The thought hits harder than I expect, and I sit upright in bed, the sheets pooling around my waist. My chest tightens with a mixture of dread.
No. Don’t go there, Ivy. Don’t start imagining the worst just because someone scared you for being a total snoop.
He didn’t hurt me. He didn’t even yell.
I eventually doze off again just before sunrise, only to wake with a dry mouth and a headache I can’t shake. I move slowly, dressing carefully while my head is still filled with images of my strange dreams.
A part of me debates whether to wear something casual or a little more put-together, which is stupid—I’m here to teach English, not impress anyone.
By the time I make it downstairs, the mansion is once again cloaked in that strange silence. Thankfully, one of the staff intercepts me before I can wander too far and gestures for me to follow. She doesn’t say much, just a polite smile, and leads me to a sunlit dining room off the east wing.
It’s stunning. It’s the kind of room I’ve only ever seen in magazine spreads or period dramas. Gold-rimmed China, crystal vases blooming with real white roses, embroidered linens more expensive than any fabric I’ve ever touched in my entire life. An entire buffet spread is laid out on the table as if a dozen people might walk in at any moment and sit down for breakfast.
Relief floods through me when I realize Sergei isn’t there. Instead, Yulia sits at the massive table by herself, already halfway through a pancake the size of her face. There is syrup smeared on her cheek, and her little legs are swinging beneath the chair. Her hair is pulled into a lopsided braid and her face brightens instantly when she sees me.
“Good morning!” she chirps.
I smile and settle into the seat across from her. “Morning, Yulia. Did you sleep well?”
She leans closer like she’s about to tell me a secret. “There’sblinitoday. You must try. My favorite.”
“Blini, huh?” I say, amused. “What’s in it?”
She shrugs. “It is pancake. Russian pancake. Sometimes with sweet, sometimes with meat.”
“Pancakes with meat?” My brows pull together.
“Yes.” She nods, grinning. “You eat both. That is rule.”
I laugh softly, and the tension I’ve been carrying for the past twelve hours eases just a little more.
Yulia’s brightness is infectious, her enthusiasm unguarded and pure. She doesn’t feel like a child raised by a tyrant. She doesn’t seem scared or guarded in the way children sometimes are when something’s off at home.
The staff move silently around us, refilling Yulia’s juice, placing a porcelain teacup in front of me. Everyone operates with a kind of practiced precision that makes me wary.
Yulia doesn’t know a lot of English phrases but she does know quite a bit of vocabulary and is whip-smart about context clues.We play a little language game between bites of buttery pastries and fresh fruit. She points to things in the room, saying their names in Russian while I repeat them back in English.
By the end of breakfast, we’ve each learned half a dozen new words and are laughing like old friends. Honestly, I’m having more fun than I ever thought I would teaching someone my native tongue.
After we finish, Yulia leads me by the hand to a large library on the west end of the mansion. There is a small room toward the back that she brings me to. To my surprise, it’s been set up like a miniature classroom, complete with a desk, bookshelves filled with learning worksheets and texts, and even a whiteboard mounted to the wall.
“Papa made for us,” she says proudly, settling into the seat behind the desk.
I blink, my eyes wandering around the room.
“Today, you teach me songs?” Yulia asks hopefully. “From America?”
“Sure.” I nod. “We can make that part of our lesson.”
She claps her hands, grinning. “I want to sing same as Taylor Swift.”
I blink. “You know Taylor Swift?”
“She isverypopular,” Yulia says seriously. “But not as good as Polina Gagarina. She sings for Russia.”
“Then maybe we’ll do both after our vocabulary lesson. One American song and one Russian,” I say, reaching for my cup of tea.
“Okay!”
