Page 79 of Marrying the Savage

I hate everything.

Especially the fact that when he lifts his coffee again and smirks at me over the rim, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling back.

13

SOFIA

By the afternoon, I have learned three things about Volodin House.

One, the coffee is excellent.

Two, every corridor looks like it has been designed by a man who thinks sunlight is a personal weakness.

Three, absolutely everyone knows where I am at all times, even when they are pretending they don’t.

This last part becomes clear when I leave my bedroom and start exploring.

No one stops me. That’s the suspicious part. If I were truly free to wander, someone would be less casual about it. Instead, the guard posted near the end of the upstairs corridor gives me a respectful nod, doesn’t ask where I’m going, and then somehow another man appears downstairs five minutes later near the east hall, also not asking where I’m going.

I walk past him slowly. He stares at a painting as if it contains the secrets of creation.

I stop. He doesn’t move.

I take three steps backward. His eyes stay fixed on the painting.

“Is it good?” I ask.

His jaw tightens.

“The painting,” I say helpfully. “You seem fascinated.”

“It’s old,” he says.

“Excellent analysis.”

He says nothing.

I sigh and continue down the hall.

Volodin House is enormous in that quiet, oppressive way old money houses often are. Not showy, exactly. The wealth here is too certain for showiness. It doesn’t shout. It sits in dark marble floors, antique mirrors, carved banisters, heavy doors, oil portraits, rugs too old to step on without feeling personally judged by history.

The sea follows everywhere. Through windows. Down corridors. In the low, endless crash against the cliff below. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also impossible to forget. The whole house feels built on the edge of something waiting to swallow it.

I pass a music room, which makes me stop.

There is no piano yet. Thank God.

Or maybe not thank God, because I’m half-convinced Damir can summon one through sheer arrogance by dinner.

The room is empty except for covered furniture, tall windows, and a fireplace cold with disuse. For a moment, I imagine it filled with music, and the thought makes me uncomfortable in a way I can’t immediately explain.

So I leave.

I’m halfway down another corridor, trying to decide whether the house contains a library or only rooms in which men brood professionally, when I hear a thump followed by low cursing. The kind delivered with great seriousness and imperfect pronunciation.

I pause. A second thump follows.

Then a boy’s voice mutters, “Stupid horse.”