Page 60 of The Pakhan's Bride
Lev's hands tremble, but he keeps building. I want to promise him it's going to be okay. I don't. Instead, I whisper, "You are safe," and I mean it because if I don't, then nothing is true.
I get up. Galina stands, steadying herself on the table. "He's worried about you," she says in a low voice when Lev can't hear. "You must let him see you are not afraid."
"I'm not," I say, but it sounds hollow.
She glances at Lev, then back to me. "Be the wolf. For both of them." I know she means my son and Konstantin.
I leave the playroom and make my next pass down the south corridor. Here, the windows are taller, the view of the grounds better. I scan for movement. Nothing. The guards at the main gate are inside the kiosk, heads down, likely reading the live feeds from the cameras on the drive. One of the gardeners is out, brushing dead leaves from the ornamental pond, but his attention is locked on his task. I make for the greenhouse, and humidity slaps me in the face once I enter, the scents of soil and mold thick enough to eat. I cross to the glass wall, put my palms against it. The cold seeps in, and for a second I let my breath fog up the view.
Ekaterina once told me plants are the best spies. They listen with roots, they record footsteps, they can be poisoned and never show a mark until it's too late. I run a finger along the rosemary, pinch a sprig, and rub it between my fingers. The oil is sharp. I inhale, count to three, and move on. I skirt the outer corridors, avoiding the guest suites. There's nothing for me there. Instead, I head for the study.
Konstantin's study is a bunker at the heart of the house. The door is a slab of hardwood with an electronic panel embedded at shoulder height. Two guards stand outside. One faces the hall, the other the wall. They acknowledge me as I approach.
I knock. A single, flat knock. One of the guards clears his throat. "He's not in, Madam."
My heart sinks, even though I want to stay strong. Konstantin's absences have grown longer. He used to linger outside my bedroom before, even if he wouldn't come in. But he's not doing that any longer. Everything feels cold without him.
I head to the dining room, laid out but untouched. No guests, no meetings, not even a breakfast tray. I inspect the table—the plates are flawless, the silver polished, but there's dust on the napkin at my place. I run a finger through it, check the color, then wipe it on my pants.
In the next room, I find the first real anomaly of the day.
A single chair is pulled out from the conference table, not fully pushed in. At the edge of the seat, a crease in the velvet—someone sat here recently. I kneel, scan under the table, and find a sliver of white.
I reach for it, careful. It's a fragment of paper, thin as a razor. I examine it—the edge is torn, not cut. The surface is blank except for a faint trace of ink. I squint, hold it to the light, and see the tail of a letter—maybe a capital V, or a broken loop of an O.
For some reason, I pocket it.
I wander the lower floor, restless. In the laundry, I find the baskets are empty. The maid in charge nods to me, but her eyes are swollen. She's been crying.
She wipes her cheek. "Mrs. Vetrov," she says. "I'm sorry."
I nod, let her have the moment, then move on. Returning to my son, I give him all the love and time he needs. We play for a while, after which Galina and I let him have cut up hot-dogs and spaghetti with ketchup for dinner. He can't sleep in his own room, so at eight, I hold him in my arms and rock him gently until he's snoring softly before laying him down on my bed. Oncehe's asleep, I leave to have a quick dinner and run through the list in my head.
- Ekaterina missing, with no message, no threat.
- Konstantin refusing to show face.
- Lev subdued, Galina in full shadow mode.
- Staff reduced to whispers and silent chores.
- Security tight, maybe too tight.
- Me, sleepless, moving in loops that only get smaller.
By the time I reach my own room, my heart is racing. I unlock the door, step inside. At first, everything is as I left it. The bed is clean, and Lev is still tucked inside and sleeping soundly. The closet is closed. The windows are still fogged. But something is different.
It takes me a full minute to spot it. The jewelry box on my dresser is half-open. Not wide, just enough to show silver at the edge. I approach gingerly. The lid lifts with a click. Inside, my pieces are arranged as always—rings, pins, the platinum chain from Paris. But my silver bracelet is missing.
My pulse goes liquid. I check the box three times, then the tray beneath. I run my hands over every surface, searching for a note, a sign, a message. Nothing.
I cross to the bed. The sheets are too tight, as if remade by an unfamiliar hand. I check the pillows. One is slightly flatter than the other. I lift it. There is an ashtray beneath, porcelain, with a faint gold rim. Inside—the charred remnants of paper. I lift the tray, careful not to disturb the ash.
The top layer is scorched black, but under it, I can make out the edge of a card. I brush away the flakes, revealing a fragment of my place card from last week's dinner. The script is unmistakable, my name in precise, spiked calligraphy. The bottom half is burned away, but the word "Vetrov" remains, half-eaten by flame.
I sit on the bed, holding the ashtray, and let the sensation flood me.
Someone has been here. In my room, in my things, in my life. They took the bracelet not for value, but for leverage. They burned my name to remind me that the line between queen and hostage is thin.
