Page 41 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“I’m useful before breakfast,” she says. “You, on the other hand, look like you’ve been arguing with your own head.”

I pull out a chair and sit. “My head fights dirty.”

“That, I believe.” She turns to the kettle. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

A few minutes later, she sets a cup in front of me, then adds wheat biscuits to a small plate and pushes it over. The Darjeeling smells warm and floral, and I wrap both hands around the cup before taking a sip.

She watches me over those red-rimmed glasses for a moment, then says, “You think too much.”

I glance up at her. “Anyone in my place would.”

Her face softens a little, and she gives a small nod like she’s granting me the point. “Yes,” she says. “But things have a way of settling down, and sometimes they do it faster once people stop fighting every single breath of it.”

I take another sip, then pick up a biscuit and break it in half. “That sounds suspiciously hopeful.”

“It sounds experienced,” she says and reaches over to straighten the spoon beside my saucer. “Drink your tea, Elena. One thing at a time. That’s how people get through ugly seasons.”

I look down at the steam rising from the cup, then back at her.

For the first time since waking up, I believe I might make it through the day without coming apart.

When I leave the kitchen, I still feel wound tight, but I feel better too, and the shift is real enough that I catch it before I can talk myself out of it.

In the east hall, a maid in a stiff black apron comes toward me with fresh linen in her arms. She mumbles a greeting and looks away so fast color climbs into her cheeks. I step aside and say, “I’m not contagious,” and she nearly drops the stack, and I’m sorry the second it leaves my mouth.

I try to soften it. “Your name?”

“Lidiya, Miss,” she says, then scurries past me with the linen hugged to her chest.

My feet take me through the side hall and down the short stone passage that leads to the oldest part of the estate. Morning light falls across the walls in broken strips as I go, and the smell changes fast—old incense, smoke, cold stone.

The rest of the house has been reinforced and wired for control, but the chapel was left alone. It shows in the dark icons, the worn floor, and the beeswax candles burned down in brass stands. No guards wait here. No cameras catch the corners.

I step inside, sit for a minute, and bow my head. Please let me keep this child safe. Let me get through this with my mind still my own. When I come back out, my steps are steadier and my spine is straighter as I head for the main house.

I reach the legal room. Leonid is coming down the hall with quick steps, a file tucked under his arm and his glasses low on his nose. He sees me by the door, slows, and gives me a look that says he’d rather not start his morning with me.

“Early,” he says, short and curt.

“Apparently, I’m not the only one,” I say, aiming for friendly in my own way.

He opens the door, and I step in before he can stop me.

Work is already moving. One clerk is at the cabinet pulling binders and stacking them at the far end of the table. Another is sorting papers into dated piles with extra care because Leonid is in the room. Maksim is in shirtsleeves, one hand on the table, reading over a file Leonid marked up in blue.

His eyes lift to mine.

“You’re up.”

“I noticed.”

Leonid doesn’t look pleased by the back-and-forth. He sets one file down, reaches for another, then says to Maksim, “The pending file needs to be finished today.”

His look at me says the rest. Leave.

I don’t. I walk straight to the table, pull the blue folder from the stack beside Maksim, the one I know because I took it from under Leonid’s nose, and set it down in front of Maksim hard enough to make Leonid stop where he stands.