She doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes sweep over me, taking in my pallor, the slight tremble in my hands, and the way I’m leaning against the doorframe for support. But she nods anyway.
“I can bring you something else?” she offers, and there’s genuine kindness in her voice. The first kindness I’ve heard in this house. “Maybe tea? And plain crackers? Sometimes that helps when—” She stops herself, color rising in her cheeks like she’s said too much.
The kindness in her offer makes my throat tight with unshed tears. “That would be lovely,” I manage, giving her a weak smile. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Anya,” she says softly. Then, as if remembering that she’s not supposed to be kind to the enemy, she adds quickly, “I should get back to work.”
She hurries away before I can say anything else, her footsteps quick and light on the tile floor, fleeing before Mrs. Kozlov can catch her being nice to me.
I’m left standing alone in the hallway, still shaky, nauseous, and terrified.
I make my way back to the kitchen slowly. My legs feel like jelly, weak and unreliable. Mrs. Kozlov is waiting, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. Assessing. Calculating.
“You are ill,” she states. Not a question. It’s more of an observation. Or even an accusation.
“Just a little queasy,” I say carefully, measuring each word. “The coffee was?—”
“The coffee is the same coffee Mr. Volkov drinks every morning,” she interrupts, her tone sharp. Defensive. “It is fine coffee. The best.”
Right. Of course. How dare I imply anything in this house is less than perfect. Everything here is the best, the finest, the most expensive. Questioning that is questioning Dimitri himself.
“I’m sure it is,” I say quickly, placatingly. “I just—I’m not used to such strong coffee. My stomach is a little sensitive. That’s all. I didn’t mean to imply?—”
She studies me for a long moment, and I have the uncomfortable feeling she’s seeing right through me. Those sharp eyes taking in every detail—my pallor, the way I’m barely holding myself together. She’s probably been with the family since they first came here from Russia. She’s seen everything. Does she know? Can she tell?
But then she just makes a dismissive sound in the back of her throat and turns away. “Anya will bring you tea and crackers in the morning room. You should rest.”
It’s another dismissal, but I’m grateful for it. I need to get away from those sharp, assessing eyes. I need to be somewhere I can breathe without feeling like I’m being examined under a microscope.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and flee for the second time this morning.
The morning room turns out to be a sun-drenched space on the east side of the house. Large windows overlook the grounds, and good lord, what grounds they are.
I stand at the window, my forehead pressed against the cool glass, and stare out at Dimitri’s estate.
Manicured lawns stretch as far as I can see, dotted with mature trees that must be decades old. Oak and maple, their leaves just starting to turn with the approaching fall. Carefully maintained flower beds full of late-summer blooms—roses and dahlias and some purple flowers I don’t recognize. Everything is perfectly arranged, perfectly maintained, and not a blade of grass out of place.
There’s a fountain in the distance, marble and ornate, with water cascading in tiers. Beyond that, what looks like a hedge maze, the kind you see in European estates or fancy hotels. An orchard to the west with neat rows of apple trees heavy with fruit.
It’s all stunning. Meticulously cared for. And completelysoulless.
There's no sign of life, of personality, of anyone actually enjoying this space. It’s not a garden where children play or families havepicnics. It’s a showcase. A display. A statement of wealth and power that has nothing to do with joy or happiness or actually living.
Much like everything else in this godforsaken place.
And surrounding it all, the walls. High stone walls topped with security cameras and what might be barbed wire, though it’s too far to tell for sure. Guards patrol at regular intervals, dark figures against the green lawns. I count at least six from this window alone.
Anya brings me the tea and crackers, setting them on the small table beside the overstuffed armchair I claimed as my own. She still won’t quite meet my eyes, but her movements are gentle and careful. Dare I say, almost sympathetic.
“Thank you, Anya,” I say softly, and I mean it.
She nods and starts to leave, but I can’t help myself. I’m so starved for human connection, for kindness, for anything that isn’t hostility or cold indifference.
“How long have you worked here?”
She pauses, turning back. For a moment, I think she won’t answer and she’ll follow Mrs. Kozlov’s example and treat me with cold silence. Then, “Three years. Since I was sixteen.”
So young. Just a girl, really, when she started here. “Do you... do you like it here?”
