“I’m only looking out for you. I want you to be safe.”
The wall is cool and firm against my back. I turn away from him and press my cheek into the tiles, exhaling slowly. I don’t want Sergei’s taste on my lips. His eyes watching me from another room, another building. I don’t want Rostov, Valentin, or the American scrubber in my head. I want my flesh and bone and thought and life to be mine, mine, mine alone. I’m on fire and I need an ice storm.
“Maybe it isn’t your job,” I say. “I certainly never asked for your protection.” I’ve had to take care of myself since the day Papa left, wearing whatever guise was required to protect those I love. Sister, daughter, thief, spy, teacher, student, cook, ration rat. Valentin said he liked me best when I didn’t wear any masks, but he must be mistaken. There’s no room for the real Yulia under all of that.
Sergei’s face looms too close at my shoulder. “You think you don’t need protection? Then you’re only fooling yourself.”
I duck under his arm and slip into the shadows that chase the balcony. I run deeper into the conservatory, alongside the locked entrances to box seats. Even with my spider-guard behind me, I’m alone.
CHAPTER 24
I HOLD UP THE NEXT PHOTOGRAPH for Larissa, and her eyes flutter closed as she sinks into her visions. I don’t need to speak for our wildling-hunting sessions. I ignored Valentin’s offer of breakfast in the ballroom, which seemed to surprise him, and Sergei’s apologetic grin, which didn’t surprise him much. I do not talk to Misha and Masha, now or ever, and I have nothing to say to pimply Ivan who only ever wants to talk about himself anyway. I’m lucky to have pried Larissa away from him this afternoon after the ball, since she usually spends the afternoons surgically grafted onto Ivan’s lap.
After not speaking all day, I’m finding myself more and more like Zhenya: whistling, humming, mumbling to myself, repeating the same strand of thoughts over and over in my head until they feel just right. I smooth them like sea-tossed stones:
Valentin is out for himself and can’t be trusted.
Sergei is out for me for all the wrong reasons and can’t be trusted.
I did not like Sergei kissing me.
I liked dancing with Valentin.
I do not like who I become when I drink Soviet champagne.
None of it matters because I am out for myself and can’t be trusted, and Larissa and I are keeping tabs on the wildlings so we can use the KGB to protect them from a greater evil, all so I can have a glimpse of my brother someday and keep at least one soul off my conscience.
Larissa’s eyes open with a gasp. “Running. One of the outer neighborhoods of Moscow—Zelenograd, maybe, or Khimki. Yes, they’re passing a war monument. They know someone’s chasing them.”
“Is this happening right now?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Sometime soon—maybe in eight, ten hours. No, wait—they’re not running on foot now. They’ve taken the express bus. The pursuer is following them by car.” She flinches. “No, that’s not right, either…”
I tighten one hand, nails biting into my palm, and take a deep breath. It’s not her fault, I tell myself. She’s doing the best she can. But I can’t bear to think of another wildling evaporating under the American scrubber’s gaze. “How does it work?” I ask. “Your gift. Maybe if I understand it better…”
“It’s like I’m looking at trees, right?” She splays her fingers. “A whole forest of possibilities. But I have to focus on the one tree in question. So I follow it up its trunk, okay, but then it splits. One of the branches is easier to follow than the rest—that’s the most likely outcome at the given moment, but this is constantly shifting as people consider different choices. So I try to find the branch with the end point you want, the juicy apple, but it’s tangled in all the other branches, and sometimes I have to guess which one will be the most likely path…”
“Wow.” I whistle under my breath. “That sounds really complicated.”
“It’s not so bad. I see what’s coming, so I never bother to look back.”
Major Kruzenko charges into the room, still wearing her snow-dappled coat, a cardboard box clutched to her chest. “Hello, my little dears!” she sings, depositing the box before us. “Any progress on tracking the wildlings?”
Larissa updates her on Artyom, the one she’d been predicting, while I eye the box suspiciously. “Did the surveillance teams find something for us?” I ask, when Larissa’s done.
Kruzenko’s gaze darts between Larissa and me. “Yes,” she says, dangling the word out like it’s a piece of garbage. “Larissa, do you mind excusing us?”
Larissa pulls herself out of the lumpy sofa. “Sure, I’ll go watch KVN.”
“Isn’t it reruns?” I ask. “I swear, you laugh harder at the jokes on the old episodes than when they were new to you.”