Page 28 of His Stolen Bride

That confirms what I already knew.

After she leaves, I sit with the tea cooling in my hands and think about how fast my status changed without my doing anything at all. That’s the part that makes my skin itch. Importance in a place like this isn’t protection. It’s exposure.

I start asking Lira small questions about the house, but never about Mikhail directly. Instead, I ask her about how long people stay. Who comes and goes. Which rooms are used and which ones stay closed.

She answers what she can.

In return, I listen when she talks about her sister, about money she sends home, and how careful you have to be here to survive without becoming invisible. We understand each other on that level.

That evening, Lira walks with me toward the sitting room instead of peeling off toward the staff corridor like she usually does. She’s carrying a small notebook and stops by the sideboard as if checking something off. “They’re adjusting menus this week,” she says, not looking at me. “Routine review.”

I nod, already used to decisions being made around me rather than for me. She hesitates, then adds, “Is there anything you don’t eat?”

I think about how strange that question is here. “I eat what’s put in front of me.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” she says, still casual, still careful.

I glance at her. She’s pretending to read the notebook, but her attention is on me. “Why?”

“Because sometimes it helps,” she says. “To know.”

“Know what?”

“What keeps someone steady.”

I almost laugh, then stop myself. “You won’t find that in the kitchen.”

She finally looks up. “Try me.”

I sit down slowly, folding my hands in my lap. “When I was a kid,” I say, choosing the words carefully, “my mother made potato vareniki when things were bad.”

Lira’s pen stills. “It wasn’t special,” I continue. “Just dough, potatoes, butter, onions. She made it when she didn’t want me asking questions.”

“What kind of potatoes?” Lira asks.

“Yellow,” I say. “Mashed rough. Not smooth.”

She nods once and writes something down. “Boiled or fried onions?”

“Both,” I answer. “She browned them after.”

“Salt?”

“Too much,” I say, and this time I do smile, just a little.

Lira closes the notebook. “All right.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I add quickly. “The kitchen here won’t⁠—”

“I didn’t say it would,” she replies, already turning away. “Dinner’s at seven.”

She leaves before I can decide whether I regret saying any of it. At seven, the tray arrives, but it’s not one of the guards who brings it. It’s Lira. She sets it down without comment and lifts the lid.

I stare.

“They didn’t have sour cream,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I told them butter was enough.”

Words fail me at this act of kindness, but my eyes mist over. I pick up the fork because my hands know what to do even if my head doesn’t.