantle, carefully adjusting Emiliya's large, highly polished photograph. Her touch was deft, as if to push too hard would shatter her precious daughter into tiny shards.

For Natalya, that photograph was like looking in a mirror, except her mother seemed to smile more. Her chest felt tight, her fingernails dug into her palm in frustrated fists. How Natalya wished she could have known her. Then she would know why every onlooker to her portrait fell into a deep melancholy. To Natalya, Emiliya was only a looming presence.

At least her grandmother's careful lessons had earned Natalya a place at the growing Laurissa Liubimova fashion house, as well as quite the trusted reputation of her own. Natalya wasn't certain that she was a naturally talented seamstress, it was just that she adored being close to her grandmother, who always made everything better.

The mannequin scraped against the wooden floor as Ekaterina pulled it into the centre of the room where the light pooled. Natalya remained deliberately obtuse to her efforts.

Ekaterina fought a smile. 'Do not simply stand there gawking, young lady,' she chastised playfully. 'You're up so late that you won't have time for breakfast. You have work to get to. And I now have a garment to finish for you.'

Natalya thumbed the fabric, an audible groan escaping her.

The velvet was heavy and difficult to work with, especially with the embroidery that her client had demanded. It was infuriating. Ostentatious and unnecessary, the cut and length was entirely American, and done purely to show how important the client's family were. Anyone important enough could get away with such things. Part of her liked being able to demonstrate her skills as a seamstress, but rationing was not long gone, and Natalya found it hard to forget the years of hunger and hardship that found them during the war. The Nazis might never have reached Moscow, but their presence held the entire country in a vice like grip.

A long frustrated breath passed her lips, determined that her grandmother should hear her. 'Remind me why you agreed I'd finish it in so short a time?'

Her grandmother raised an eyebrow. 'Because Fedora Iosifovna is a party member's daughter.'

'She's a brat,' sighed Natalya. 'And an ugly one at that.'

'I'm sure the radiance of your design will hide that fact.' Ekaterina cuffed her granddaughter around the back of the head for good measure. With a loud huff, she bent to her sewing box to rummage.

Guilt niggled in Natalya's throat. 'Grandmother, I'll do it later.'

'I don't need to be coddled, young lady.'

'It's my work. I promise I'll do it this evening when I come home.'

'It's only a sleeve. I'm not so old that I can't attach a sleeve.' Natalya made to protest but Ekaterina held a hand up to silence her. 'Get. To. Work.'

'Fine.' Natalya set her cup down and pecked her grandmother on the cheek. She grabbed her coat and scarf and darted out of the door.

*

Moscow's main shopping streets had always fascinated Natalya. So much of the architecture predated the Soviets and yet no sense of imperial Russia seemed to linger within their walls. Aging stone buildings stretched over her, every single one seemingly under some sort of reconstruction. Glaringly bright advertisements covered new billboards, all in red of course, and every window was filled with something enticing. To the outside world, it certainly seemed like the socialist regime they found themselves in brought prosperity.

It was all bullshit.

Natalya shoved her hands in her pockets to hide her clenched fists. It didn't feel like the war had been over for five years. An unsettling undercurrent still pervaded. There was no sense of relief; no release from the strain and horror that plagued them since the invasion. Natalya glanced at the other passers-by. Every single one of them kept their head down, and if they did look up, their gaze immediately fell again. Everyone was in the same, horrible cycle, lost in the turmoil of this strange world.

            She tried so hard to focus on them rather than her own troubles. Wallowing in self-pity wouldn't help her. It certainly wouldn't help poor Micha and Yelena.

They were gone.

Since the incident, Natalya hadn't gone to see their apartment; she couldn't stand to look at the blackened, empty husk it had become. Their funeral had been unbearable. Seeing Micha buried was hard enough, but Yelena was agony.

Such a small casket.

Was it mercy that Micha hadn't had to bury his daughter? That he would lie beside her for eternity? Sasha had tried his best to comfort Natalya then, but she wanted nothing to do with him. She knew the truth and looking into his eyes only confirmed it. The best thing she could do was to stay away from him and not look back. Their life before didn't matter anymore.

It was all a lie anyhow.

            Natalya reached the main square and turned off down one of the smaller streets towards the Laurissa Liubimova fashion house. She wasn't late just yet, but her first client was one of her most important to date, and she'd been working on their dress for nearly a month. Having a client like this on side would be the stepping stone to her designs being seen far beyond Moscow. Laurissa herself might even take an interest.

As her thoughts consumed her, someone grabbed her by the collar and dragged her behind one of the shops. She flailed wildly, but the perpetrator covered her mouth as they used their heavy body to press her into the damp wall.

Sasha.

Seeing his face, she wrestled even more furiously against his grip.

Her husband had no trouble holding her still, even as she attempted to bite his hand. He towered over her diminutive size... everyone did.

'I won't let you go until you stop squirming,' he hissed.

Glaring at him, Natalya kicked him hard in the shin for good measure.

