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“But that place was different,” I point out. “You called it by a name once. Pecavi?”
He ignores me, still combing through his hair.
But I can’t fathom his indifference. “Your mother’s things. Your sister’s… Won’t you miss them?”
He pushes back from the sink, but when he faces me, he doesn’t look angry. “And do you missyourmother’s things?” He eyes my neck.
I reach up automatically, clasping the tiny charm dangling against my collar.
“Don’t,” he scolds, and a curious thought makes me loosen my grip over my necklace. Have I insulted him? It seems I have. He’s still frowning. “I’ve had plenty of chances to take it from you—”
“I never had anything of hers to hold on to before,” I admit, referring to his previous question. “Not even a button or ring.”
“Well, I’d give up a millionthings.” He stoops for his shirt and pulls it on over his head. “Everything, to have more than a memory. And to avenge them, I will endure many fires and occupy a million fucking houses. Nothing ever changes.”
It’s a cold outlook. And a lonely one.
“So you don’t cherish anything?” I ask.
“What’s the point?” He shrugs and then jerks his chin to the running faucet of the tub. “Don’t spend the day wasting away, Little Rose.” He approaches the door and opens it, heedless of who might be walking by on the other end. “You need to be ready to move. Tonight.”
“To another safe house?”
“You better hope so.” He steps over the threshold, closing the door behind him. Regardless, his voice reaches me through the wood. “Because the only alternative is a Winthorp prison. At least with me, your fashion choices differ from a ball and chain.”
I listen to his steps retreat and hug myself as the water cools. By the time I finally climb out of the tub, I’m shivering. Thankfully, Mischa’s clothing provides a decent amount of warmth, and the pants aren’t uncomfortable. If I roll the hems a few times, they almost fit.
When I reenter the hall fully dressed, I can hear Mischa down below, marshaling his men to various tasks.
He claimed that property meant nothing to him, but I think it was a lie.
He’s comfortable like this, living in transience. There’s no stability to rely upon and nothing he could risk losing other than his life.
And if Mischa Stepanov seems to value one thing least of all.
It’s himself.
