I breathe out hard.Up until now, I was, I think.But that was...I shake my head, short and terse. "This place is weird," I mumble.
Kingston form goes stiff and taut. "I know," he says, quiet and tense. He looks to each side.
“How are you?” I ask, urgent and low. “Are you okay? Are you all?—”
“Don't go anywhere alone, okay?” Kingston says. It's not like him to interrupt me. His eyes are fierce, almost desperate. "Stay with the girls."
"But you—are they—" I drop my voice even lower. "Has anyone tried anything?"
"Nothing we can't handle." His jaw clenches. "Moroslav's been watching us all day. Studying our form, looking for weaknesses. Tomorrow during the bouts..." He trails off, glances over his shoulder. "Just promise me you'll stay out of sight. The further you are from the fencing, the safer you are, okay?”
I nod. “I promise.”
“And if anything happens to us?—”
"Gwenechka!" Dasha waves to me. "Come."
When I turn back, Kingston is gone, pulled back into the throng of men.
Away from me.
THIRTY-NINE
GWENNA
The mealthat night is clearly meant to be festive. The Russians are loud, jovial, drinking. The lights are bright, electric and candles. And the table's set with proper place and linens. Every so often someone pops up with a toast to honorable competition, to glory in combat, to our guests from America, to the health of the earth.
The last one makes my stomach turn.
The food is much more elaborate now. Deep red borscht, silky meat dumplings, a spread of every vegetable you could possibly pickle, black bread and butter, and cups of kvass—a bready taste, sort of like beer, and just slightly alcoholic.
We're still segregating, men and women, but it feels a little less strict somehow. There's a high table too. Father Maksim, Luther, and the Archmandrite, who I studiously avoid looking at. He just sort of sits there like a black void, unmoving, not eating.
A few tables away, the Caliburn team sits eating slowly, carefully, glancing at me every other second. They look…tense. Wound tight.Wary,like soldiers before a battle, not athletes before a tournament. Kai catches my eye and gives the smallestshake of his head—stay there. Lanz's hand keeps drifting to where his blade would be. Callahan sits with his back to the wall, eyes on the door.
"So exciting," Dasha says. "It's so exciting. What will all happen tomorrow?" She looks genuinely enthusiastic, and I try to give her a smile. Just because I find all this weird doesn't mean I need to be a bitch to her. She's literally been nothing but kind. Sveta is a little harsher, maybe, but all she's doing is telling me to eat, and little Katyenka gave me her room.
I shrivel a little on the inside. "Do you like fencing?" I ask. "You go to see a lot of the tournaments? Do I like..."
Dasha looks briefly confused. Then she brightens. "Ah, yes, yes, of course." She looks at Sveta, at Katyenka. "All of us, we do."
Aurora goes up from the Russian table, drawing turned heads from all across the room. It's Moroslav, standing now, holding up his glass.
After dinner, the girls walk with me back to the dormitory, speaking mostly in Russian or in English, so fragmented I'm too tired to understand it. I'm barely listening. My mind is buzzing as they deliver me to my door.
"Sleep well," calls Dasha.
"Big day tomorrow," Svetlana adds.
I smile, wish them the same, nod, close my door, and finally I'm alone. I sit on my bed, listening. Their footsteps fade. They go to their rooms. Talking, laughing. And then stillness. Total quiet.
I sit and watch the clock. 9, 10, 11 p.m. I flick through the only thing I have for entertainment: the exciting conclusion ofThe Michelangelo Matrix, Dr. Patton Montgomery and the beautiful Fabienne chasing down bad guys through the halls of the British Museum.
Finally, it's midnight. I open the door so slowly and quietly. The hallway's empty, dimly lit, and the floor is freezing, even through my socks. I move barely a step at a time, freezing what feels like a night. Like, every five seconds. But it's truly quiet, no one here.
This is stupid, it's exactly what I said I wasn't going to do. But I can't help it, I've made up my mind. If something happens to us, I don't want that to happen. I don't want that to be the case. But at this point, it's out of my hands. And the only thing it feels like I can do is go to him, find him.
I have to remember the route from the tour. I get turned around once, a dead end, and then I backtrack. I pass the same icon of St. George slaying the dragon what feels like 50 times, its eyes seeming to follow me. And then I remember. I find the same passage where we merged with the men exiting their dormitory, and I turn.
