Page 12 of Beautiful Agony

LACEY

By the timewe return to Pankration, the sun of an uncharacteristically clear day is rising in the distant horizon.

From where I stand in the foyer, I watch Serena run her fingers along the banister of the staircase. Her movements mirror Vadim's so perfectly it takes my breath away. The same graceful economy of motion, the same measured consideration.

But her face looks different.

All except her eyes.

A crash of shattering porcelain makes us both jump. Lenka stands frozen in the doorway, her usually composed features slack with shock. The remnants of a tea service lie scattered at her feet, dark liquid spilling across the marble floor

"Bozhe moy," she whispers, pressing trembling fingers to her lips. Her eyes never leave Serena's face. "It cannot be..."

Serena shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of her stare. I move closer, ready to intervene, but Lenka is already rushing forward.

"Polinka, is that you?" she breathes, reaching for Serena's face with shaking hands. "No... it can't be..."

Serena takes a startled step back. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Forgive me,devushka." Lenka's voice cracks. "I knew your mother when she first came to this house." Her eyes grow distant. "You look so much like her."

"You knew my mother?" Serena asks softly. "Here? In this house?"

Lenka nods, tears spilling freely now. "I did,devushka. I did."

As Lenka steps back, wiping tears from her eyes, Serena turns to where Vadim and I stand.

"Where am I?" Her storm-gray eyes—so like her brother's—dart between us. "What is this place?"

The question hangs heavy in the air. I look to Vadim, but his jaw is clenched tight, his shoulders rigid with tension.

"Pankration," I say softly when it becomes clear Vadim won't answer. The name feels like ash in my mouth. "It's..." I trail off, unsure how to explain this monument to pain and power.

"Your brother's home," Lenka finishes for me, her voice gentle but firm. She bends down to start gathering the broken pieces of china, her hands still trembling slightly.

"The house of the man who made me," Vadim corrects sharply. The words crack like ice through the foyer. "Pyotr Stravinsky."

I watch Serena process this, her delicate features—so like Polina's—twisting with confusion. "But Mom never mentioned..." She stops, swallowing hard. "She never talks about any of this."

"No," Vadim says quietly. "She wouldn't."

The weight of unspoken history presses down on us all. I reach for Vadim's hand, threading my fingers through his. His grip is almost painfully tight, but I don't pull away.

"Perhaps," Lenka suggests carefully, "your sister would like to rest? Some food from the kitchen? It's been a long night for everyone."

"No," Serena speaks up, her eyes never leaving Vadim. "I want to know why Mom never talked about this place. Why she never talked about you."

I watch the internal struggle play across Vadim's face at the question. His jaw tightens, and a familiar tension returns to his shoulders.

"Because this..." Vadim's voice trails off. His eyes drift to the ornate walls around us, as if seeing ghosts I cannot. "This is a place of pain and misery."

Serena's brow furrows. "I don't understand."

"You don't need to." Vadim's voice turns hard. "All you need to know is that this was her prison. Her hell."

He stops himself, clearly wrestling with how much to reveal to his teenage sister.

I reach over and slip my hand into his. His fingers intertwine with mine, squeezing tight enough that I feel the slight tremor he's trying to hide. The contact seems to steady him, and some of the rigid tension eases from his frame.

---