"My uncle Max enjoyed speaking with you," Chekov offered, deliberately avoiding any accusation about her going behind his back to contact his relative. "Very much."
"He's really nice," Daffy said, matching his positive tone, genuinely relieved to have safe conversational ground. "Seems fun."
"He has invited us to visit him in his shop in Moscow."
Gollub felt on firm enough ground to smile and nod. "I think I would really like that."
"This has all been..." Chekov gestured at the chemist's desk and searched for a non-controversial descriptor. "...quite stressful."
Daffy grimaced at the magnitude of the understatement. “Yes.”
“And you must still create your report…” The Russian checked the wall chronometer. “…rather quickly.”
“Shit…” Gollub groaned at this reminder of just how quickly.
“And I had forgotten to say this…” The navigator folded his hands behind his back apologetically. “… but the captain wishes to have a word with you about this unauthorized investigation…”
“Damn…” the chemist winced.
“And that may be a little stressful as well…”
“You think?” Gollub asked sarcastically.
“At any rate, we both have a bit of leave time. I was thinking it might be pleasant to visit Max. Take some time off.”
“Yeah.” Despite all that had occurred and the weight of the report hanging over her, Gollub turned and again smiled and nodded. She was too bruised, too busy, and there was too much that needed to be said to launch into the full drama of one of their traditional make-ups right now, but it was important that they both know that there was light at the end of this tunnel. “That would be nice.”
He returned her smile. “I will make arrangements.”
“Thanks.”
No kiss. Not even a touch. This fight had been too much of a slugfest for that… and the dust hadn’t quiet settled yet. But their shared smiles were enough for the moment.
“Daphne.” Chekov paused at her door before exiting. “Max is a jeweler.”
“I know.” Gollub gestured meaningfully at the holograms of rings hovering over the desk she where she was sitting. “I really know.”
“He may…” The navigator bit his lip hesitantly. “He probably will wish to design a ring for you.”
“That would be very nice.”
“You won’t be offended?”
“With expensive designer jewelry?” She waved off this concern. “Please, Bubeleh, offend me this way more often.”
The navigator nodded, turned, and then turned back to protest. “But the jewelry I made for you on Kelincar…”
The chemist laughed, remembering the hideously ugly pieces composed of bright green and blood-red striped gems that the navigator had fabricated after meticulously researching the planet's cultural practices for an undercover assignment. Given his family connection to successful jewelers and the amount of research he'd invested, the Russian still couldn't accept how spectacularly tacky the pieces had turned out.
"We'll take a wheelbarrow of that unspeakable dreck to your uncle's shop," Gollub offered with a grin. "I'll eat every piece he can sell. Deal?"
"And done," he replied confidently, sealing the bargain in the traditional Haven style. "Good luck with your report, Dafshka."
"I'm gonna need it!" Daffy retorted with a genuine smile, shaking her head as she turned back to her desk.
The door whispered shut behind him.
She pulled up a fresh document and typed: "Final Report on Investigation into Snow Goose Rings - Lieutenant Commander D. Gollub."
“We start with rough sketch…”
Max Rostov's workshop occupied the back of his Moscow shop like a jewel box tucked inside a larger case. Winter pressed against the tall windows, snowflakes drifting past the glass in lazy spirals, but inside the space radiated warmth. Workbenches crowded against each other, their surfaces a controlled chaos of magnifying lamps, tiny hammers no bigger than a child's finger, and coils of wire in gold, silver, and copper that caught the light like metal rainbows. Trays of gemstones glittered beside precision tools. The walls displayed a gallery of Max's life: family photographs yellowed with age alongside glossy images of his finest creations—intricate pendants, elaborate brooches, rings that seemed to hold entire stories in their curves.
Chekov and Daffy stood on either side of Max, who had settled onto his worn leather stool like a conductor taking his place before an orchestra. Steam rose from their tea glasses, nestled in ornate silver holders—the Russian way. The scent of black tea mingled with metal polish and the ghost of old solder.
