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Prestige seems printed into the very wallpaper and embedded in every portrait of a nameless figure I pass. A modest color scheme of dark green and silver creates a quiet atmosphere.
So quiet.
My footsteps echo, jarringly loud. Any minute, a snarlingmafiyaleader should appear from around a corner and snidely insinuate I have ulterior motives.
By the time I reach a grand, circular staircase, I’ve found no one. Here, at least, voices drift from nearby. I follow them to a small sitting room.
Inside it, Vanya is sitting on a leather chair, angled toward Anna. She’s been washed and dressed in a clean black dress. In her arms, her son sleeps, held to her chest as she and her father speak in low, hushed tones. Suddenly, he reaches out, bracing his hand on her knee, and I can make out the glint of tears painting her cheeks.
Quietly, I turn away and continue past them. I have no idea how long this hallway goes or where it travels. Almost in a daze, I turn a corner and nearly trip over a small body huddled by the wall. Alarm lances down my spine and I jolt back reflexively, my arm outstretched.
But then I make out the figure’s pale-blond hair and crouch beside her. “Mouse?”
She turns away from me. Her slight body heaves and she tries to shield her face with one of her hands.
“What’s wrong?” A million horrific scenarios march through my mind. So many dark, twisted things.
She shakes her head. Then she brandishes her other hand, holding the trembling fingers up for me to make out the red substance painting each fingertip.
“Oh God. What happened?” I lurch to my feet, my heart racing. Is another attack imminent? “Is it your shoulder?” I ask her out loud. “We need to find Mischa—”
Mouse grabs my hand and tugs before I can take a step.No!She points to her belly and it takes my brain a second to put the pieces together.
“How old are you?” I ask, returning to a crouch.
She eyes me warily, mistrust glinting in her green irises. Only God knows how long she’s had to survive like this, always on guard.
Finally, she raises all ten of her fingers. Then two.
“Twelve,” I say, nodding. “All right. Come with me.”
I don’t know how to navigate back to my room, but with luck, I find a bathroom nearby and coax her into a shower. The brief looks I get of her body make my heart ache. She’s twelve with the physique of a much younger child, though I doubt through natural means. How long has she been deprived of food, or comfort, or basic care?
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” I tell her as she huddles at the back of the shower, hunched away from me. “This happens to every woman. My first time, I thought I was dying, but one of the older maids took pity on me and taught me about womanhood.”
In crude, explicit terms, but it was a lesson nonetheless.
“You aren’t dying,” I add as shuffling sounds allude to her studiously scrubbing her body clean. “But you will have to learn to anticipate it. For now, we’ll make do, but I’ll see if someone can get you proper supplies. Would you like that?”
I pause in the slim chance she’ll reply.
“Okay,” I say as if she has. “No one else has to know.”
Finally, Mouse reemerges, dripping wet. I help her dry off and then I leave her long enough to retrace my steps to the room I woke up in and retrieve the pink dress.
I return and find her rooted firmly where I left her, by the tub. Once she eyes the garment in my hands, she frowns and shakes her head.
“It’s just for now,” I insist, helping her put it on. “I’m sure you’ll be back to climbing trees in no time.”
Her wrinkled nose reveals her doubts about that.
When we finally leave the bathroom, she stays close to my side like a shadow. Hiding?
“We should find your room,” I suggest. “Do you remember where it—”
“Here you are. The Mouse and Rose.” Mischa seems to appear from the very shadows. He’s still wearing a pair of filthy, faded fatigues. Either he’s gone out again or he’s still on guard, unable to relax even here. His eyes scan me in a ruthless sweep, settling on my face, then my hair. “You and I need to have a chat, Rose,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically stern. “Preferably now.”
“No.” I have to clear my throat to find the traction to speak. “I’m tired.”
