Page 52 of The Pakhan's Bride
Alexei smiles, scribbles something. "We'll confirm with the footage."
I sit back, stretch my hands on my knees. "Is this necessary?"
Alexei leans in, his cologne sharp. "Someone tried to kill a guest in this house. If it was you, I'd admire the audacity. If not, I want to know who you suspect."
He waits. I see the game—put the suspicion in my hands, make me the weapon.
I think of Ekaterina, ready to help as soon as she could, but why? She's hot, then she's cold. But she had no business killing the banker's son. If anything, he'd have been a match made in heaven for her. Who, then? Could it be…
"I suspect the sommelier," I say. "He's new."
Alexei's pen flickers. "Interesting."
"Anyone could have done it," Sokolov mutters. "This is ridiculous."
"Not anyone," Orlov corrects. "You'd need nerves and access."
"Let's get to work," Konstantin interjects, gesturing to the door with a flick of his head. "Time is of the essence."
The house is in full lockdown. No one comes in or out without Sokolov's say-so. The guests are sequestered in their rooms, guards at every threshold. I lean on the doorframe and watch as Orlov and Sokolov run the staff through a wringer. The guards alternate—first gentle, then severe, back to gentle. The staff, house-broken to the last, line up and take their medicine.
First the sommelier, shaking but defiant. He insists he never touched the bottle after Ekaterina. The head server, a man with a face like concrete, says he saw nothing, heard nothing, did nothing. Three maids cycle through, faces wiped of personality. Each is asked the same questions, in the same order, and each answer sounds more practiced than the last.
Konstantin stands behind it all, the eye of the needle, hands clasped at the small of his back. Alexei leans beside him, whispering now and then, but mostly, he watches. It's theater, but the stakes are real.
Her voice, when it comes, is thin and high, cracking halfway through the second question.
"Did you see anyone handle the wine bottles after they were uncorked?" Sokolov asks, his voice calm, almost gentle, soft as a lullaby, though it only makes her tremble harder.
She shakes her head. "No, sir. But I know which glass was meant for which guest. We were given a placement chart before service. It was part of our final briefing."
Sokolov tilts his head, just slightly. "And who gave you that chart?"
Her eyes flick to him for a second, then drop again. She swallows hard. "The instructions came from the head server, sir. But he… he was taken ill just before dinner began. We were told to proceed without him. His assistant distributed the chart in his place."
Alexei jots a quick note beside a name. "And were the glasses differentiated in any way?"
She nods, slowly. "Yes, sir. Each was marked. The stem base was discreetly etched with a number that corresponded to the seating chart. One of the senior staff would confirm it before final placement. We also had color-coded tags—removable tape—on the underplate during transport to the dining room. They were discarded after the glasses were laid out."
Sokolov lifts the poison-coated glass delicately between two fingers, then turns it toward her. The rim is faintly marked with a trace of lipstick, berry red, slightly smudged. "And this glass?"
The maid barely glances before recoiling. Her face drains of color. "That was number eleven," she whispers. "It was meant for Mrs. Vetrov."
The room goes zero Kelvin. All movement stops. For a full second, no one breathes. Konstantin turns, face granite. "Speak," he says.
The maid's lips tremble. "I think… I think that glass was meant for your wife, sir. I think she was the target."
Alexei sighs, a long, tired sound. "Of course."
Konstantin does not react, but something changes in the way he stands. A new tension, a drawn string. Orlov takes the glass in his latexed hands, bags it, and nods to Konstantin. "We'll test it."
The guards herd the staff back to the parlor. The questioning resumes, but the conclusion is foregone. It's not about finding the culprit anymore. It's about containment. Who knew, who didn't, who can be trusted to keep their mouths shut.
Orlov groans and rubs his eyes. "We'll need to reset the staff," he says.
Alexei checks his watch. "The replacements are already en route."
I linger, feeling the gravity settle. Ekaterina is nowhere to be seen. The banker's son dozes on the chaise, a sheen of sweat catching the light. Konstantin surveys every body and meets my eyes. The guards file out. Alexei makes a quiet exit.
