Masha flicks her head to one side with a flawless swoosh of hair. “Our work has no end. Not until the workers of the world are united. We have to protect Russia from these monsters who would kill us for what we are.”
Brilliant pinks, blues, reds spin across the dance floor before us, and thoughts and smells spiral away in the dancers’ wake: sweat, eagerness, acrid perfume, regret. One thought is faint, but unmistakable to me—the hum of a brain that’s encountered a scrubber. My stomach churns. Who is this poor person, who has no idea what’s being done to his brain …
Valentin catches my eye from over by the bandstand. He must have sensed it, too. He marches toward us with tightened fists. “Yulia. You’re looking lovely as ever. Are you enjoying yourself tonight?”
“Could be better.” I sip my champagne, fighting back the blush on my cheeks. When did I get another glass? Is this my third or fourth? I’m losing track.
“How about a dance? I can’t promise to make your night better.” A dark, false smile tweaks his lips as he looks at the twins. “But it can’t make it worse.”
Masha glares at him for a minute, then shrugs her shoulders. “Your loss.” She slinks off toward the buffet table, Misha trotting after her like a puppy.
I hold my hand out to Valentin. He clasps me gingerly in his arms, and we start the dance steps, slow and careful at first. “I don’t suppose you’re here to say ‘told you so’ about my escape attempt as well.”
“Actually,” he says, “I’ve been dying all evening to do this.” He tips me backward as the music spikes, then pulls me back up against him.
My dark curls bounce around my face as we whirl along the dance floor, thankfully concealing the rush of blood to my head. We dovetail together nicely; I can feel his chest rising and falling. Normally I’d fend him off with a snippy comment, but with a horrible sinking in my gut, I realize I don’t want to fend him off.
“Unfortunately,” he says, “we also have some investigating to do.” He steers us into the throng of dancers, and we fit seamlessly into the gears of the dance.
A fresh number begins—a folk song, the kind where the tune starts slowly, but then repeats, growing more and more frantic with each round, coiling up like a spring until it snaps and everyone collapses, unable to keep up. Valentin establishes our steps early, simple enough that we should be able to stay in the game for several rounds while searching for the person with the scrubber-touched thoughts. Those who aren’t dancing circle the floor, pinning us in, clapping in rhythm with the song.
Valentin’s lips lower to my ear, and a thrill shoots up my spine, unbidden. “There are things I feel I must tell you,” he murmurs, “but this isn’t the right place for it.”
I pull my head back a fraction from his. My skin is bubbly, but his breath smells curiously sober. “Seems as good a time as any.”
“Are you still looking for a way out?” he asks.
I can barely hear him in the frantic music—surely I’ve misheard. I untangle my feet just in time to avoid crashing. “Are you asking me what I think you are?”
“The side project I’ve been doing for Rostov. Some new information has come to light.” He whirls me under his arm, and my skirt flares wide. “But I’ll need your help to make sense of it.”
The music clicks up in tempo; our feet fly beneath us. “I’m afraid I’m not as good at playing these Soviet games as I used to be,” I say. But I like the idea of being a confidant, a co-conspirator. I’ve been fighting alone for so long, and this inscrutable, sobering boy … In one dangerous instant, I think I could share a secret with him.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Valentin looks at me sidelong before he swings me away, then catches me in his arms. When I face him again, the whites of his eyes gleam—is he afraid? “I like you when you’re Yulia—the real Yulia.” He looks away. “Not the battle-hardened mask you usually wear.”
I want to smile, but my head is too much like a cotton ball, soaking up everything, without a brain to make sense of it. Do I want him to say these things? It takes every ounce of my dwindling sobriety to process my thoughts about Valentin. He sends me into another twirl. Before I have a chance to stop myself, I slide a quick kiss onto his cheek, natural as breathing, as the music steps up the pace again.
Valentin continues through the steps, but with a stunned look on his face. The clapping around us turns violent, frantic to keep up with the music as it zips along. My feet turn to rubber. “What?” I ask, squeezing his hands. “Did I do something wrong?”
First, my foot lands on top of his; then my knee tangles into his thigh. The heel of my shoe threatens to snap. Valentin tumbles toward me. As my tailbone strikes the marble floor, he throws his arms wide, so even though he lands on top of me, we scarcely touch.
The dance floor rolls with laughter as the musicians let the song deteriorate for comic effect. Several other couples have collapsed as well. Some of the older men stoop down to help us to our feet.