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She stiffens, noticing my attention, and strikes her stick through the letters, erasing them. Then she stands and darts to another spot of the garden.
Sighing, I turn away and notice Mischa and Anna nearby. A chill washes over me as I watch them. Her slender frame paired with his bulk creates a striking contrast.
They stand close together, speaking in hushed tones. Mischa reaches out, grasping her arm as his lips move fervently. Whatever he says makes her eyes widen and she shakes her head.
“Please, Mischa. Please don’t—” She breaks off, noticing my approach. Her thin lips quiver as she forces a smile, but anyone could see the tears welling in her eyes. “H-hello. Excuse me.”
She slips past Mischa and scoops Eli into her arms. “You’re so filthy,” she scolds him playfully. “Time for a bath?” Bouncing him on her hip, she returns to the house.
“She’s protective of him,” I say and I watch her go, if only to fill the silence. Though what mother wouldn’t be, forced to raise a child among the Winthorps?
Mischa says nothing. He stares after her as well, his jaw tight. Then he shakes his head. “You,” he declares, pointing to Mouse.
She startles to attention, smoothing her hands along her simple gray dress.
“You still want to learn?” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a familiar object: his knife.
A slow, bright smile unfolds over Mouse’s features and she races toward him.
“Fix your posture,” Mischa snaps. “Stand tall—no! Straighter. Good.” Like a drill sergeant, he guides her into the right stance and then carefully molds her fingers around the handle of the blade. “Every time you strike, you mean it,” he tells her. “You may think a gun is more dangerous, but a knife is just as lethal, and bleeding to death is more painful than having your brains blown out. Trust me on that.”
I find myself watching them as I lean against a willow tree. Overall, Mischa makes for a firm though gentle instructor. He corrects her mistakes but praises her accomplishments.
“Good,” he says when she stabs at an imaginary foe. “Very good.” He eases the blade from her grasp, sheathes it, and returns it to his pocket. “You pick up fast. Now, go. Let’s see if you’ve gotten any better at hiding. If I can’t find you before dinner, I’ll pay you double.”
She takes off, dashing across the gardens. The second she’s gone, Mischa levels his searching stare in my direction.
“Tell me,” he taunts, beckoning me closer with a jerk of his chin. “I know something is circling that little brain of yours.”
“I’m thinking about her,” I admit, going with one of the safer topics consuming my thoughts. “Mouse. I’m wondering where she came from. Did you know that she’s twelve?”
“She is?” He glances in the direction the girl took off in. “I could always ask Nicolai if he knows more.”
“She drew a name into the dirt,” I add. “Donatello Van—”
“Vanici?”
From his tone, I sense a grim mixture of admiration and loathing typical for someone he considers a rival.
“A big player in the Italian mob. But I don’t think he has a thing for children.”
“Would that bother you if he did?” I ask.
He raises an eyebrow “Maybe. Or maybe I’m lying to avoid picking a fight you seem itching to have? Though it doesn’t matter.” He steps in close. “Don’t get too comfortable. I don’t plan to stay here long,” he murmurs near my ear. “And when I decide to leave, I want you to be ready.”
“You sound like we’d have to escape—”
“In any case,” he grunts. “Be ready.”
I blink, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. For once, he lets me inside his head, and as chilling a proposition as it is, a part of me is more than eager to finally peek beneath his mask.
“Sergei is planning something,” he adds. “After years of inaction, he’s suddenly inserting himself into the fray. Something about it feels off. I don’t know why yet, but—”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
He exhales slowly, thinking it through. “I don’t know. But the man is always one step ahead. I used to admire that about him, you know. Most men want to shoot their problems in the fucking face.”
Himself included.