"Very rough sketch," Max announced, his accent making the words sound both apologetic and definitive. He laid his digital pen against the large design tablet—the single concession to modernity in a workspace that could have belonged to a nineteenth-century craftsman. Preliminary lines appeared on the glowing screen. "Not worry about how ring will look—that comes later. First, tell me something you like so that I can make nice picture for you."
"Not geese," they chorused in perfect unison, leaning in over his shoulders.
Max's chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. "Yes. We are having enough with the geese."
Daffy watched the master's hand move, watched geometric foundations emerge from nothing. Her breath caught. "Look at that. That's beautiful."
"This?" The jeweler waved his free hand dismissively, never pausing in his work. "This is just lines."
She punched Chekov's arm with a teasing grin. "Why can't you draw like that?"
The navigator drew himself up with exaggerated dignity, one eyebrow arched. "How do you know that I cannot?"
"Well," Daffy said, catching Max's eye with a conspiratorial wink, "it's not like it's a horse or anything..."
“Perhaps some other story character?” Max suggested, heading off any discussion of whether or not he had divulged any embarrassing childhood stories about Chekov’s dubious artistic abilities.
“Maybe Baba Yaga…” the chemist suggested sarcastically, feeling a little self-conscious.
Rostov didn't miss a beat, though, his pen adding leaves and thorns that transformed his lines into something from a fairy tale illustration. "She is not always such a villain, you know."
Daffy snorted. "The iron teeth and child-eating would tend to argue otherwise."
“Sometimes she is a wise woman who helps guide the protagonists to safety,” Chekov informed her with a mix of scholarly assurance and nationalistic pride.
"So good or bad all depends on what day you catch her on?" Daffy half-laughed, but there was an edge to it. "I guess that might make a pretty good symbol for the two of us..."
The laughter died in the air between them. The navigator didn't join in. The wounds from their recent conflicts—the obsession with the rings, the arguments, the near-fracture of everything they'd built together—were still too close to the surface.
Max looked from one to the other, his pen hovering above the tablet. "You want I make a ring with chicken legs?"
"Perhaps we should keep thinking," Chekov suggested quietly.
The craftsman nodded and returned to his drawing. Under his experienced hand, the thorns gradually softened, becoming less prominent while the leaves multiplied and gained detail, flourishing into something gentler.
"When two people are together," Max observed, his eyes never leaving his work, "it is not about being the same thing. It is about growing together to become something neither could be alone."
The design lengthened, began to suggest the curve of a band. Daffy found herself remembering a conversation from the day before she left the ship—Uhura pulling up a chair in the Rec Room, coffee in hand.
"I was on a call with Judith Miller..." Uhura had said.
"The Rabbi? And what words of wisdom did she have to offer?"
"It wasn't anything she said. I just happened to notice..." Uhura had stopped and given her a smile unexpectedly tinged with sadness. "Daf, do you remember much about how your mother looked?"
The question had hit like a fist to her sternum. "Some."
"Do you remember anything about her hands? Like did she wear jewelry?"
"Not much, just a..."
And then it had struck her—how much those snow goose rings looked like wedding bands. How they'd grabbed hold of something deep inside her and wouldn't let go. She'd swiped at the automatic tears, pretending they weren't there. "So you saw Judy Miller's wedding ring and thought...?"
"Her ring is white-gold. Looks silver."
Daffy nodded as the childhood memory sharpened in her mind with the unbearable keenness of a knife sinking into her heart. "Hers was a plain band."
"Maybe with engraving inside?"
She could still feel the weight of her mother’s ring in her hand. How special and important it made her feel to slip it on her tiny child fingers. How beautiful and mysterious the Hebrew characters inside the band seemed as she traced her fingertips across them.
"You trying to go all Jade Han on me?" she'd manged to accuse in a choked voice, naming their former ship's psychologist.
