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“But he has guards everywhere.”
“Yes, and cameras,” she agrees. “The man is paranoid. For good reason, I might add. But I know what he will be watching. Which means I also know what he won’t be. Be downstairs in the kitchen at 1:00 a.m.”
Rushing toward her, I grab her hands, squeezing. “Thank you, Mila!”
She frowns, but she doesn’t brush me off. Once I let go, she moves gracefully to the bedroom door. “Oh, and wear black. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go tell Arsen some bad news.”
“Bad news?” I ask with concern.
Mila gives me the closest thing to a sympathetic smile as she can manage. “At this rate, he’ll start associating my visits with misfortune. How sad. He used to always look forward to hearing from me.” She shakes her head, hands in her pockets as she heads toward Arsen’s study.
I don’t think she brings misfortune. Not at all.
If anything … now that I’ve seen her, I believe my luck is changing.
The house is dark. Nobody is awake at this hour. Nobody except me.
On the balls of my feet, I creep silently into the kitchen. If anyone spotted me, they’d instantly know I was up to something. Who would dress in a full ensemble of black sneakers, tights, and a loose-fitting sweater while prowling around the house?
If Arsen does have cameras in here … he’ll have a lot of questions when he sees this footage. I have to hope no one checks. I can’t give them a reason to. But to be extra cautious, I make sure my head is ducked. I hope that it’s enough to prevent my face from being recognized. It’s an irrationally unrealistic belief, yet I cling to it the way I do every fragment of control I can access lately.
My heart is racing, but I won’t shy away from the plan. I can’t—it’s too important.
Crouching in the kitchen, I barely make out the shapes of things thanks to the light streaming through the windows. Arsen has floodlights on the distant gates, but it’s the moon that does the real work. Straining my ears, I glance around wildly, unsure what to expect.
She said to be here. Well, I’m here. Where is Mila?
There’s a tap on the window that sends me jumping straight up. Gripping the front of my sweater, swearing I can feel the shape of my heart slamming through my ribs, I gawk at the figure on the other side of the glass. Mila points at me, then she points to the top of the window. Getting the hint, I climb on the sink until I can reach the lock.
“Dobriy noch, Galina Stepanovna,” she whispers when the window lifts upward. “Ready for some fun?”
With a final glance back at the kitchen, I hook my leg over the frame. She helps me wriggle out from beneath the sill. Together, we stand in the grass—she carefully shuts the window. “Now what?” I ask.
“Your carriage awaits, princess,” she smirks.
Mila leads the way alongside the house. I follow her footsteps, ducking under bushes and behind some garbage cans. I’ve never been in the yard. In the distance, I make out the shape of the rose garden. I think I hear water trickling—a fountain? Part of me wants to linger here, under the moon, drawing this out so I can experience what Arsen has denied me for all these weeks.
But I’m afraid to lose sight of Mila. If I do, I’ll be entirely on my own and I might get spotted by the guards. Hunching lower, I rush after where I saw her go.
Thicker hedges rise in front of us. I’m wondering how we’ll climb over when she suddenly crawls underneath. Baffled, I copy her, struggling through the tight branches. I come out the other side with leaves stuck in my hair and to my clothing. Picking them free, I throw them to the ground only to realize that the space I exited was hiding a gap in the fence.
The road is in front of me. I start to squat, worried a passing car might see me, but there’s nobody coming. Arsen lives in a remote enough area that traffic would make little sense at this late hour.
Parked on the shoulder is an emerald-green motorcycle with charcoal leather seats. Mila walks up to it and swings one leg over gracefully.
“Davai.” She slides her helmet into place. “Get on.”
I approach reluctantly, as if the vehicle will bite me. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”
Her chuckle is muffled by the helmet. “In that case, you need to promise that you won’t scream.”
She hands me a second helmet, miming for me to put it on. When I do, the nighttime noises fade away under the foam lining its insides.
Carefully, I settle on the seat behind Mila. I notice her thick jacket and the lining on her pants. She’s wearing an outfit designed to take damage. I’m hyperaware of my flimsy clothing. “Will this helmet be enough to protect me if we crash?” I ask nervously.
“We won’t,” she says, annoyed at the idea. “And the helmet is to keep people from recognizing you.”
Before I can reply, she twists the handle, revving the engine. I barely snap my arms around her waist before the inertia sends me flying off. Clinging for dear life, I push my face into the center of her back and scream silently inside my helmet.
