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Thankfully, Alina giggles. The sound takes my breath away, so light and airy, like windchimes on a summer morning. For a moment, I forget every single word in both English and Russian, too stunned by her brilliant smile to form a proper thought.
Alina chuckles. “Don’t we need to go?”
I clear my throat. “Right. Yes, of course.”
“Blue, by the way.”
“What?”
“A secret for a secret. Blue is my favorite color. Light blue, like the sky.”
I suppose to most, this might be a mundane sort of fact, but coming from Alina, it feels like I’ve struck gold.
“Duly noted,” I mutter as she slips past me.
My feet follow without hesitation.
Chapter 13
Alina
I’ve only been to one or two events as grand as this, when Father was still alive and Mother wasn’t nearly as much of a menace. Oksana’s wedding reception and Nikita’s eighteenth birthday. I remember there being a lot of guests and even more booze, but I was far too young to recall any faces or truly partake in festivities. But this?
Thisis what I’d call a party.
The Burcheist Gala is hosted at a hotel venue downtown, its grand ballroom set up for the occasion. A red carpet leads into the main area, and at least a hundred different photographers are lined up on the other side of a rope. I’m almost blinded by the flash of cameras, the roar of photographers yelling to ‘look this way, please’, making my ears ring.
Worry sets in. I’m not used to this level of public scrutiny. Is my makeup okay? What if I trip and fall in front of everyone? I’d not only embarrass myself, but Pyotr, too.
Yet Pyotr has a steady hand on the small of my back the entire time. He’s a stable presence, a rock against the tumultuousness of the evening.
“I’m not used to having my picture taken,” I confess as we approach the entrance. “Can’t we just slip through?”
“Is that what you’d prefer?” he asks.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I mean, yes. But I know you probably need it for PR reasons, right? And for—” I look over my shoulder cautiously to make sure no one hears— “for Immigration, right?”
“They’ll grab a few of us walking past,” he says firmly. “We don’t have to stop if you don’t want to.”
I let out an appreciative sigh.
“Stick close,” Pyotr says, his arm circling around so he can grip me steadily by the hip.
We walk forward, the onslaught of flashes and camera clicks so overwhelming it seems surreal. People call out to us to slow down for the photo op, but Pyotr pays them no mind.
“Who’s your friend?” someone shouts at him.
“Who’s the lovely lady?”
“Can we get a picture of you two for The Bastion?”
“What’s the hurry? Are you looking forward to the fun night?”
“Is this your daughter?” someone follows up.
At this, Pyotr stops and glares at one of the photographers. I cling to him, dizzy and unsure. “This is mywife,” he says flatly.
The crowd suddenly bursts into a cloud of chaotic questions.
