And then I close my eyes.
I’m transported back to a memory.
It was six years ago right here on this very estate.
It’s a party for some holiday I can't remember. Politics require attendance, so I'm here with my father, making rounds and playing nice.
Then I see them.
Kira and Anya in the garden, away from the crowd. Kira is trying to teach her little sister to dance—some formal ballroom thing Anya clearly doesn't know.
They're both laughing as they step on each other's feet. Anya looks at Kira with such pure adoration, and Kira is patient and gentle.
"You're doing great," Kira encourages. "Just feel the rhythm. Don't think so hard."
"I'm going to break your toes," Anya protests, but she's laughing.
"Then we'll both have matching casts. It'll be a bonding experience."
They spin, stumble, and nearly fall before catching each other. Both of them dissolving into giggles.
I watch from the doorway and picture Kira teaching our daughters to dance.
This is the woman I'm going to marry. She will be the mother of my children. The woman I grow old with.
Anya spots me first. "Maksim! Come help! Kira is a terrible teacher!"
"I'm an excellent teacher!" Kira protests. "You're just a terrible student!"
I join them in the garden, and Kira's smile when she sees me could light up Moscow.
"Rescue me," Anya begs. "She's going to cripple me before I can learn anything useful."
"She's exaggerating," Kira says, but she's already moving to my arms. "Show her how it's done?"
We dance while Anya watches and tries to mimic our steps.
"You're good with her," I murmur against Kira's ear.
"She's my baby sister. I'd do anything for her."
"I know." I spin her gently. "It's one of the things I love about you."
The three of us spend an hour in the garden, laughing and dancing and pretending the brutal politics inside don't exist.
I blink back to the present. The hot water is starting to cool. I turn off the water and step out, wrapping a towel around my waist. The scratches on my back sting. I welcome the pain. It's clearer than the confusion in my head.
I have to at least consider the idea Kira isn’t responsible. At least not entirely.
And if that’s true, someone else was involved.
Who?
I know manipulation. I've seen it perfected in that Georgian prison. I've learned to read people, to see through lies.
And I don’t believe Kira is lying.
The truth crashes over me like ice water.
