Page 58 of The Pakhan's Bride
"She's different now," I say. The words barely make it past my teeth.
"She always was." Galina glances at me, then back to the flame. "You loved her too much to see it."
I want to argue, but she's right. Every memory I have of Ekaterina is wrapped in layers of protection, excuses, jokes. Never the raw data.
Galina shifts, leans closer to the altar. "You saw the photograph?"
I nod, surprised that Konstantin showed it to her, but now that I think, I realize he trusts her judgment.
"She wore a ribbon," Galina says, voice gone soft and sharp at once. "In her hair. Did you notice?"
I blink, startled. The detail was there, but I filed it under nostalgia, not evidence. "Yes."
"It was your mother's," Galina says. "Kept in a box by your father."
I close my eyes, let the memory roll in. Mama's hair was black, the ribbon beautifully bright against it. Papa would tie it himself, fingers thick and awkward, but he never let anyone else touch it. After she died, he locked it away. Ekaterina found it once, tried it on, and he slapped her so hard the print lasted an hour.
"The only time Ekaterina challenged the rules so directly," I say.
Galina hums. "Your father kept some things under lock and key, too precious to him to be touched by anyone else, even his daughters."
I press my palms together, feel the cold sweat between them. "So how did she get it?"
Galina looks at me. Her eyes are gray as the benches, rimmed with red. "You want to believe Ekaterina was always on your Papa's side, Zoya. Perhaps you should question that."
This confuses me because Ekaterina told me Papa had betrayed us. I frown at Galina, but she seems blissfully unaware of my unease, and I know it's useless to push her when she won't talk. We sit like that, watching the candle shrink, until the smell of wax turns sour and the window shifts from blue to gold. I feel a new ache in my chest, but this time it is not fear. It is something closer to clarity.
I rise first. Galina stays kneeling, eyes on the flame, lips moving in a prayer I am not meant to hear. I walk the hall back to my room, every step a little heavier.
If Ekaterina wore the ribbon in the photo, Papa must have given it to her. Or she must have stolen it, which makes even lesser sense to me.
I return to my room and open the closet. My dress from the dinner is still where I left it, zipped onto its hanger, the silk all smooth curves and shimmer. I touch it, then open the closet wide. Something is off. The fabric is cool and dry, but when I pull the hanger free, the weight feels wrong. The clutch I left clipped to the neckline is missing, and with it, the little place card. I check the closet floor. Nothing. I check the pockets of every coat, every dress, every goddamn pair of pants. Still nothing.
In a fit of panic, I yank the whole dress down, let it puddle at my feet. The hanger dangles, empty. My hands go cold. I rip the closet apart, then the drawers. Then the bathroom, under the sink, even the goddamn light fixture. It takes less than three minutes to destroy what a team of decorators spent two days arranging. The only thing I find is a comb with three teeth snapped off and a half-used lipstick. I stand in the ruins of my wardrobe, heart beating so hard I taste salt in my mouth.
After admitting defeat, I sit on the bed, half out of breath, then immediately stand again. I don't want to be still, don't want the thoughts to catch up. But there's nowhere left to look, so I sit. The comforter is smooth, crisp, but when I put my weight on it something gives, a crunch, paper-thin, just under the pillow.
I reach. My fingers find a card, different stock, heavier. I pull it free. It reads,
Vetrov, until you remember who you are.
My lungs squeeze to a hard, small point. The card bends, threatens to snap in my hands. I want to tear it in half, but instead I slide it into the waistband of my skirt and go.
The halls are empty. Every door I pass is closed, but I know the guards behind them are not asleep. I move fast, bare feet slapping marble, not caring how loud I am. I hit the stairs and take them two at a time, then veer down the west corridor. The library is ahead, open, and I can see my sister sitting inside in the window seat, knees drawn up, wearing one of Papa's old shirts and a pair of leggings I thought I'd thrown out years ago. She has a book open, but she's not reading it. She's staring at the snow beyond the window, eyes glassy.
I don't bother with hello.
I throw the card onto the open book. "Are you playing games with me?"
She looks up, stunned. "What?" Then she scans the message and frowns. "What does this even mean?"
My brows go up. "I don't know, Katenka. Why don't you tell me?"
Ekaterina shakes her head and turns the card, then meets the hardness in my eyes. "This isn't me, Zoya. You have to believeme because if you don't… then…" Her lower lip trembles. This is the closest she's come to crying in front of me in years.
I keep my expression flat, but my pulse is climbing. My heart aches to believe her, but my brain tells me she's talking around me. "What do you want from me?" I ask.
She sighs and smiles sadly, her eyes crinkling as she reaches for my hand. I take a step back, and the mere movement makes her expression change, as if I've physically struck her. She doesn't reply for a moment, but then, "Same thing as always. Safety. For both of us."