He winced, but still did not loosen his grip. 'You're not going to win this fight, so just stop.'

With a long, frustrated breath, she consented to stand still.

Sasha released her. He looked terrible. Unkempt and unwashed, his light brown hair was not even combed. His usually clean shaven face held a scraggly stubble, every part of him overcome and weary.

'Have you been waiting for me?'

'Yes,' he said irritably.

'That is ridiculous.'

'That is what you have reduced me to!'

Natalya attempted a calming breath, but it rattled in her chest. 'What do you want?'

'I needed to see you.' There was no sentiment lingering beneath the surface. This was cold, dispassionate precision.

Even now though, she had to fight back the urge to drink him in. Even if he smelt different, looked different, felt different, he was still her Sasha. 'I've made my feelings plain. There is nothing you can say to convince me to come back to you.'

'Natalya, please just listen-'

'I already told you, I'm not coming home.'

'Neither of us can go home!' he bellowed, then winced at his outburst. He looked at the street beside them, seemingly to check for anyone snooping nearby.

'What on earth are you blathering on about?'

'The militsiya,' he murmured, as he drew closer to her. 'They know... about our group.'

'Your group,' she corrected him.

'They've got Boris,' he urged, clearly trying to make her understand.

She batted his hands away in a torrid flurry of blows. 'I don't care! You always swore he would never give you away, so why are you so worried?'

'If they know about him, they know about me. We need to leave Moscow as quickly as possible.'

Natalya scoffed. 'What is this we?'

'We have to go together. It will be suspicious if we don't.'

'And you don't think it will seem suspicious anyway? They'll stop us the minute they see our passports.'

'We have to try.'

'It's your band of myatezhnikov. Your mistake. I never went to your stupid meetings, it's not my problem.'

'Are you really so blind?' He grabbed her by the shoulders. 'Liya, just knowing about us puts you in the firing line. They've been using any excuse to send people away. It's how they control us!'

Natalya's heart stopped. She'd known this. It had lingered at the furthest reaches of her mind for years. She just didn't want to accept it. 'But... but I don't know anything.'

'They won't care. And once they find out about Micha and Yelena-'

'Don't you dare speak their names. Not after what you did-'

He thrust his face into hers. 'You're just as guilty as me.'

Hot, angry tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away.

Sasha sighed heavily, his hands placed either side of her on the wall as his face hung over hers. 'Liya, you're still my wife. Please, I beg you, come with me.'

Natalya's insides squirmed. Why was he still so tempting? Was she truly that stupid to trust him? 'Where?'

'We just need to get out of Moscow first... lie low... I was thinking Novosibirsk-'

'Are you mad? I've barely left Arbat street!'

'I'll look after you.'

There was another silence, then Natalya shook her head. 'No. I can't leave my grandmother.'

'You can't tell her anything. The less she knows, the safer she'll be.'

'I know nothing and yet here you are, telling me to run away with you.'

As he drew closer, Natalya turned her head so that his words found her cheek.

'You think after everything that has happened between us, that I want you as my companion?'

'You always were such a romantic.' She had to bite back at him. It was the only cling to her sanity she had left.

'I'm trying to be a good husband now. Please, just be a good wife... for once in your life.'

'Idi na hui,' she spat and made to storm away but his fist pounded the wall.

'Don't you know what they'll do to her if they think she's complicit?'

Natalya's heart pined for her grandmother already. What would they do to her? Would the dreaded black cars swarm the block? Would they escort her out in shame? Would they hurt her? Ekaterina was a proud, revered presence in the community. Surely, the militsiya would treat her with some respect.

Wouldn't they?

Natalya attempted another step away from Sasha.

He squeezed her upper arm. 'Do this for her, krasotka.'

Frozen, Natalya could only stare at him. 'Don't call me that.'

Gritting his teeth, Sasha chewed over an insult. 'I know she's all you care about. This is the only way you can repay her.'

Every word cut through her. 'I used to care about you too. Until you fucked it up.'

Sasha remained undeterred. 'She's all you have left besides me... you don't want to lose her, do you?'

'I don't know-' Natalya sniffed.

'Liya-'

'She'll be so alone.'

'Better alone than dead... or worse.'

An unearthly cold washed over her, her palm pressed against the rough brick to centre herself. 'Worse?'

'Andrei's wife is missing a finger. And they've taken the children.'

Natalya shuddered. 'Stop it!'

'I'm trying to make you understand. You never listened before.'

'You never told me.'

He said nothing.

Her chest grew taut as her heart screamed at her not to listen to him. Why should she? Even if it was the truth.

She knew what she had to do. 'Fine,' she mumbled.

Clearly relieved, Sasha guided her out onto the street. Natalya refused his outstretched hand, simply walking beside him; he was trying his best to blend in and not draw attention to either of them as they entered the square. Adrenaline coursed through her body and her breathing quickened in anticipation. Now was her chance.

Turning deftly on one foot, Natalya bolted in the opposite direction and slipped into the oncoming crowd.