Page 40 of The Pakhan's Bride
And now, I want to believe her. I want to kill her. I want my sister back. I curl up under the sheets, pull them over my face, and listen for the sound of her voice in the next room.
The next morning, I find Ekaterina in the atrium, backlit by winter sun. She wears one of my old sweaters, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hands curled around a mug that smells of instant coffee and something burnt. The guards stand at exact intervals, eyes forward, the line of their shoulders a military horizon. For a second, I think she's alone, that she's tricked them all. Then I see Konstantin in the far doorway, arms folded, expression as blank as the marble floors.
He calls my name as he walks over and stops beside me. His hand lands on my shoulder, and for some reason, I don't shrug itoff. Ekaterina watches us, her mouth curved in a thin smile. It's a look that says—you picked a good one, but I could have done better.
Konstantin nods at the head guard. "East wing only. Two men at all times. She eats with the family, but nowhere else. Understood?"
The guard agrees and moves to flank Ekaterina. She inclines her head, perfect deference, and for the first time, I realize she has no intention of running.
That afternoon, I follow her through the house. She moves like a rumor, never too fast, never in a straight line, always leaving just enough space for the staff to move around her. She lingers in the kitchen, complimenting the cook on his borscht, tasting with the tip of her tongue, then suggesting he add more dill. He grins, says she's right, and when she leaves, the spoon stays in the pot for twice as long as usual.
Next, she's in the laundry, sleeves rolled, folding towels with a maid whose name I forget but who always has the sweetest smile for me. The woman's hands shake, but Ekaterina talks to her in low, gentle tones, and soon they are laughing about something I can't hear. By the time I circle back, the towels are stacked in perfect rows, and the maid's eyes shine.
None of these things affect me too much because the staff loves me well and look to me for running domestic affairs, perhaps even more than they look to my husband. But earning that place took time, patience, and no small amount of effort. My sister, meanwhile, seems to have claimed hers in a single day.
She makes her way to the dining room. Lev is there, hunched over a workbook, tongue sticking out as he draws a crooked giraffe. Ekaterina sits across from him, picks up a crayon, and starts her own drawing. He watches, skeptical, then laughs when she draws the giraffe with sunglasses and a striped tie.
"Why does it look like Papa?" he asks.
She shrugs. "Everything is a little like your Papa, if you look hard enough."
He accepts this, and the next hour passes in a blur of color and soft snickers. I stay in the hallway, just out of sight, listening.
Later, Galina appears, wearing her armor of pearls and a sweater so old it could be carbon-dated. She freezes at the sight of Ekaterina, lips pressed so tight they disappear. Ekaterina stands, smooths her skirt, and says, "You look well, Galina."
Galina's reply is a single grunt, but she sits at the table anyway, eyes never leaving her old charge. Ekaterina pours her tea, three sugars and a slice of lemon, exactly how she likes it. Galina stares at the cup for a long time, then drinks. When Ekaterina offers her a second cup, Galina takes it. That's all. I watch this unfold, a spectator to my own family. The ache in my chest is half jealousy, half something softer.
In the evenings, I sit in my study and pretend to read. I hear her in the next room, the rise and fall of her voice as she tells Lev a story, something about a wolf and a magician. I strain to catch the details, but the words slip through the wall like water.
Sometimes, I catch a fragment.
"The magician was brave, but not as brave as he thought…"
"The wolf always waits, even when he says he doesn't…"
It's always a warning. Or a threat.
After a week, the staff has stopped flinching at the sight of Ekaterina. The guards relax, just a hair. Even Galina lets her sit closer, though never close enough to touch. Lev asks about her constantly, wants to know what games she played as a girl, whether she was ever afraid. She always answers yes. And she always says why.
One morning, I pass her in the hallway. She stops, blocking my way.
"You're following me," she says.
I cross my arms. "Maybe I don't trust you."
She smiles, wide this time. "You shouldn't. I wouldn't."
We stand there, measuring each other. "I'm not here to ruin what you built," she says. "You deserve this."
I wait. There's always a catch. She looks over her shoulder, makes sure the guards are out of earshot. "If I wanted to take it, I would have done it already."
I lean in, close enough that our noses almost touch. "Try it."
She laughs, a single bark. "You're Papa's daughter, after all."
I don't flinch. "He's dead."
She shrugs. "So are we."
