She spins and walks away. I shut and lock the door, returning to the table with my meal. As I eat, I try to picture what might be happening downstairs. The size of the house is a factor, but I’m still surprised I haven’t encountered anyone on the occasions I’ve left these rooms. Aleksandr and Victoria are still living here with their son since the attempted attack, yet I haven’t heard the baby cry once. He looked tiny when I glimpsed Victoria holding him last week, but I don’t know how old he is.
I finish my dinner and scan the space. I’m bored, just like Maksim said. I’ve exercised, I’ve read, I’ve showered, I’ve eaten. I feel more like a prisoner in Lev’s absence. I’m not sure I’d be allowed to leave the property without him, and I don’t know where I’d go even if I could leave. Going shopping or to a restaurant or even to another symphony performance alone holds little appeal.
I stand, grabbing the empty tray and carrying it over to the door. I have to balance the collection of dishes on my hip to get the door open, proud when I manage without dropping anything. Rather than leave the tray outside my door, like I normally do, I continue down the hallway with it.
At the top of the stairs, I hear someone call out in Russian. It’s not a word I recognize, and I curse my limited vocabulary.
Again, an unfamiliar voice echoes along the empty hallway.
I continue past the stairs hesitantly, heading down the hallway across from Lev’s wing. There’s an open door on the left that I approach hesitantly. The voice sounded like a woman’s. I’m less apprehensive about encountering a fellow female than Igor or Aleksandr, but the only person I’m somewhat comfortable around is Maksim.
Porcelain clatters as I lift my elbow to nudge the door open wider, foiling any attempt at an inconspicuous entrance. At least the dishes don’t break, just slide some.
“It’s Carina. Did you need … can I help with anything?”
Elena Sokolov’s gaze reminds me of a hawk’s. There’s a shrewd intelligence in plain view, paired with a perfect posture that makes me think she’s a very difficult person to catch off guard.
She glances down at the fabric in her lap, releasing me from the prison of her close attention. “You liked the pelmeni?”
I assume she means the meat dumplings I had for dinner. “It was delicious. I-I’m not much of a cook. Isa—my, uh, aunt tried to teach me, but not much stuck.”
“Not your mother?” Elena sews the same way I presume she does everything else—the needle moving in quick, efficient dips.
“She’s dead.”
No reaction. Most people apologize, but I’ve never foundI’m sorryto help.
Again, I wonder how much Lev’s family has dug into my background. We were careful enough that I doubt they know about the years of meetings, but it wouldn’t have been hard for them to discover what Carina Carson’s life was like. Report cards, performance recordings, where I lived—there’s a trail attached to all of it. Asking about my mother might have been a test to judge how truthful I was.
I set the tray down on a table and wander deeper into the room without waiting for an invitation. I’ll never get one, I don’t think.
“What are you making?”
Elena doesn’t answer. She does tilt the quilt so I can see. TheIandLare already carefully stitched. She just started theY. A constellation of stars and a crescent moon surround it.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
She glances up again. I’m torn between being happy about the acknowledgment and visibly squirming under another close inspection. When we first met, I was taken aback by how intense Lev was. After meeting his family, I’m shocked he smiles as much as he does.
A flurry of Russian sounds behind me. I turn to see a maid has entered, one I don’t recall seeing before. Even considering the size of Serebryanovo, it’s hard to comprehend how much staff works here.
Elena replies in Russian. I’m surprised to hear my name mixed in with the foreign words, even more so when the maid gives me a respectful nod. I’m on a friendly basis with most of the guards, thanks to my morning runs, but no one inside has addressed me unless they’re delivering a meal or cleaning.
The maid turns and leaves, taking my tray with her.
“I was going to do that.”
“Dressing like a maid does not make you one.”
I glance down at my current outfit—the same jeans and T-shirt I put on after showering this morning, post-workout. Not the most glamorous, but nothing like?—
I belatedly realize what she’s referencing. I’ve noticed the cameras in the hallways. Elena—or someone else—obviously looked through the footage from my wedding day.
“It worked.”
“You should learn Russian.” She moves on to the next topic without reacting to my last comment.
“Lev is teaching me.”
