Page 121 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“My opinion?”

“Yes, Madam. Yours.”

That lands strangely.

On the table are ivory linen, dark red ribbon, two silver candlesticks, and three small bowls of flowers. White roses. Dark ranunculus. Green stems cut clean and tied with twine.

“No chrysanthemums,” I say.

Mrs. Wentworth’s mouth moves almost into approval. “Already removed.”

“Good.”

Lidiya writes it down like I just passed a law.

Mrs. Wentworth taps the smaller linen. “Registrar’s table?”

“That one.”

“And the inkstand?”

“The silver one. Not gold.”

“Excellent,” she says. “Gold would be vulgar today.”

I look up. “Today?”

She doesn’t blink. “Yes, Madam.”

That almost makes me laugh and knit my brows at the same time. Maksim had said men were coming. Records would be witnessed, names would be spoken, and the house needed to look ready. He didn’t say why the inkstand needed a moral position or why Mrs. Wentworth was asking my opinion like the house belonged to me.

I look at the flowers again. “Dark red with green. No white roses.”

Lidiya writes it down fast.

Mrs. Wentworth’s mouth softens. “A very good choice.”

After, Lidiya walks with me through the house. Staff turn as we pass. Some greet me. Some only dip their heads. The older ones seem relieved to have rules again. The younger ones look nervous. Yesterday, men bled over documents. Today, everyone is polishing silver.

The main hall is being stripped and remade. Rugs are beaten and rolled back. Chairs line one side. A long table has been brought in, dark wood, carved legs, old enough that the scratches look earned. Two men adjust lamps so the table is fully lit. A registrar’s case sits unopened near one end.

Maksim is everywhere and nowhere.

I hear his voice once from the downstairs office, clipped and firm. I see him cross the far end of a corridor with Abramov and Dima at his side, phone in one hand, bloodied shirt replaced by a black suit. He sees me too. His steps slow for one second, and his eyes move over me from head to toe.

Then someone speaks near him, and he turns away before I can take a step.

At lunch, Mrs. Wentworth brings soup, bread, and tea to the sitting room instead of the dining room, and she stands over me until I eat half.

“You’re treating me like glass,” I say.

“No,” she says, straightening the blanket over my knees. “Glass breaks loudly and leaves evidence. You would be far more difficult.”

I look down at the soup so she doesn’t see my mouth curve.

By afternoon, I am sent to rest in his room. Our room, my mind corrects. I lie down without sleeping. The house moves under me, every footstep and closing door carrying the same order. Be ready.

Around three, Maksim comes in. He closes the door behind him and stands there for a moment, watching me on the bed. His suit fits perfectly, but the cut at his side makes him move carefully. His eyes go to my face first, then to the blanket over my stomach.