"That seems to be a family trait."
She laughs—genuine, surprised. "I like you already. Come, walk with me. I want to see what you've done with my mother's greenhouse."
It's not a request. But somehow, I don't mind. There's something about her—a directness that cuts through the layers of tension and uncertainty that have defined my existence here.
We walk together toward the greenhouse, Anna's heels clicking on the gravel. She's dressed impeccably—designerclothes, perfect makeup—but she doesn't seem to care that her shoes are getting dirty or that the wind is ruining her hair.
"Misha talks about you," she says as we reach the greenhouse door. "Not directly, of course. He's never been good at saying what he means. But I can read between the lines."
"What do the lines say?"
"That you've gotten under his skin in a way no one else ever has." She pushes open the door and steps inside, looking around at the cleared aisles and salvaged plants. "This is remarkable. It's been dead for years."
"It wasn't dead. Just neglected."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"No." I move past her, touching the fern I've been nursing back to health. "Dead means beyond saving. Neglected means waiting for someone to care."
Anna is quiet for a moment, studying me with those sharp eyes. "You're not what I expected," she says finally.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Someone softer, maybe. Someone who would crumble under the weight of all this." She gestures vaguely—at the greenhouse, at the estate, at the invisible threat looming beyond the walls. "But you're still standing. Still fighting. That takes strength."
"Or stupidity."
"Sometimes they're the same thing." She perches on the edge of the workbench, crossing her legs. "My brother is difficult. I'm sure you've noticed."
"I've noticed."
"He wasn't always like this. Before our parents died, he was different. Lighter. He used to laugh—really laugh, not the hollow thing he does now." Her expression softens. "Losing them broke something in him. He built walls so high that nothing could get through. Not even family."
"But you're still close."
"Close is relative. I love him. He loves me. But there are parts of himself he doesn't share with anyone." She pauses. "Until you, apparently."
I don't know how to respond to that. The idea that Misha has shown me parts of himself he keeps hidden from his own sister is both flattering and terrifying.
"He's not good at feelings," Anna continues. "But that doesn't mean he doesn't have them. It just means he doesn't know how to express them. Or maybe he's afraid to." She fixes me with a look. "Don't give up on him. He's worth the effort, even when he makes it hard."
"I'm not sure what we are to each other," I admit. "Everything is so complicated."
"Of course it is. This life is nothing but complications." She slides off the workbench. "But complications don't have to be obstacles. Sometimes they're just... the shape of the path. You navigate them, and eventually you find your way through."
She says it so simply, like navigating a world of violence and betrayal is no different from choosing the right route through traffic. Maybe for her, it isn't. She was born into this, after all.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
"Because my brother is happier than I've seen him in seventeen years, and I think you're the reason. I don't wantto see either of you throw that away because you're both too stubborn to admit what you're feeling." She smiles, taking the edge off her words. "Consider this a sisterly intervention."
Before I can respond, her phone buzzes. She checks it, frowns.
"Dmitri's team is arriving. I should go play welcoming committee." She pauses at the greenhouse door. "It was good to meet you, Bianca. I hope we get the chance to know each other better."
"So do I."
She disappears toward the house, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
