Snowfall at Willow Lake

The group on the raised dais at the end of the ballroom consisted of three of the justices from the International Criminal Court, another from the Court of Justice, a liaison from the United Nations and the queen of the Netherlands herself, whose bloodlines went back through seventeen generations of Dutch royalty. Sophie joined the rest of the prosecution team on a lower tier, where the event producer’s assistant had instructed them to wait. This group included Sophie’s best friend and colleague, Tariq Abdul-Hakeem. Like her, he was an assistant deputy to the ICC and they’d worked together on the case. She’d known Tariq from their intern days in London, years ago, and he was one of her favorite people in the world. He was also one of the most attractive, with the kind of looks found in high-fashion spreads—creamy skin and intense eyes, and features that appeared to have been shaped by an idealistic sculptor. He was a gifted linguist and had the most delicious English accent. While working together, they’d become more than colleagues. He was one of the few people in the world she’d opened up to, telling him about the situation with Greg and her children.

“Are you all right, Petal?” Tariq whispered to her.

“Of course, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Quite possibly, you’re somewhat bouleversée by the fact that your ex-husband is getting married today.”

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, even though she knew Tariq would not be fooled. “So he’s getting married. We knew it was coming. He’s a guy. It’s what they do. They remarry.” She gave a small, soft laugh. “Somebody’s got to finish raising them.” Despite her sarcasm, she remembered Max’s text message with a twinge, along with the perennial unanswerable question—was this career worth the price she’d paid?

“Such a generous opinion of the male sex,” Tariq said. “After tonight’s ceremony, I’m taking you out and getting you so drunk you’ll forget your own name.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“Isn’t that what you Yanks do, go out and get—what’s the term?—shitfaced?”

She sniffed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You don’t even drink.”

“But I buy drinks. I’ll take you to Club Sillies after this.”

Sophie knew she would go, and she’d be the envy of every woman there, at the hottest nightclub in The Hague, a place frequented by the European elite. Tariq never failed to turn heads; he was elegant, with a subtle layer of sadness in his regard. The sadness was real, but few people knew the reason for it. Oxford-educated, one of the top jurists in the free world, he dedicated his every waking moment to the law. Yet as a gay man, and a Saudi, he struggled every day; in his native country, same-sex relations carried a penalty of death.

“Anyway,” she said, “thank you for the offer. I really should get home afterward. I have work—”

“Yes, Allah forbid that you should have anything resembling a life.”

“I have a life.”

“You have work—at court, and at the office, and in the field—and then you have sleep. Oh, yes. You also have that entirely dreadful sport you do.”

“It’s not dreadful. Distance swimming is good for me.” She was always in training for some kind of extreme race or another. She never placed first. Ever. But she always finished. Every time.

For Tariq, whose only athletic activity was a dash for the elevator, her sport seemed madly dangerous.

“Paddling about in a wet suit in freezing waters is mad. You need to have some fun, Petal. You need a life beyond work. And don’t think I don’t know why you refuse to unbend a little. Because if you were actually to have fun and enjoy something, that would interfere with your penance.”

“You don’t know the first thing about doing penance.”

“Guilt is not the exclusive domain of Christians,” he pointed out. “You feel guilty about your kids, so you refuse to allow yourself to enjoy anything. Simple as that. And clearly it doesn’t do a bit of good. Whether you’re in court prosecuting terrorists or riding a bicycle along Hogeweg during tourist season doesn’t matter.”

“True. I’m still separated from my kids.”

“Here is what you’re giving your kids—a mother who cares enough about the world to make it a better place for them. Do you really think they’d rather have you driving carpool to soccer practice and the mall?”

“Sometimes, yes.” She knew it was unproductive, but couldn’t help wondering if things would have turned out differently for Daisy if she had been more present.

“My dear mum was there every day, and look at me. A quivering mess.”

“A well-adjusted person.”

“An outcast. A heretic.” He spoke jokingly, but she sensed his underlying pain, different from her own yet somehow familiar.

“Stop,” she said in an undertone. She and Tariq were both career-focused. Trying to escape the person he really was, he had made this court his life. “It’s all I have,” he’d told her many times in the past. “Fortunately, it’s all I want.”

Sophie couldn’t say the same, so she said nothing. She saw the premier and queen moving toward them, and cleared her throat to warn Tariq. The queen of the Netherlands looked like everyone’s favorite aunt, displaying an abundance of personal charm twinkling in her eyes as she went about her duties, treating each person as though, in that moment, they were the most important person in the world.

“Thank you very much for your service,” she murmured as the line of dignitaries passed.

