Page 53 of The Pakhan's Bride
Sokolov and Orlov huddle together, discussing logistics. The world outside the windows is dark, a slab of midnight. Inside, the house is reset, but the rules have changed. I touch my throat, feeling for a pulse. It's faster than I like.
Hanging back is unbearable, so, with a little shake of my head, I escape the parlor and break into a run, not stopping until I'm upstairs. Lev is fast asleep. I close the door to his room, thanking every remaining good force out in the world for his presence, and walk the length of my bedchamber until I wear a groove in the Persian rug. Lamplight fights the frost on the glass, pushing gold rivers across the floor and casting shadows tall enough to drown in. I run my hand along the dresser, traila finger over the lineup of perfume bottles, the neat geometry of hairpins, the glint of the necklace Konstantin gave me.
My mind won't let go. I see the dinner, every second played back at half-speed. Ekaterina's smile, calibrated to the exact wattage required. Her hands steady, even as the banker's son started to seize. Her voice calm, clear, unflappable. It's not politics. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I feel like it's an old code, a bone-deep knowledge of the game. She was ready for this, maybe even waiting for it.
The walls close in. I go to the window and drag a line through the condensation. The night is so clear I could count the stars. The garden below is empty, the snow unbroken. Somewhere, the house guard circles, boots crunching on gravel. I watch his route, the rhythm, the pattern. It's different tonight. Tighter. More urgent.
I force myself to sit. I pour a half glass of vodka, no ice, and let the burn sit on my tongue. The silence is absolute, except for the click of the old clock on the mantel. I drink, and with it, the memory of the first time I tasted real fear—my mother's funeral, the stench of lilies and leather gloves, the way Ekaterina never once looked at the casket. She just stared at the men who'd come to pay their respects.
My eyes begin to hurt as I stare at the table, at the single artifact from the night—my place card, thick stock, name printed in gold. I flip it in my hands, back and forth. The ink catches the lamplight, refracts into tiny rainbows. On the reverse, a watermark—the Baranov crest, faint as a rumor, but visible if you know where to look.
I run a thumb across the design and frown as I notice what is indubitably a signature. I remember the story because it is one Papa told, and very often—The wolf that lives is not the strongest or the fastest. It is the one who knows when to show its teeth and when to hide them.
The moment I close my eyelids, I hear the echo of his voice, the way he would lower it to a growl when he wanted me to really listen. "You show your teeth too early, you get shot. You never show them, you starve. There is a third way, Zoya. But you have to find it yourself."
I open my eyes, stare at the crest. A wolf's head, eyes closed, mouth just starting to part. Whoever left this wanted me to see it. Butwhy?
20
KONSTANTIN
It's 4:12a.m. and the house is still breathing smoke from last night's fire. I'm at my desk, back to the east windows, every security feed in the compound cycling through the main display. Orlov stands in the corner, a specter with a clipboard, waiting for me to say something he can write down and relay. He knows better than to interrupt. The coffee is cold. I drink it anyway.
On the screen, three guards cross the south corridor, boots soft but movement coordinated, clearing each alcove in textbook formation. In the next pane, two men in the wine cellar, white gloves and UV lights, checking bottle by bottle for residue, tampering, hairline fractures. I count the seconds it takes each to reach the far rack and am not impressed. The guest suites flicker. Each will empty out shortly since we don't suspect any foul play from the attendees, but the cleaning staff are being held for interview, so no one has touched a pillow.
Every inch of the estate is in play.
I page through the incident log. The digital version is cleaner than the printed one, but I like the feel of paper when a man's career is on the line. Fourteen staff, six outside contractors,three guests of interest, and a dozen guards who would rather eat glass than admit they missed something. The poison was subtle, a low enough dose to sicken, perhaps paralyze, but not kill.
I set the log on the desk. The leather is scored where I've gripped the edge, and the indentations form a pattern of controlled rage. Orlov watches me and taps a note on the tablet. "How's the sweep?" I ask, voice rough from the vodka and the hour.
He clicks a pen, scans his tablet. "Security is ninety percent through the main building. No anomalies so far. Staff are isolated in the garage annex. Sokolov's men are questioning by tier—kitchen, then service, then the cleaners."
"And the wine?"
"Tested every bottle in the service route," he says. "Two with residue on the cork, but it matches the cell log for last month's cleaning. Forensics confirms."
The coffee goes down like battery acid. "What about the sommelier?"
"Six years with us, backgrounded twice. No contacts out of country, no unexplained assets."
I turn to the main monitor and cycle through the service hallway tapes. The security cameras catch everything—the shift changes, the handoffs, the exact moment Ekaterina enters the kitchen and orders a reroute of the dessert cart. The chef is visibly startled but obeys. I watch her hands—steady, unhurried, surgical in the way she selects and dismisses.
"Pause it there," I say.
Orlov stops the tape on Ekaterina's face. She is looking straight into the lens, not a smile but an acknowledgment. I don't like the confidence it projects.
"Any word on the head server?"
Orlov shakes his head with a grimace. "I've never known someone who pulled such a clean disappearing act. Feels like he had help."
I switch to the staff annex. A dozen house workers in branded shirts, lined up on folding chairs like convicts in a holding cell. Sokolov walks the line, face unreadable, and reads names from a card. Each nods in turn, answers in monotone, none looking up except the youngest—a slip of a girl with hair so white it glows. Her name escapes me. I watch the sequence of her answers, the way she fidgets, the glances to the exit. Not guilt, but fear of being forgotten.
"Orlov," I say. "Get Sokolov to pull the youngest maid. Isolate her, and keep the questions soft. If she breaks, we lose her."
He nods, makes a note. "You think she's the leak?"
"No," I say. "She's the canary."
