Page 118 of Winterveil

As New York’s gleaming cityscape came into view, the same words were playing in a loop through Nadiya’s mind.

Evadne was a plaything she could in no way fear.

It was hard for her to remember her childhood chronologically; it came back to her in bits and pieces. A flash of her new bedroom, with a fluffy purple duvet. She was almost certain that she had moved into Dr. Iver’s house mere days after her parents’ murder. She had even returned to school. She remembered that first day back, her pencil tip breaking on the page as she muddled her way through long division. The other children ran past her in a blur during recess. She remembered standing on the playground, rain-darkened asphalt beneath her feet. And then all of a sudden she couldn’t breathe.

She remembered the series of doctors’ appointments, Dr. Iver holding her hand as the needle dug into the soft crook of her elbow. Does that hurt? Can you feel it?

Nadiya remembered the move to Valeran. The ride up into the mountains had felt exhilarating, her stomach leaping each time the car dipped and swerved. It was fall, and the trees shed their golden leaves into heaps that she could crunch through. There was a self-timer on the track in the amphitheater and Nadiya loved seeing how quickly she could make the loop.

She remembered the first time Dr. Iver had slipped a gun into her hands. That same night, he had read aloud to her from The Magician’s Nephew.

I am the great scholar, the magician, the adept, who is doing the experiment. Of course I need subjects to do it on.

When she woke later in the darkness, sobbing and shaking, it was Dr. Iver who sat at her bedside.

“You’re safe, Nadiya,” he said. “I’m here.” But he never said I love you. At least, not that she could remember.

A plaything. He had dressed her in a uniform and made her a soldier. Now she was dressed in civilian attire, acting out her role as a spy. Soon she would be a murderer. Nadiya knew, when they reached Satow, that she would be the one expected to pull the trigger.

The helicopter descended onto a rooftop, the sudden thud of its wheels against the landing pad making Nadiya jostle into Giselle. Giselle was quick to take her arm and steady her. Her touch, brief and casual as it was, eased Nadiya’s racing pulse.

Within moments, Deckard was waving them out of the helicopter. Julian leaped down and offered Klaudia his hand. She took it, and their fingers remained joined for a moment longer than necessary. If Nadiya noticed, she was sure that Deckard did, too.

“Time’s wasting,” Deckard said, raising his voice over the still-beating blades of the helicopter.

They were led through the door on a rooftop and down a dimly lit concrete stairwell. Nadiya was surprised to emerge into a long corridor of white marble, veined in gold. Corinthian columns girded the walls and crystal chandeliers were massed on the ceiling like hanging stalactites. It had the air of a dictator’s palace.

“The Plaza?” Julian laughed shortly. “Well, Deckard, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“The gala is in the ballroom downstairs, tomorrow night,” said Deckard. “Staying in the hotel is only sensible.”

Quietly, Nadiya agreed with Julian—it was a little much. Giselle, who had no delicate sensibilities to offend, was looking around, wide-eyed, at the oil paintings on the walls to the bouquets of fresh roses left as complimentary gifts outside each door.

“Tomorrow night?” Klaudia echoed. “And what are we supposed to do until then?”

“Eager to carouse, Ms. Shimonova?”

“Eager to be done with it,” she replied tonelessly.

Deckard glanced down at his watch. “Get yourselves settled,” he said, “and then join me back here in ten minutes.”

They were each given a key to one of four adjoining rooms. When Nadiya stepped into hers, she half expected to see a white tiger pelt draped across the bed, maybe the head of an endangered species taxidermied on the wall. But she was greeted only with more white marble and gold, a vase of roses on the table, and a porcelain tub that could have easily accommodated four, if one were inclined to such debauchery. Maybe Julian—or whoever he had been before Valeran—would have found a use for it.

She walked to the window and pulled back the heavy velvet drapes. There was no balcony, only a sheer, straight drop to the street below. No bars, but the glass was thick and impenetrable. For all its extravagance, the room was a gilded cage.

There were clothes in the drawers, shoes in the closet, and a garment bag hanging in the wardrobe. Nadiya peeked inside and saw a flash of black silk. Grimacing, she zipped it back up again.

Giselle’s room was next door. Nadiya wondered if she could hear her through the wall. They hadn’t been alone since that night in Traumstadt and Nadiya wanted to speak to her, to hold her—and, if she was honest, kiss her again. That desire almost erased all the questions that nagged at her.

How had she done it? How had she made those men vanish, as if they had never been there at all? Nadiya was certain they were holograms, despite their strange solidity. They had to be.

She told herself it could’ve been some sort of glitch. Maybe it was the system failing, as Deckard had intimated. Maybe Giselle hadn’t done anything.

Putting away the thoughts, Nadiya went into the bathroom to splash water on her face. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror above the sink.

The days in Traumstadt showed themselves plainly. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin had a sallow cast—like Crispin’s, she thought grimly. Her hair was still loose, and she didn’t have anything to tie it back with. She looked not like a soldier but like an ordinary girl, tired and wan.

Abruptly Nadiya stepped out of the bathroom, switching off the light behind her.