I’m a dignitary, thought Sophie. What do you know, I’m a dignitary.

When she was presented, she responded with a poise she’d been practicing for days, dipping slightly into a curtsy, addressing the queen as Uwe Majesteit. It was all very solemn and ritualized, no surprises. No one would ever know that deep down, her Inner Girl was exulting. She was meeting a queen, a real live queen.

Queen Beatrix was a lawyer like Sophie. Maybe the two of them would have talked, compared shoe-shopping experiences, swapped gossip like girlfriends.

She imagined the conversation. “Have you seen the new George Clooney movie? I like your earrings. Which museum did they come from? What’s it like having an airport named after you? And tell me about your family. How do you make it work?”

Yes, that was the burning question. The thing Sophie wanted to ask other working women. Here they were watching the rebirth of a nation, and she was fixated on domestic troubles. All she wanted to know was how Beatrix managed to run a country and still keep her marriage intact, her family together.

Some things, said a quiet inner voice, you sacrifice.

The queen was a widow now, her children grown. Sophie wondered if she had regrets, if she wished she’d done something differently, spent more time with them, had more parent-teacher conferences, restricted their TV, read them more good-night stories.

Color guards presented the flags of the UN and the court of the Netherlands and finally, with grave ceremony, the flag of Umoja, planting it like a tree behind the dais. The newly appointed ambassador, Mr. Bensouda, took his place at the microphone. Behind him stood six attendants, each holding a ceremonial medal of honor. By the end of the night, one of them would belong to Sophie.

“Mesdames et messieurs,” the ambassador said, “bienvenue, les visiteurs distingues….” He launched into the saga of his country.

The medals were bestowed and praises sung. Her black dress perfectly showed off the token of thanks from a grateful people. Interesting notion for a line of clothing, she thought, her mind wandering. Garments for dignitaries, with hidden credential pockets and necklines fashioned to display medals to advantage. Then she realized what she was doing—trying to detach herself from this huge moment. She couldn’t help it. Something was missing from her life and she could not pretend otherwise. How could she have a triumph like this without her family to witness it? The thought brought about a flash of resentment toward Greg. This was a big day for him, as well, though she wished she could stop dwelling on that. Still, it wasn’t every day the man who had once been your husband married someone else.

A podium and microphone transformed normal people into long-winded bombasts, and Sophie was trapped on stage with the crowd of dignitaries. Tonight, she’d foolishly, recklessly had two and a half glasses of champagne. As a result, she listened to speeches about the historic event in a state of supreme discomfort, with a bladder so full that her back teeth were floating.

No one seemed to be in a hurry to leave the dais. She couldn’t wait another moment. She had to decide which was the bigger diplomatic faux pas—leaving the dais before she was dismissed, or wetting herself in front of the queen.

Sophie made her move. She took a step back, slipping behind the line of people as she followed the black snakes of electrical cables that connected the lighting and sound. At the back of the dais, she stepped down and slipped out through a side door to an empty corridor.

She rounded a corner and encountered a pair of men in dark clothing, their shoulders dampened by melting snow. They stiffened and whirled on her, and Sophie froze, holding her hands with the palms facing out. Security agents, she thought. They were suspicious of everything. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’m trying to find the lavatory.”

She followed signs to the ladies’ room. Passing through the antechamber, she smiled briefly at the attendant, a sleepy-looking older woman reading a copy of a Dutch gossip magazine.

Sophie used the restroom, then went to a sink to freshen up. From one of the stalls came the unmistakable sound of someone being sick. Lovely. What idiot would get drunk at an event like this? Sophie wondered. She had no evening bag, so she had to pat her hair with a damp hand and dab at her makeup with a tissue.

A girl came out of the stall. It was Fatou, the girl who had sung so beautifully earlier. Despite her dark skin, she looked pallid, yet her eyes were clear, not bleary from drinking or drugs. She stood at one of the sinks, hands braced on the countertop, her hair falling forward. She turned on the water and rinsed her face and mouth but somehow looked even worse when she finished.

“You seem ill,” Sophie said to her in French. “Should I try to get some help for you?”

“No thank you, madame,” Fatou replied. “I’m not ill.” She touched her stomach.

Sophie wasn’t sure what to say to that. The girl was clearly too young to be starting a family, yet there was something about her that Sophie recognized. A tiny gleam of excitement mingling with desperation. Sophie recognized it because she had been there, too, and so had her own daughter, Daisy, for that matter. “You’re expecting a baby,” she said quietly.

Fatou stared at the floor.