“Is that your way of telling me that I’ll find out soon?” I ask.
The corner of his mouth twitches as his gaze drops to our joined hands. “It is.”
The car starts to slow, and soon, we’re turning off the main road. The countryside starts to transform until it becomes something else entirely. High hedgerows rise up in the distance, and soon, we’re driving through them, and it feels like a set of high green walls are closing in all around us.
I try to peer through the hedgerows, but the branches are so thick that I can’t see anything. Even the sunlight has a hard time penetrating them. Wherever we’re going, it’s not meant to be seen.
Finally, we make yet another turn and arrive at a large gate. A masked man with a heavy rifle slung over his shoulder walks up to us, and my hand tightens instinctively in Slava’s.
He gives me a soft squeeze. “These are my men.”
That doesn’t make me feel any better. This level of security means whatever’s behind these hedgerows is worth dying over.
Or worth killing for.
The gates swing open, and then we drive on. Hedgerows make way into open sky, revealing beautifully manicured grounds. Across the grounds are more men toting rifles.
Angling my neck, I spot a chateau in the distance, growing larger as we approach.
It’s old in a way buildings in America can never be— hundreds of years of history carved into stone with towers and turrets stabbing into the sky. It’s the kind of place that has survived wars and revolutions and the crushing weight of time.
It’s simultaneously ostentatious and overwhelming, but also carries an air of intimate quaintness.
The car drives up to the front door, and Slava’s hand tightens on mine for a moment and then releases as he steps out.
A broad-chested man in his fifties is waiting for us at the entrance. His silver hair is neatly combed back and his posture is straight as a pencil. He gives me a quick sharp glance, as if to assess any threats that I might pose, before he nods at Slava.
“Slava Danilovich.” His accent is French, but he uses Slava’s patronymic just like Ludmilla had.
“Monsieur Lavoisier.” Slava nods back, and then gestures at me. “This is my PR agent, Ms. Bella Creminelli.”
“Pleasure.” Lavoisier grunts. If he had any additional questions for why Slava might need to bring his PR agent here, he has enough professionalism to neither ask nor react.
“Where is he?” Slava asks Lavoisier now that introductions are done. “Is he alright?”
Nothing can hide the anxiety in his voice. But my attention is fixed on that single word carrying more raw emotion than I’ve ever heard from Slava Romanov.
He.
“He’s fine.” Lavoisier answers. “A bit shaken from the circumstances, but physically unharmed. I had him brought here.”
Relief passes through Slava. His shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, and the knot in his jaw loosens. And as I watch the tension ebb out of him, something twists in my chest.
“However, there is also our primary concern,” Lavoisier continues. “L’Ecole Beaumont-sur-Loire has maintained its reputation for nearly four hundred years. The security of our grounds is the foundation of that reputation.”
I know what he’s saying. They’re worried about their reputation. Whatever happened must’ve been serious and they’re scared.
I guess that’s why Lavoisier didn’t react when he learned I’m Slava’s PR agent.
“I want to see him.” Slava holds up a hand as Lavoisier continues to blather about security.
I fall into step behind them, mind racing through the puzzle pieces that still don’t fit any pattern yet. A chateau in southern France. A private army. A mysterious institution with four hundred years of history.
And a “he” that makes the most controlled man I’ve ever met visibly afraid.
We pass through an entrance hall, and then?—
“Papa!”
