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Even if she’s got rosy cheeks, I know a sentry when I see one.
“You don’t have to stand there,” I tell her. “I’m not going to vanish.”
She stiffens like a bolt of lightning hit the top of her head. “Oh! No! I don’t think—It’s just that, um, Mr. Isakov, wanted me to make sure you had everything you needed.”
I’m not seated in the same dining room as last night, thank goodness—The memory of the dinner is awful. Eating is hard enough; I’m sure being in the room where I tried to stab Arsen would make my stomach shrink.
This smaller room has floor-to-ceiling windows. I have a pleasant view of the garden outside, a place I’d love to go explore. The roses I glimpse are fat and heavy; whoever cares for them does it expertly.
Sunlight illuminates the abundant spread of food on the round table. There’s a full carafe of orange juice, another one of milk, and another one of coffee. A silver tray is weighed down with cinnamon buns and various muffins, as well as slices of bread. The warm platter of pancakes could be turned into a pillow to sleep on. I’ve only touched one, which I’m barely a quarter of the way through.
Looking from the girl to the food, then back again, I lift my eyebrows. “What could I possibly need that I don’t have?”
Her cheeks scald red. “It’s a lot. Yeah. But you’ve barely touched any of it. Aren’t you hungry?”
“No,” I say honestly. Stabbing the pancake, I force another bite down with a mouthful of orange juice. “I’m not hungry at all.”
“Oh.” She pokes the floor with the toe of her brown buckled shoe. “Then … why are you eating?”
“Because I don’t want to pass out.” I might anyway, once I see the dresses. Arsen told me that’s happening today. Ulyana confirmed it when she found me wandering the halls early in the morning. That’s when I was led here, to this room, for breakfast.
“I think I get it,” the girl says. Her smile is unsure. “My sister, when she was getting married, she couldn’t eat for a week.”
The fork punches into the pancake hard enough that it bounces off the porcelain plate underneath. “Did she pick who she was marrying?”
“What?”
I set the syrup-soaked fork aside. “Nothing. Forget it.” The girl scrunches her lips together, shrinking like a dog that’s been scolded. Looking at her closer, I can tell she’s younger than me. I shouldn’t be so rude; she’s just doing her job. Softening my eyes, I make myself smile. “What’s your name?”
“Olesya.”
“I’m Galina.”
She nods enthusiastically. “Oh, I know. Everyone here does.”
My smile dips slightly. “Right. How long have you worked for Arsen?”
“Mr. Isakov? I think it’s been a year now. I started when I turned eighteen.”
She really is young. “What’s it been like for you?”
The nerves evaporate; her grin is gigantic, forming dimples in her cheeks that could collect raindrops at the right angle. Grabbing the front of her dress, Olesya sways back and forth on her heels. “It’s been amazing. I love it here. The work is good, the money is even better, and my family is so proud of what I do.”
“That’s … nice,” I say tensely. “I’m guessing you don’t interact with Arsen very much.”
“All the time, actually!”
I deflate in confusion. How can she be around him constantly and still love working for the man? I can’t take being in his presence for a mere few minutes.
There’s no sound to announce Ulyana’s approach; she simply pops around the corner from behind Olesya. “Time to clean up,” she instructs, clapping her hands. Olesya bursts into action, rushing around frantically, her eyes downcast. I watch with interest, noting the vibe of strict schoolteacher versus student.
Ulyana motions at me. “You barely ate anything, child.”
“I’m full.”
She pushes her chin outward, holding her tongue in her teeth. She wants to chide me, I think, but she doesn’t. “Go wash up in your room,” she tells me. “You’ve got syrup on your shirt.”
Tugging at the clothing, I marvel at how I hadn’t noticed. “I’m running out of stuff to wear.”
