"Give me the letter," I say.
She releases it into my palm as if she is handing me a license to strike a match and a plea for mercy at once. I don't read it here. I slide it into a clean envelope from my pocket, seal it with my thumb, and take out a fresh glove for the ash on her skin. I kneel and hold my open hand under hers. She hesitates, then rests her fingers in my palm. I brush the ash into a sheet of white paper and fold it. Evidence lives better without our breath on it.
"Look at me," I say softly.
She does. Fury lives there, but not at random. She wants answers, and she wants boundaries changed. She wants both without giving an inch of herself away. I take her terms as binding.
"He will not cross this threshold again," I tell her. "Not with keys, not with any shadows, not with the arrogance that thinks a woman's room is a corridor." Amber eyes with gold flecks hold their guard, then soften by a notch.
Work begins before I stand. I signal the hall with two fingers. Two men appear and don't stare. "Seal the landing," I say. "Soft steps. Access is mine and the steward's only. Hold a respectful span from her door, three paces, no closer. Eyes forward, lenses clean. If you crowd that line, you forfeit the post."
I step into the corridor, and the house shifts around the order. "Double the guards on this wing," I tell the captain. "Rotate on short watches. Fresh eyes every two hours. Anyone who yawns on post goes home and doesn't return."
To the systems man, "Door contacts on her suite change now. Add vibration to the sill and mercury tilt to the balcony latch. Motion sensors in the dressing room and the prayer corner, and route every sensor to a silent alert that goes only to my device and to one deputy I will name. Keep the security panel dark. No lights, no tones, no status change visible to staff or intruders."
To the key master, "Audit every master within the hour. New pins for this floor before dusk. Anyone late to the exchange is already fired."
To the quartermaster, "All gifts and deliveries are quarantined in the service room by the north door. No scent crosses the threshold. Anything botanical is inspected and logged, then burned outside after photographs."
To the matron who raised half this house, "I need two trusted women to sweep her wardrobes and bed for lenses, threads, or insult. I require gloves, patience, and respect, and if you find a thing, you put it in my hand, not your story."
To Misha on comms, "Build a circle around Morozov.Tishina, bez shuma. Silence, without noise. He breathes near this block, I want the air report at once. No contact. No theater."
He answers once. "Ponyal."
I go back in. She has not moved. Her thumb rubs her little cross in a small rhythm that says she is building a wall brickby brick and choosing not to hide behind it. I sit on the carpet across from her, lower than the bed, level with her knees. No shadow thrown, not from me.
"Say what you need to say," I offer.
"I need my life to be my own," she says. "I need my room to be a room and not a ledger."
"It will be," I answer. "The ledger lives with me."
"I'm not a ledger entry," she says.
"No," I say. "You are the page I keep clean."
Her mouth turns as if that answer angers her and steadies her in the same breath. She says nothing more. I don't force words into a room that has had enough of men's certainty. I stand, set the envelope and the folded ash on her desk, and rest my hand on the chair back to anchor my next sentence.
"I will be outside until sundown," I tell her. "Then I will come back. This house will feel different by night."
"Different," she repeats, not a question.
"Safer," I say. "And yours."
I bow once to the icon in her corner because that is how I leave rooms that matter. The corridor receives me like a sheath.
The next hours are iron and paper. A locksmith's cart hums like a hive. Brass pins spill like small coins into new cylinders. We chalk hairline seals on window latches and lay a red thread on the inside of her knob, an old sign, not superstition, a mother's mark that tells you if a door has beenturned. We replace the runner outside her suite with a split layer that listens for weight where it doesn't belong. We move a lens in the far sconce to give me the line I want on the service stair. I sign for new badge lists with a pen, not a password. I hold the master key in my palm and feel its teeth. A key is a promise, not a convenience.
The gifts that arrive are logged, opened, photographed, and set in a cold room with a bulb. White lilies to the fire out back. A box of candied fruit that smells like an apology to the bin. The card with her name goes into a file with the others I keep. Men like Morozov forget that a house is a mouth that can testify.
By twilight the perimeter has a new temper. Men stand two doors down from her corridor with shoulders relaxed and eyes aware. They are fed. Hot food clears the head. The chapel lamp burns without wavering. The house breathes beeswax and winter through the vents, old wood settling its bones around the new lines I have drawn.
I send one last message to Misha.
Shadow holds?
Holds, he replies.He is angry. He will make the next mistake for us.
