My heart slams against my ribs. Lying at the bottom of the drawer is a single folder stamped SEKRET.
I pry the folder out. Something rattles underneath it—a framed photo. It’s old—a harsh image of stark blacks and crisp, pleated whites, too sharply contrasted to show the image’s subtleties. A crowd of people are wedged into a narrow metal room, like the hold of a ship, all of them wearing soldier uniforms. I immediately recognize the gaunt, blazing stare of Colonel Rostov, though he’s almost smiling and has a flop of pale hair covering his forehead. The woman beside him, raising a glass toward the camera in salute—could that be Kruzenko? All her fat’s been trimmed away, revealing a strong, sturdy gymnast’s body. Her shoulder presses seamlessly against Rostov’s, as if they’re cut from the same block of stone. Another man, on Rostov’s other side, must be the twins’ father. I’d know that smug grin anywhere. A few others glance toward the camera, annoyed to have their card game disrupted, but I don’t recognize the rest. These must be the original psychic spies, the ones who fought in the Patriotic War like Sergei said.
I set the picture aside and reach for the folder. It’s too thin. My hope ebbs even before I open it. Sure enough, it’s only a few pages of handwritten notes with today’s date across the top.
MIKHAIL: attempts to increase distance of mind reading progressing slowly. No improvements from last week’s test at a 20-m range.
LARISSA: still lacking clarity on Veter 1 test results. Too far in future? Too uncertain? Reminded her there are lives at stake, but she remains frustratingly blasé. I quote: “Even if I saw someone’s death, the events that led to it would be so knotted together, who knows what one factor you’d need to change? You people have set these events into motion knowing what could happen. I’m just the wind vane.” Will consult with Rostov on re-education options to correct attitude.
YULIA: works best with objects that have no emotional attachment. Still too easily overwhelmed with emotionally charged memories. I see no problem in keeping her in that state—if she cannot control the emotions entering her, then she remains easier to subdue.
Easier to subdue? I start to crumple the paper, then stop myself. So much for controlling my emotions. I shove the framed picture and the notes back in the desk drawer and slam it shut.
There has to be more here. Some clue, something that will lead me to Mama and Zhenya, some hint that’ll allow me to escape. I run my fingers along the walls, the desk, searching for hidden compartments and begging for memories to jump out at me. Nothing. There’s nothing. Like a criminal wiping away his fingerprints, Rostov must have scrubbed it clean, just like he did to Mama’s necklace, destroying the memories beyond anything he’d want me to see.
I sink my palms into the desktop. I have to break past the barrier. I have to know where they are! White light prickles against my skin like the pins and needles at the onset of numbness, but I keep pushing. “Where are they?” I sob. “Where is my family?”
The static wave bursts through me, knocking me back into the chair. My hands ache as if from a flash burn. His echo stings like an atom bomb under the wood grain. Embarrassment scalds my cheeks as the room around me slowly rights itself, the white flare of hatred receding. There’s nothing here for me.
I lean against the door, watching the other side through the wood. I’m still not good at this—I can catch only a murky glimpse of what lies on the other side—but it’s enough for me to tell when one of the guards strolls by. The door opens silently and I slip out.
I follow the strains of Valentin’s piano playing back to the ballroom. There’s a melody in my head, three notes buoying me from utter despair at making no progress in Kruzenko’s office. The notes that Zhenya whistled in my dream. I need to hear them again.
I hover beside the piano bench. Each note ebbs away a bit of my anger, erodes my barrier just a little more. Valentin glances up, his eyes holding mine for a few bars while the notes flutter on, then he tapers the melody into a graceful set of closing chords.
I study the black and white bars, then plink out the three-note melody in the high register of keys. Artlessly, I admit, but I manage to summon up an ancient music lesson to hit the right ones. The notes are the heart of one of Zhenya’s convoluted, unending symphonies that sprawl across multiple folios of sheet music. I can almost see him whistling the tune, but the image distorts in my mind when I look at it straight on. After all, it was just my dream, not a real memory that I can cling to.
Valentin flexes his fingers over the lower register, hesitating for a moment, then plays a shimmery, chorded version of the three notes. His chin tilts toward me in a tiny, questioning lift.