Valentin stands. “Keep an eye on her, will you, Sergei? Take her to the upstairs lobby, maybe—away from the main hall.” Valentin’s gaze hangs on me for a moment, like he wants to say more, but then he turns and ducks through the doorway back to the atrium.
Sergei helps me stand up, then loops one of my arms over his massive shoulders. “What the hell were you doing with that weirdo?” he hisses, as we climb toward the darkened second floor.
“It was just a dance,” I say. “What do you care?”
“Listen.” He jerks his head over his shoulder, checking that we are more or less alone. “I know he’s got this moody, broody artist act down, and some girls go for that. Oh, look at the sad puppy. But it gets to be a drag, you know?”
“Not really,” I say stiffly.
“And believe me, it’s just an act. There’s a monster under there. He’s got the same sickness as Rostov and this American. He may mean well, but people still end up hurt around him.” Sergei’s upper lip curls back, menacing. His missing tooth doesn’t look so cute now. “You don’t know who he is. What he’s up to.”
I tug away from Sergei’s grasp and settle into a dusty chair along the shadowed hallway. “Yes, apparently all of us are keeping secrets from all the rest. Go ahead and spit it out. I’m so tired of everyone’s games.”
His music storms around him as he kneels in front of me, fists solid at his side. “You want to know? Fine. If he won’t have the courage to tell you himself—”
“Get on with it,” I snap.
“Valya’s hunting for your father, Yulia.”
My ribcage constricts; I sink deep into the chair. The pain in my head twists tighter, like a vise closing in. “No.”
“Rostov forced him into it after he tried to run away.” Sergei’s face is dark, his usual charm wiped away, leaving only a sadness behind.
“I don’t…” I shake my head. “But how?” This fuzziness coursing through me isn’t the alcohol anymore; that’s long gone, and with it, the panic at encountering the scrubber. I reach out for Sergei’s hand, propped before me on his knee. If I don’t hold on to something, I’ll shake uncontrollably until I’m no longer human, and all that’s left is this vibrating, agonized mess.
“I don’t understand it entirely. Rostov shows up at the mansion at night, after everyone’s in bed, and then I think they slip into your thoughts while you’re sleeping.”
The dreams. The ones that feel like memories on the verge of being lost forever. I lick my lips and slowly, carefully open my mouth to speak. “I’ve been having these dreams,” I say, “of my parents. My father, in particular.” I cradle each word like it’ll shatter if I let it go too soon.
Sergei nods, squeezing my fingers. “That’s how scrubbers work. And the better he learns your emotions and memories, the easier they are for him to manipulate—”
“They’re memories I didn’t know I had,” I say. “I’m not even sure that they’re real.”
“They’re looking for clues to your father’s whereabouts. He was part of your mother’s research, after all.” His hand lowers, clenching mine. “You deserve to know. Valya’s only doing it to protect himself.”
I clench my teeth until they ache. What a fool I am. When I thought he was the only person truly on my side, he was betraying me like the rest. “Just—stop. No more. I don’t want any part of this madness.”
Sergei leans toward me, shadows obscuring one side of his face; the other half is mottled with golden light, like at afternoon’s end. “I’m so sorry, Yulia.” He brushes my cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a warm trail on my skin. “I should have told you earlier.” His forehead comes to rest against mine, throwing him into shadows completely.
I feel nothing; I am nothing. Sergei weaves his fingers into my hair. I don’t meet his eyes; I close mine, weighing the momentum that’s bringing his face toward mine against the emptiness in me that wants to shrink away from it all.
Then his lips are warm, directly on mine, and a little sticky from the champagne, though I’m sure mine are, too. His lips part as he kisses me again, digging for me this time. No. Too late, my brain finishes its sloppy calculation. I don’t want this. I push away, squirming further into the chair, shoving at him with arms that don’t work, answering with thoughts that don’t come from my throbbing brain.
“Stop, Sergei. No—”
He pulls away immediately. But I’m spinning, whirling like a gear in a machine, and no one can stop me. Not Sergei, for sure. I wade my way out of the chair and stand. He backs up to give me space.
“If you knew, you shouldn’t have kept it from me.” I wrap my arms tight around me as I suck down sharp, panicky breaths. Sergei tasted of warm wheat bread and dangerous fires; I suddenly yearn to feel cold. “And you—it doesn’t excuse what you’ve done.”