She turns to me, blinking. “You’re really changing the rules?”
“For now. Don’t give me a reason to regret it.”
She nods. “I won’t.”
I study her, noting the way she holds herself, less afraid, more curious, already calculating possibilities. “If you have questions, ask.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Why me?”
The honesty of the question surprises me. I search for the right answer, but it’s not easy to give.
“You wrote my name,” I say. “Yet you can still look me in the eye.”
She doesn’t look away. “You said I’m brave. That makes me dangerous, right?”
A shadow of a smile tugs at my lips. “Sometimes bravery is the most dangerous thing of all.”
We stand together in the bright, humid quiet. For the first time, the house doesn’t feel quite so much like a prison for either of us.
She drifts further into the conservatory, trailing her fingertips over the glossy leaves. I stay a step behind, watching as the sunlight catches in her hair. She glances back, catching me staring.
“Is this where you come to escape?” she asks, her voice softer than before.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “It’s quiet here.”
She circles a pot of jasmine, inhaling deeply. “I get it. When the city feels too loud, I always went to the botanic gardens. You can forget everything out there for a while.”
I nod. I should say nothing more, but I find myself wanting to offer her something real. “You can have your books here. If you need space, tell me.”
She gives me a look that’s almost grateful, then drops her gaze. “You act like you’re making this better.”
“I’m trying,” I say, quietly.
She hugs her arms around herself. “You’re still holding me here.”
I meet her eyes. “Yes. I am.”
The honesty hangs between us. She holds my stare, searching for any crack in my control.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she says, barely above a whisper.
I consider telling her, but words fail, so I let silence answer for now.
Outside, the wind rattles the glass, and for a moment, it feels like the world could be just this. A woman and a man, both trapped in their own ways, standing in the quiet green of a forgotten room.
Chapter Nine - Clara
The days blur together in this place. There are no clocks in the rooms I’m allowed to use, but I learn the rhythms of the house: the way the guards rotate after breakfast, how the housemaid moves soundlessly from hall to hall, which footsteps are Lukyan’s and which aren’t.
Every detail becomes a thread I tuck away, weaving some secret map of survival behind my calm facade.
Most mornings, I sit in the library, the only room with windows wide enough to let in real sunlight. I watch the garden paths and trace the guards’ routes—where they pause, who lingers too long at the far wall, which one brings coffee to the north entrance.
At lunch, I pay attention to the way the cook’s assistant glances at me, curious but always silent. Sometimes I smile. Sometimes I don’t bother. It changes nothing.
When I’m alone, I wander the upper floor, learning the locked and unlocked doors, memorizing the pattern of rugs and shadows. I count my paces between hallways, searching for blind spots in the cameras’ coverage. I know I shouldn’t risk too much—Lukyan’s patience is thin, and my freedom here is a test I can’t afford to fail. Still, curiosity eats at me, sharper with each day.
It’s midafternoon when I see my chance. The house is quiet. I slip through a half-open door at the end of the west hall, drawn by the hush and the faint scent of leather and paper. The study is smaller than I expect—heavy curtains, a polished desk, and rows of neat folders stacked along one wall. I scan the spines: names, numbers, dates, written in neat Cyrillic script.
