“Of course!” The doorman clasps his hands, and the soft leather of his white gloves snickers. “I am so sorry for not remembering, comrade. Here, this is the spare key.” He unhooks it from the rack and holds it out to me. “May I take your coat and hat?”
Valentin isn’t wearing a hat, I think, looking up at him with dopey batting eyes. But couldn’t he be, maybe? Can’t I almost see a black fedora perched on his head, with its grosgrain ribbon band, just like the American man? Yes, I think I can, it might as well be there; it makes sense for it to be.
“No, thank you, comrade. We won’t be but a minute.” He turns toward the elevator bank, and I’m eager to follow, pulled along by this sudden radiance about him, a confidence he’s never before bared. Lenin smiles at us from the end of the hall as the ornate hand above the elevator clicks down the floors toward us. I’m bound to his side by the electricity dancing between us, me and this luscious man who has shed Valentin like a cocoon and taken flight.
CHAPTER 16
THE ELEVATOR IS SO WIDE we could stand on opposite sides without touching. But we don’t. We stay shoulder to shoulder as it whisks us to the fifth floor. Valentin smiles at me—it might be the first genuine smile of his I’ve seen. My mouth hangs open as I gawk at this gorgeous, confident creature. Those gorgeous, confident lips. He brushes a clump of snow from my shoulder. A need too desperate for words makes me want to snatch his hand and kiss it hungrily.
The elevator stops. Too soon we’re stumbling out, and the strange man who slipped out of Valentin begins to buckle himself back in, one strap at a time. Someone snuffs the light out behind his eyes, and he hunches forward once more, closing himself off to the world. We are once again Yulia and Valentin; I’m an idiot with a flush on my cheeks like a scummy film, and he’s a monster like Rostov, buzzing with static. Realization slaps me like a blast of cold wind.
You just did it to me. I shove him against the wall, in the fathomless space between apartment doors. My forearm braces across his collarbone. You swore to me you wouldn’t mess with my thoughts, and you just did it!
I didn’t, I swear! I showed him what he needed to give us access. You might have caught some of that, but I wasn’t targeting you. Those sad, pitiful eyes, barely able to meet mine. Like he’s not even the same man at all. I promise you, Yulia. I won’t do anything to you.
Anger burns like a furnace in my mind. How can he be telling the truth? He made me feel so ridiculous, made me pathetic with admiration for him. I knew he couldn’t be trusted—no one can touch a power as strong as that without wanting to use it more than they should.
But there was something else about him when he tapped into his ability. It was the first time he seemed—open. Whole. For the first time, I saw those beautiful parts of him that he keeps safely hidden away, too dangerous to expose anyone to for long.
I don’t like this line of thought. I hate his power—it makes him like Rostov, like the American who’s hunting us down. There’s nothing beautiful in being able to cause such confusion, such pain. I let go of Valentin and look away from him, down the hall. Make sure that next time, you keep it from reaching me. Then I crank Shostakovich as high as I can and storm down the corridor.
We reach Apartment 512. As I jam the key into the brass knob, Valentin drops a hand on my arm. Kruzenko assigned Sergei and Masha to remotely view in here, as well. Be careful what you do and say out loud. They can’t read our thoughts remotely, but they’ll be watching us.
I take a deep breath, pushing down my anger. All right. Let’s get this over with.
Gruzova’s apartment is one part Hermitage Palace and two parts firebombing wreckage. I drop the key on her entry table as stale panic and terror crawl up from the floor on spider legs, barely dampened through my boots. Valentin steadies me with Tchaikovsky humming along his hand, then charges past me. Bozhe moi, has she been robbed? he asks, searching from side to side for intruders.
The windswept parlor is cluttered with half-eaten meals on plates, scattered papers, discarded clothing, and stacks and stacks of rubles and Deutschmarks both. Just out in the open for taking! I think she did this herself. I pluck up a discarded creamy wool skirt with a careless footprint stamped onto it. Natalya Gruzova flits before me, stripping the skirt off in haste, changing attire after a long evening in the office, and storming from the apartment just as quickly. Looks like she’s barely been living here.
Then where is she going? Valentin asks.