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Lost in my troubled deliberations, I go downstairs to see if Alex has come home. A guard stands next to the front door.
“Good evening,” I say.
He acknowledges me with a nod.
“Do you know if Alex—”
The door opens before I can finish my sentence, and Igor walks through it, dusting snowflakes from the shoulders of his coat.
He stops when he notices me.
“Igor,” I say, part in greeting and part in relief.
I look over his shoulder, trying to see if Alex is with him, but he cuts off my view by closing the door, presumably to keep the cold from coming in.
“Where’s Alex?” I ask.
“He’ll be in shortly,” he says, moving around me.
I take a step to the side, blocking his way. “Where is he?”
A beat lapses. “Getting an update from the men at the barracks.”
Testing my boundaries, I ask, “May I please use your phone?”
His large frame sags with the sigh he blows out. “You know I can’t do that.”
“That’s what I thought.”
At least he has the decency to look guilty. “You can’t call home. It’s for your safety.” Averting his eyes, he walks away.
“Miss Morrell?” a female voice says.
I spin on my heel.
Lena stands at the foot of the stairs. “Dinner is served in the dining room. Mr. Volkov will join you as soon as he can. He said you shouldn’t wait.” She drags her gaze over me, pausing on my socked feet. “Normally, Mr. Volkov dresses for dinner.”
“Do you know where he’s been?”
She waves a hand toward the corridor. “The dining room is this way.”
“Alex showed me already.”
She gives a cool smile. “In that case, you won’t get lost.” Without another word, she disappears down the hallway.
Clenching my hands into fists, I turn back to the guard at the door. If I was hoping for an explanation from him, I’m in for another disappointment. He’s facing straight ahead, ignoring my presence as if I don’t exist.
Not having anywhere else to go, I walk to the dining room. The table is set with a dozen dishes. None of the intricate pastries or colorful salads are familiar, but they’re all beautifully presented with garnishes of radishes and tomatoes artfully carved to resemble roses.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I didn’t touch the French toast and fruit Tima had prepared earlier.
Tima enters with a steaming platter. Giving me a bright smile, he says, “I hope you rested well. Please, have a seat. You must be hungry.” He places the platter in the center of the other dishes and pulls out a chair next to the head of the table where a place is set. “Here. Come. Make yourself comfortable.”
A whiff of garlic and parsley reaches my nose. I want to decline out of spitefulness, but I’m starving. Grudgingly taking the seat and letting him adjust the chair, I say, “There’s enough food here for an army.”
He chuckles. “There is an army, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I scoff. “How could I have missed that?”
“I made you some comfort food.” He motions at the dish from which the aromas are wafting. “Pasta with artichoke. It’s an Italian recipe.” Taking a serving spoon and fork, he scoops up a generous helping and places it on my plate. “There. Eat up before it gets cold. Then you can try the cold dishes and salads. Those are all local recipes. Delicious.”
“Thank you,” I say with reluctant gratitude.
Tima pours water into my glass before leaving the room.
The grandfather clock strikes once. The beat echoes in the quiet room. Half past seven. For a moment, I sit motionless, taking in the silence and how unreal this feels. A soft tick-tock follows as the clock continues to count off the seconds. It’s a strangely depressing sound and a very awkward situation, sitting alone at a table made for twenty people. I do need to eat, though.
Twisting the hair-thin pasta around my fork, I bring a bite to my mouth. Flavors of garlic, parsley, and olive oil blend with the taste of the artichoke hearts. The combination is delicious, instantly igniting my appetite. Tima was right. This is comfort food and exactly what I need.
I devour the portion on my plate and contemplate going for seconds, but I’m curious about the other dishes on the table. Just as I’m digging the serving spoon into a salad of potato and what looks like dill pickles, Alex walks into the room.
I still as I meet his gaze. He wears a white button-up shirt and dark pants. His jaw is free of stubble, his lightly tanned skin perfectly smooth. The dark brown color of his hair forms a striking contrast to the icy blue of his eyes. His regard is vigilant and observant as his gaze slides from my face to my empty plate.
His smile is reserved. “My apologies for being late.”
“This is your house. You can do as you please.”
