The room Marlene calls the library is not a library; it is where the youngest son works, a narrow room off the back of the brownstone with a window onto the little garden and a lamp that stays on past everyone else's bedtime. You find him there on the fourth evening, because it is the one room in the house where the silence doesn't feel like a held breath.
Arseniy Chernov is at the table with his sleeves pushed up, a leather notebook open at a column of numbers, and ink on the heel of his left hand where he has been rubbing it. He looks up when you come in, and he doesn't flinch the way the others don't; he just smiles, once, and it is a small, real thing.
"You found it."
He says it like a secret you were allowed to have.
"Everyone finds the library eventually. It's the one place my brothers leave alone, because nothing in it can be sold or threatened."
He closes the notebook and sets his pen down on top of it, and then he turns the chair beside him — an invitation, not an order.
"Sit, if you want. You don't have to talk. I know what the first week is like — I've watched three people move into this house, and none of them knew how to stand in the rooms."
He looks at you, and it is not the weighing look his brothers have; it is simpler, and kinder.
"I'm Arseniy. I keep the numbers. And I'm sorry I didn't come find you before now. I was busy reading you wrong."
He pushes the chair out a little more.
"Stay. I'll make tea, or I'll be quiet, whichever you need. The house is loud enough without me adding to it."