Page 137 of One For my Enemy

Sasha grew increasingly uneasy. “Masha knew? She knew about you, this whole time? She knew you were alive?”

“Yes, of course,” Lev said, frowning down at her. “Which is why I’m asking. What was her plan, Sasha?”

The Plan. There must have been one. There must still be one.

“I… I don’t know.” Sasha looked dizzied with dismay, nearly swaying as she sat upright. “She wants to destroy Koschei, that I know, but—”

“Whatever she’s doing, it’s more than that,” Lev said, and Sasha pulled away, staring at him.

“You’ve just told me my sister lied to me,” she said hoarsely. “She lied to me. Shebetrayedme. She let me carry on with a broken heart, butyou—” She broke off, sputtering. “You only care what her plan was?”

“Well, I’m certainly not overjoyed with her, Sasha, believe me,” Lev said, shifting upright. “But still, you know your sister, don’t you?

You can’t really think she did any of this to hurt you.”

Sasha blinked.

“No,” Sasha said. “No, she didn’t do it to hurt me.” Her expression stiffened. “She did it touseme.”

“I—” Lev hesitated. “Sasha,” he murmured, reaching for her. “Sasha, please—”

But she was already on her feet, picking up her clothes from where they’d been distributed on his floor and hastily yanking them back on.

“I’m going to talk to her,” Sasha said, gruffly pulling on her t-shirt and whipping around to glare at him. “Are you coming?”

On the one hand, it was probably unwise.

On the other, it wasspectacularlyunwise.

Still, he’d followed Sasha back from the dead. How could he not follow her to her sister’s house?

“Fine,” he said, rising to his feet after her and taking her arm gently, pulling her into his chest. “But Sasha—”

“What?” she sighed impatiently, glaring up at him, and he paused, taking a moment to tuck a loose curl behind her ear.

“I’ll never spend another night without you,” he said.

If she softened, it was only for a moment. Only enough to return his touch with certainty, and then she was back to her usual self; to the version of her, Lev thought, that came as much from Marya Antonova as it did from the witch Baba Yaga.

Then, “Shutup,Lev,” was all Sasha said, though she touched his mouth with sweetness.

V. 18

(Formalwear.)

“Did he win then, Ivan?”

“Yes, Marya,” Ivan confirmed. “He won. He’s waiting for you now.”

She nodded, distracted.

“I’ll be there shortly,” she said, eyeing the outfits she’d set out on the bed. What did one wear to a victory? She hated to make any improper expression of her triumph, particularly after she’d made such a talent of dressing for the occasion. “In the meantime, give him that, would you?” she beckoned, gesturing to the package she’d left out on her vanity. “Go on without me, Ivan. I’ll be right there.”

He seemed hesitant to leave her, per usual, but he eventually conceded with a slight nod.

“Yes, Marya,” he said, tucking the package in the inner lining of his jacket and heading into the corridor, leaving her to continue eyeing her choices; to define herself, somehow, within the constraints of fabric and thread.

The red dress always fit so well, she thought idly. It conformed to her curves and edges easily, no matter what shape she took. It was a statement, a direct one, and a shout, at that. The grey one, on the other hand, spoke more quietly, but it whispered at length. Red was a color of ostentatiousness, of opulence, where the grey was evidence of her will. It was all strident lines, harsh edges. It was the meagerness of necessity.

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