"No, honey. Just thought it might help. Thought it might give you another puzzle piece to help explain why these rings grabbed you so hard and wouldn't let go for so long."
Grief. That white-gold ring buried with her mother, forever lost. An ache so old she'd forgotten it had a name. Maybe the sight of Max's gorgeous silver creations had reawakened that ancient hurt. Maybe it wasn't just jealousy over Chekov's trail of girlfriends, but the memory of her mother's ring that had triggered such intense feelings of loss and abandonment. The obsession had only intensified when she learned that at the heart of the rings' story was a broken family—a daughter separated from both parents.
It would explain the tears... Feelings of loss and anger... The way a pretty ring could cause such intense pain. Grieving was better than just being plain daffy in a way she couldn't explain...
"My mother kept a little garden in the windowsills of our apartment," Gollub said now, watching Max's vines take shape. "What you said about couples made me think of something she said about grafting things together to make them stronger."
Chekov turned, blinking in surprise. "I do not think I have ever heard you speak about your mother."
"No, probably not." Another pesky tear to wipe away. She drew a deep breath. "I’ve been thinking about her some lately… Thinking that it might not be so bad if I should talk about her sometimes."
The navigator extended his hand, his sweet brown eyes soft with understanding. "I would like to hear… to know."
“What if we incorporate something like this…” Rostov suggested, pretending not to notice as they clasped hands behind him. “… with branches entwining, but each distinct.”
Chekov's face lit up. He pulled Daffy close. "Ah! Yes! Like the birch and the oak—both Russian trees, both beautiful, but very different. The birch bends in the wind, the oak stands firm. Together..." He gestured with their joined hands.
"Yes! Yes!" Max's pen flew across the tablet, amending the design. "This is very good..."
"I like that." Daffy pointed to a flowing section. "That swooping curve—that's very Russian, isn't it?"
"It needs a little contrast, though." The navigator scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "What if you add something more angular there?"
"My mother used to wear a chai necklace." More tears threatening now, harder to control.
"Yes!" Max turned and squeezed her hand. "The chai —for life!" He spun back to his work with renewed enthusiasm. "Now the design has a heart and soul!"
Chekov kissed her temple. "The Hebrew letters are very geometric."
“This I know,” she retorted gruffly, but then had to swallow the sudden lump in her throat when the characters – this important symbol of her Jewish heritage passed down from her mother – her past, her present, and her future – was swiftly and gorgeously incorporated into the design by the master craftsman. It was like receiving a benediction from on high in picture form.
“It’s perfect,” she breathed reverently.
Pavel nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! But perhaps the birch bark texture could be more prominent here, where it meets the oak?"
Appalled at his effrontery to offer suggestions to such genius, she punched the navigator in the arm. “Don’t bother the man…” Then looking at the drawing. “Oh, well, yeah, that is actually a little better.”
“I do have good ideas occasionally,” Chekov defended himself, good-humoredly rubbing his arm.
“Occasionally,” she granted with a parsimonious kiss.
Max sketched rapidly, translating their words into visual form with the ease of decades of practice. "You see?" He beamed at the result. "Already it is not my ring or your ring — it is ours. Both of you, creating together."
The design was stunning—elegant intertwining branches of birch and oak, textures distinct but complementary. Hidden within the pattern, subtle geometric elements spelled out the Hebrew word for life, while the overall flow carried an unmistakably Russian aesthetic. It was a marriage of two worlds, two histories, and two people.
Max clapped his hands together. "Excellent! If I have approval of the client...?"
"Oh, God, yes!" Daffy leaned forward, planted a grateful kiss on his cheek. "A thousand times, thank you, thank you, and yes!"
"Now construction of the ring can begin! But first—" He reached into a drawer, produced a bottle of vodka and three small glasses. "A toast. To new beginnings, and to having the courage to create them."
