“She stays with us,” says Kingston.
Father Maksim’s eyebrows rise. "I beg your pardon?" He glances at Moroslav, muttering something in rapid Russian. Moroslav shrugs, gesturing and firing back. Father Maksim shakes his head ruefully, then turns back to us.
“I apologize for this confusion, but we must insist. This is a monastery, sacred ground. The separation of the sexes is absolute.”
“But—”
“The lady will follow their rules, Kingston.” Luther cuts in. “We are guests here.”
Kingston’s jaw tenses. Kai’s grip tightens almost painfully on me.
“I assure you, she is perfectly safe here," Maksim says smoothly. "This is house of God."
As if on cue, voices and footsteps sound outside the door—but not monks, this time. Three girls, maybe around my age, all with long, long hair in braids, all in long, modest skirts. The first one, with blonde braids and dimples, rushes forward.
“You are Gwenna!” It comes out more likeGvenna.She grabs for my hands, pulling me out of Kai’s grasp, and clasps them in hers. “We are so happy you come!”
“We will show you your room,” says the tall, dark-haired one behind her. “Please.”
The third one just giggles behind her hand.
I smile uneasily. “Um. Thank you.” I don’t want to be rude, and I suppose—judging from their appearance and the sheerremotenessof this place—that maybe a red-blooded American girl in their midst is a huge, exciting novelty. But their enthusiasm is…a lot. Especially when I am jetlagged and my muscles are starting to lock up from the cold.
I glance back at the four of them.
Kingston’s face is tight. Kai is scowling, arms crossed. Lanz’s eyes are wide with obvious worry, and Callahan’s fists are clenched at his sides.
I try to send them a signal with my eyes:I’m fine. Don’t worry. Just focus on what you need to here.
And I try to make myself believe it, too.
The girls are pulling on my arms, chattering rapidly in a mix of Russian and English, touching the sleeves of my coat, peering down at my boots, staring at my—relatively—short hair.Kingston takes a step forward, almost automatic, but Luther’s hand on his shoulder stops him.
As the girls pull me down the corridor, I can just make out the words he mouths to me.
Be careful.
The hallway is cold. Narrow, stone walls, electric bulbs that flicker and still what feels like no heating. Every so often we pass an Orthodox icon on the wall: a sad-eyed saint, ornately framed and weathered-looking.
And all the while, the girls are talking.
“We never have American girl visit before,” gushes the blonde one. “You are so pretty!”
“Thank you,” I say, almost robotically.
“Yes.” She nods, looping her arm through mine. “I am Dasha. She is Sveta”—she indicates the tall, dark-haired one—“and that little one, Katyenka. Say her hi, Katyenka!”
Katyenka peers up at me with gray eyes so pale they’re almost white. “Hi,” she says reverently.
“We hope we make you comfortable,” Sveta says, briskly taking the lead and striding to hold open a door. “Please.”
I duck my head a little to enter. The room is small, austere: a narrow bed, a small desk and wooden chair, a little three-drawer dresser with my black suitcase standing nearby and a water pitcher and basin on top. The sole window is small, with frost curling on the inside of the glass, and the walls are hung with more icons: the Virgin Mary, Christ Pantocrator.
When I exhale, I swear I can see my breath.
“Is nice, yes?” Dasha clings to my arm. “We give you Katyenka’s room. Is best one. Very peaceful.”
I force a smile. “Yes. Thank you. Thanks,” I add, specifically to Katyenka, who says nothing, but twists the end of one braid modestly.
