"I am." I gesture at the road, the gate. "This is minimal security."
"Oh." She takes that in, and for a second she's quiet. Then the carrier yowls like a demon, and she brightens again. "Almost home, Sir Isaac."
Throw her in the lake,my brain suggests helpfully. Not to drown her. Just to test whether joy is waterproof. Has she already misplaced the part where she's being forced to marry me?
Then the same old suspicion slams into the amusement like a fist. She's too pleased. Too calm. Did she script this whole circus?
I pull to a stop under the portico and we step out. The big door yawns open because someone always watches, and Pavel appears. Thick-necked. Polite in the way a grenade is just a glob before the pin gets pulled.
He nods to me, then to her. Doesn't ask questions.
"Bags?" he asks.
"Just a suitcase." Elle lifts her own backpack. "And this is Sir Isaac."
Pavel's eyebrows do a slow rise, then a slow fall. He steps forward to take the backpack. She holds tighter.
"It's okay," I say. "He's family. Here to help."
She blinks at that. Then she lets go.
"Let's head in," I mutter. She nods and follows.
From her hand, I hear an offended yowl.
"Should I let him out?" she asks, far too gleefully as we climb the stairs.
"No." Too quick. "I hate cats. Let him out in your room."
"He's very sensitive," she says, lifting the carrier like a chalice. "If you insult him, he'll hold a grudge."
"Yeah, well. I can hold one too." I glower at the cat.
She smiles.
We go inside. The foyer is too big for comfort and echoes a little too much. She spins anyway, the way girls do on stages. Face upturned to the ceiling like she's waiting for stars to be painted there.
Staff drift in from the edges, and one reaches for the cat carrier.
"Careful," Elle warns. "He hates strangers."
The cat turns his head, blinks once, and starts purring like a generator meeting OSHA standards.
"Traitor," she mutters. Then she looks at me, amused. "He pretends he doesn't need anyone. It's a whole personality."
"Cats don't have personalities," I say.
She gives me a look. I decide I'm right and don't deserve it.
Just then, I hear quick footsteps slapping the stone corridor.
"Papa!"
Pasha barrels into the doorway at full speed. He tries to stop, fails, and launches at me anyway. I catch him with one arm without thinking. My body goes into automatic around him.
He smells like soap and grass and sugar. Like childhood in its purest form.
His dark hair is a mess, his gray eyes too sharp for eight. He takes in Elle, then the carrier, and his whole face breaks into a grin so wide it rewires something in my chest.