As the vodka burned down Daffy's throat like liquid fire, she felt something shift inside her chest. It was though the desperate need to possess and control that had been haunting her finally lifted. In its wake was something warmer, gentler. Hope, maybe. Trust. A sense of belonging and acceptance. With the birth of this new ring, the story she had been pursuing had come full circle—from death, loss, and abandonment to life and new beginnings.
"This light is very bright," she complained, swiping at her eyes. "Do you have any...?"
"In the corner." Max pointed toward a box of tissues.
"Well," Chekov said to his uncle in Russian as she turned away, "perhaps some good has come from those goose rings after all."
"Nephew," Rostov said quietly in the same language, "you asked me once why I gave you those sample rings to distribute. Do you remember?"
The navigator nodded.
"I told you they were pretty and it seemed a shame to destroy them. But the truth is, I wanted to teach you something." Max's voice dropped lower. "Those rings were beautiful, yes, but they were made to capture someone else's impossible dream. I wanted you to see how many different ways there are to fail at love when you're trying to possess it, to control it, to make it something it isn't."
He glanced at Daffy, who was examining one of his display cases with professional interest, her back to them.
"But this ring," Max continued, gesturing to the glowing design, "this one is made to celebrate love as it is — messy and uncertain and requiring constant work. That's the only kind of love that lasts."
Daffy noticed a colorful illustration from a Russian fairy tale painted on a black lacquer plate on one of the shelves. She thought about the swan geese and their ability to reveal hidden truths and guard important secrets. Although the truth they held about Brezhnova and Donne might remain forever hidden, maybe the geese had opened some important revelations about the relationship right in front of her nose.
"Well, Max," she said, rejoining her companions, "at least you'll still have your snow goose ring as a reminder of this meshuga adventure."
The jeweler sighed heavily. "No, ring is gone now."
His nephew gaped in alarm. “What?”
"Received official visit when shop is closed." Max's shoulders rose and fell in resignation as he returned the vodka to its shelf. "All very much with the cloaks and daggers. Is decided is too dangerous for me to have little ring I make for myself. After all this time, now is too dangerous..."
"They may have a point." Chekov frowned, crossing his arms. "With the recent attention the rings have received, focus on them may have renewed in some most unsavory quarters."
Daffy planted her hands on her hips. "I still think it's a raw deal for them to make you give up your ring."
"Darling girl, one thing I have..." The jeweler gave a small laugh as he gestured at his display cases with a philosophical shrug, "... is plenty of rings."
Chekov's frown deepened. "I hope you required them to show proper identification."
“Oh, yes. Most proper.” Rostov assured his nephew as he turned back to his drawing board. “I had her try it on.”
Gollub’s eyes snapped open. “You had who do what?”
"After all these years and all this mystery," the jeweler grumbled, "at least I should be able to check the fit, no?"
Chekov and Daffy exchanged incredulous glances. "So, the person who came for the ring was...?"
"Uhm..." Max stopped mid-motion, suddenly aware of what he'd said. He looked around the shop as if checking for unseen auditors, cleared his throat, and answered in a theatrically clear tone:
"Nice lady with Martian accent. Showed valid id."
When Daffy opened her mouth to press further, the jeweler laid a discreet finger over his lips.
"Shhh." He gave cautioning looks toward possible surveillance cameras, wagging a finger of negation, making it crystal clear that he could not reveal whether or not the person who claimed the eighth ring might be the woman Luk Barilon had commissioned it for all those years ago.
And for the first time since learning the story of the swan goose rings, Daffy felt no pain in knowing that her part in this story reached closure.
She closed her mouth, squeezed Chekov's hand, and smiled at him. They both then looked out the shop window at the snowy Moscow evening where the first stars were beginning to pierce the deepening blue.
Somewhere in the galaxy, seven silver rings continued to hold their secrets, waiting for their truths to be revealed. An eighth lovely band was perhaps at that very moment finally on the finger of its intended recipient, its long-concealed message being parsed and dissected by a sharp mind that had waited decades for its revelations.
But that, as they say, was a tale for a different storyteller on another day.