I plink out the notes again. Each one drains a little bit more of my frustration away, leaving a blissful emptiness behind. Space for me to breathe.
Valentin improvises with the three notes, turning them into a phrase, then variations on that phrase, hands dancing along the keys. He drums them out along the lower register, then reaches around me to twinkle in the high octaves with a red-cheeked smile. He pulls his hands back together and, diminuendo, the notes trip over each other, rising and falling, punctuated by a sharp chord here and there, growing and growing until I can almost hear the brass section exploding behind us in a Rachmaninov-style riot of luxurious noise.
Finally he reins it in, taming the chaos of Zhenya-inspired noise until it’s just a fragile, dimming light, and it subsides into the final chords that are so perfect that I can’t imagine anything happening in that moment except this ending, even though I desperately want the song to go on and on. Valentin is shaking. A droplet of sweat creeps down his temple toward his jaw, sneaking under the thick black earpiece of his glasses. His eyes are clamped shut like the piano itself scares him. His fingers slip off the keys of the final chord and drift down into his lap.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. Thank you. I mean to say it, but the words lodge in my throat; I can’t break the silence of the song’s afterglow. Valentin watches, stoic, as I back away from the piano—from Zhenya’s music. From the exposed wiring of my brother’s knotted-up brain. I have to see him again. I have to get to Moscow State or some sort of school, to the life I left behind, here or somewhere else, and break the Zhenya code.
Someone claps politely; Larissa is tucked onto a dining chair behind me, legs crossed beneath her and bare toes wiggling. A notebook lies open in her lap, covered in squiggles and swirls. “You were smiling for a minute there,” she says. “You should smile more often.”
Of course my reaction is to scowl.
She shrugs. “Or not. But it wouldn’t kill you to be happy every now and then.” She pats the chair beside her. “You’ll be here longer than you like, you know. But not so long that you’ll lose yourself. I’m confident you’ll find your way.”
My heart beats faster, but there’s no malice in her smile like I’d expect from someone like Masha. “I don’t know what you mean.” I sink into the chair beside her.
“It’s funny,” she says, her eyes becoming unfocused from mine as if she’s looking at something beyond me. “You can see backward, and I can see forward.”
I don’t find it very funny at all, not after my failure in Kruzenko’s office. “Doesn’t it overwhelm you? Seeing everything before it comes.”
“I don’t see everything,” she says. “I see all the possible everythings.”
“That sounds even worse.” I muster a weak laugh.
“You should ask Kruzenko to help you with your power sometime. I think you’d be surprised how much she can help.”
I shudder before I can stop myself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“Trust me,” Larissa says, with a tap to her temple. “I think you’ll feel better if you do.”
*
I find Kruzenko in the parlor the next day after lessons, writing out more of her notes. The fireplace is dark, and the radio off; the only light comes from a brassy sconce on the wall. It edges Kruzenko in a sinister glow.
Her eyes dart toward me for a moment, acknowledging my presence, but she keeps writing until I speak. “I want to control it,” I say, my voice too frail. I clear my throat and try again. “The emotions and memories. You’re not challenging me, but I want to be stronger.”
She sets aside her notes with a satisfied grin. “Very well. I think I know just the thing.” She throws open grungy cabinets, rummaging through them as she talks. “Tell me more about how you used your powers before you came to us.”
Before my abduction, she means. I will not call it anything else, lest I grow too comfortable. But I do want to control my powers: I will need every last tool at my disposal to find Mama and Zhenya and escape. If we are rewarded for good behavior, like Sergei claims, then I will swallow the KGB’s propaganda and lay golden eggs of psychic brilliance until Kruzenko has no choice but to lead me to them.
“This children’s toy. How might a person use it, if it was their dearest possession?” She holds up a stuffed teddy bear with dingy, matted fur and awkward lumps where the stuffing has shifted from years of use. “A happy child might play with it, walk around with it tucked loosely in his arms, yes?”
“Sure,” I say. The black glass eyes staring at me are scratched and worn down. A lighter-colored band of fur around its neck marks where a ribbon might once have been tied.