Larisa doesn’t wait for permission. She walks in with her cane in hand, dressed for the evening in dark silk, her hair pinned back, her face calm in the way old knives are calm.
“You are still awake,” she says.
“So are you.”
“I’m old. Sleep has grown bored of me.”
I take another sip. “What do you want?”
Her gaze moves over the desk, the untouched papers, the glass in my hand. She comes farther into the room. “The old custom should be followed.”
My jaw tightens. “No.”
“You know which custom I mean.”
“Yes. That’s why I said no.”
Larisa watches me carefully. “A white sheet outside the room by morning. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” I repeat. “You want to turn my bedroom into a public inspection.”
“I want proof that the marriage is real.”
“No. You want to humiliate her.”
Larisa doesn’t deny it. That tells me enough.
“She was Dmitri’s bride first,” she says. “Everyone knows it. Let them see what your brother left you.”
The words are ugly on purpose.
I stand slowly. “Careful.”
“She’s not some untouched saint, Yaromir. Don’t look at me like I’ve insulted a nun.”
I don’t answer.
The truth is, I have assumed the same.
Anya was engaged to Dmitri. They knew each other for years. She lived in that world, sat beside him, wore his ring. I never thought she was a virgin.
I never cared.
Larisa cares only because it gives her a way to shame the girl.
That’s what Larisa wants. I see it clearly now.
“You think there will be nothing to show,” I say.
Larisa’s mouth curves slightly. “I think the house should know what kind of bride you brought in.”
“She is my wife.”
“She is a weapon.”
“She’s both.”
“Then use her properly.”
