Page 41 of The Pakhan's Bride
I let her pass. She doesn't look back.
That night, Lev crawls into my bed, eyes wide and afraid. "I had a dream the wolf came for you," he whispers. "But then you turned into the wolf, and it was scared."
I hold him tight, his hair damp against my cheek. "I won't let anything hurt you," I promise.
He nods, already half asleep. "Not even the wolf?"
"Especially not the wolf."
I lie awake for hours, listening to the house settle around us.
The next afternoon,I find Ekaterina in the east parlor, hands wrist-deep in a vase of white roses. The room is bright, almost painful, sun bouncing off the glass and silver. She doesn't notice me at first. Her attention is fixed on the blooms, arranging them with a surgeon's care, slicing off leaves, snapping stems to a perfect length. When she finally looks up, her face is lit with something close to contentment.
"I didn't peg you for a florist," I say, leaning in the doorway.
She smiles, serene. "Mother liked to have flowers in every room. She said it made the house less of a mausoleum."
I laugh, sharp and short. "She was right."
Ekaterina sets the shears down, wipes her hands on the hem of her skirt, and gestures to the second chair. "Sit. Please. I promise not to bite."
I hesitate, then cross the room, settling into the low armchair. The vase sits between us, a wall of white petals. "You've made yourself comfortable," I say.
She doesn't miss a beat. "It's what we were trained for, isn't it? Adapt or die." Her fingers pluck a stray petal, let it fall to the carpet. "I see you learned the lesson well."
I want to rise, to pace, but I make myself stay still. I tuck my legs under, hands locked tight in my lap. "Why did you really come back?"
Ekaterina meets my gaze, level. "To see if you'd survived. And to see if I could, too."
I stare at her, looking for the trick. She sees the suspicion. "I don't blame you. I wouldn't trust me either."
We sit in silence, the only sound the soft hiss of the radiator and the distant barking of a dog on the grounds. Finally, she says, "Do you remember the summer at the dacha? When Papa tried to teach us to fish?"
I shake my head. "You caught a boot. I caught pneumonia."
She laughs, a low, private sound. "He was furious. He said we were hopeless."
"Mother said we were just different." My voice is quiet.
"She was right," Ekaterina says, soft. She reaches for a rose, fingers skimming the thorns. "You were always braver than me."
I snort. "I was always dumber than you, that's why."
She shrugs. "Maybe."
The afternoon sun moves, casting new shadows on the rug. Ekaterina leans back, face suddenly tired. "Papa was never goingto let us live, even if he did survive what was coming. We were always assets, never daughters."
I nod, a hard lump in my throat. "I know."
"I just wanted—" She stops, the sentence unfinished. "I wanted to believe we could build something better. But maybe it's too late."
I reach across the table, touch her wrist. Her skin is cold, the pulse under it rapid.
"It's not too late," I say, and I believe it for a second.
She squeezes my fingers, lets go. "I hope you're right, little dove."
We spend the rest of the afternoon talking about nothing—favorite cities, the best train routes in Europe, the merits of old Soviet candy versus French chocolate. She tells me about her years on the run, the shithole apartments and the men who thought they could buy her. She describes the safehouses in Berlin and the code names she invented just to pass the time. I listen, half in awe, half in dread.
