Page 59 of The Pakhan's Bride
"Is that what Prague was about?" I ask carefully. I don't show the photos. I don't give her the satisfaction of knowing what I know.
She stiffens slightly, just enough. "Prague?"
I cross my arms in front of my chest. "Don't play stupid."
She sighs once again. "You think you're the only one trying to trace back what happened to us? I've been following leads too. Some took me to Prague. Some to worse places."
"With the Albani?" I ask incredulously. "You know what they were and how Papa hated them once upon a time. Why would you ever trust them?"
She blinks, then laughs. "You think I'd trustthem? Sweet dove, that was Papa. He was working on something, building an alliance with them under the umbrella protection of the Riccis. I don't?—"
It's all too much. I shake my head furiously. "You've trusted worse, Katya. I don't know what to believe anymore. I?—"
Her mouth hardens. "I'm not your enemy, Zoya."
"No?" I take another step back and rub my eyes with the back of my hand, cursing myself even as the tears begin to fall. "Then stop acting like one."
She holds my gaze, unreadable. "There are people in this house who want you looking the wrong way. That's how they survive. By keeping us at odds."
"So set me straight," I snap. "If you're so loyal, tell me who put that card in my room."
She shrugs. "If I knew, they wouldn't still be breathing."
That's all I can take. She offers no further clarification, so I turn and walk away, never stopping until I'm out of her reach, in the garden outside the estate. When I check the library hours later, after Lev is at school, Ekaterina isn't around.
A while later, Sokolov brings information on the head server from that night. The man is dead, bullet-wound to the chest.
22
ZOYA
Since Ekaterina's vanishing, forty-eight hours and counting, the Vetrov estate is in permanent winter. There's still no telling where she went, but given Konstantin's surveillance, I suspect it won't be too long before she's found—if she has run, that is.
Part of me still wishes she's just gone shopping. Part of me hates the other part for being so naive.
I float the main corridor, toes nearly silent in house shoes, eyes never still. The chandeliers reflect nothing. The tall windows admit only hard, colorless daylight, every pane mirrored and chill. At each intersection, I pause, scan. The kitchen doors are closed. The drawing room lamp is lit, but there's no scent of fresh tea or the drone of an intercom.
At the east portico, two guards stand at attention, faces static as carved lions. I know them both—one is ex-MVD, the other a cousin's cousin, handpicked for loyalty and the ability to shoot while wearing gloves. I nod. They don't blink.
The men have doubled the perimeter since the incident. I saw the roster last night, every name underlined and cross-referenced with their most recent phone records. Sokolovrotates the teams faster than before, never the same two men in the same hall twice in a row. They're afraid of patterns. Good.
I snake up the grand staircase. Each tread is more polished than the last. At the top, I linger at the overlook, scan the main floor for movement. I catch a flicker—the tail of a coat in the west wing, gone before I can blink. My mind is a mess of thoughts and too much anger, so I choose to check in on my son instead. He's enjoying an off-day from school, happy in his little world in the playroom. I let myself in.
He's on the rug, surrounded by blocks, the tower rising with improbable precision. His face is slack with concentration, tongue poked out, lip pinched between teeth. Galina sits behind him, knitting, but her needles are idle and she's not watching the yarn. She's watching Lev, and every few seconds, she checks the door.
"Dobroe utro," I say, low. "What are we building?"
Lev glances up. "A prison for the bad man."
He doesn't look at me, but I sense the emotion behind his answer. He doesn't know everything, but he suspects something has made his mother unhappy. Galina gives a small, almost invisible shake of the head—let it be.
I crouch next to him, pick up a stray block. "No one's ever escaped from this one," he says, stacking it. "I checked."
I stroke his hair, let my hand linger on the crown. He leans into it. His shoulders are taut, his eyes red-rimmed at the edges. He hasn't slept through the night since Ekaterina left. Galina sets the needles down. "He's eaten," she says in her old-nanny voice, but I see her thumb rubbing her palm, a nervous tic she only uses in war time.
I look her over. She hasn't changed her cardigan, the pearls are the same, but her cheeks have lost their color. "Are you sleeping?" I ask.
She shrugs. "I dream with one eye."
