Page 19 of Dance of Madness

“Just you and me shutting down the joint, huh?” she quips as she dries off and starts pulling clothes on.

“Brook…”

She glances at me. “Huh?”

I frown, nodding gently at the bruises on her ribs. I instantly see the clash of emotions on her face, even if she tries to bury them quickly.

“Oh, that…” She lifts a shoulder easily as she quickly does up her bra and yanks on a t-shirt. “Yeah, I was out seeing a band and the crowd got a little wild. This dickhead knocked into me and slammed me against the bar?—”

“Did James do this to you?”

“James and I broke up months ago, Milena,” she says quietly.

“Brooklyn, c’mon, if he?—”

“I’m fine,” she smiles, walking over and putting a hand on my arm. “Really. Yes, James was and is an asshole and a piece of shit. No, this isn’t from him. I honestly did get pushed into a bar, okay?”

I hesitate, unconvinced.

“Milena,” she sighs. “I’mfine, I promise. Can we drop this?”

“Promise me again.”

She smiles. “Ipromise. Can we go now?”

“Yeah,” I smile, hefting my dance bag onto my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

Brooklynand I end up meeting Lyra for a drink, so it’s late by the time I get home.

By home, I mean Papa’s home. Yes, I still live here at the age of twenty-two. I tried moving out on my own about a year ago, not even because Iwantedto, I just felt I was at the age where Ishould.

I ended up hating it, so I moved back here with Papa.

I know it’s a cliché, people of my generation still living with their parents. But it’s not like we’re sharing a two-bedroom apartment. The Kalishnik house—more like a castle—ishuge.

Bigger than Greymoor, even: six stories of elegance on Central Park West, overlooking the reservoir in the park. Seven bedrooms,tenbathrooms, rooftop garden and terrace, indoor pool, underground garage space for twelve cars…even a full Russian bath and sauna in the basement.

But it’s not just the opulence and luxury that made me want to move home.

It’s Papa.

We’ve always been close—I suppose only children are like that with their parents—but after mom died, we got even closer. I mean, it was just the two of us facing some pretty heavy shit. First Mom, then Papa's cancer that almost left me an orphan at seventeen.

I drop my bag in the mudroom just off the front foyer and then pop into the kitchen to say hello to our chef Angelina and our housekeeper Vasilisa. They've both been with us since I was probably nine; at this point, they feel more like aunties than anything else.

Vasilisa, as always, wants to know all the latest gossip from work. Angelina—alsoas always—insists I’m “too skinny” and ends up all but force-feeding me a raspberry cream pastry she’s just whipped up.

Which is fuckingdelicious,by the way.

“Oh, and your Papa wanted to see you when you got home. He’s up in the throne room.”

I grin. Angelina means his office, but they’ve both been calling it the throne room for about a decade now.

I snag one more pastry, promise to fill Vasilisa in on Val’s latest situationship drama-rama later, and head upstairs.

The door is open a crack, which is Marko Kalishnik-speak for “I’m expecting you, and you may come in.”

So I do.

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