“I can’t look at the conversation, Comrade Major. I’m sorry. Rostov is—he’s just standing there, his back turned, and…”
I cover my mouth as a drop of blood rolls from Masha’s nose. “She needs to rest, Major. He’s hurting her.”
“No!” Masha cries. “I can do this, I swear.”
I shrug and slump back on the bench, trying my best to look relaxed, though my heart is beating out a distress call. Valentin’s thigh presses against mine. The Beatles sway back and forth between us. He’s trying to slow the spinning centrifuge of thoughts in my head, but it’s not much help.
“All right, I can see the bench again. But they’re gone—the scrubber, the wildling. Rostov, too. I’m so sorry, there was just too much noise for me to see through—”
Kruzenko looks us over, and as her gaze crosses me, my stomach drops out from under me. “You.” She points at me. “Probe the bench. See if you can replay their conversation. Valentin, go with her to find Rostov.”
Valentin swallows hard. “I’m not sure I could do very much against the scrubber, if he finds us before Rostov does…”
“You’ll be fine!” Hysteria curls at the edge of her voice. “Just hurry—please!”
As Valentin helps me out of the back of the van, we hear Kruzenko calling frantically for the agents to report in. “Stay close to me,” he says, latching the door behind us. I chew at my lower lip as we wade into the snowy park.
The leafless branches overhead are glazed in ice; the frozen path fractures beneath our boots. Children whirl on the skating rink beside us while their Party mothers chatter nearby. The fresh-fallen snow adds a sense of stillness and beauty all around.
But I feel the scrubber’s chaos, crackling in the thin winter air.
Neither of us speaks, as if we fear disturbing the eerie feeling slinking around us. We draw closer to the frozen riverbed lined by empty benches. The carousel’s music washes over us; the shadow of the Ferris wheel spins across our path. Valentin raises one hand like a hunting dog and tilts his head, listening. Slowly, the pressure of the scrubber’s noise fades.
“He’s gone. Headed north, I think—out of the park. You should be safe to check the bench.”
“What about the wildling?” I ask.
Valentin’s Adam’s apple quavers against his tight scarf. “I only sensed one person.”
The wind stings at my eyes as we crest the hill and scan the park benches. Only one has been freshly cleared of snow. We trudge down the bank as Red Army trucks rumble past on the frozen surface of the Moskva River. “Not flesh nor feathers,” I mumble, peeling off one glove, and press my hand against the bench.
I am greeted, not by a memory, but a message.
Yulia Andreevna. Crisp, glittering sunlight thaws me from the inside out. You want to visit the Ferris wheel.
I smile and stifle a childish giggle. I had not admitted it until now, but yes! I do want to ride the Ferris wheel. How could I not? It’s the most sensible thing in the world. One cannot visit Gorky Park without riding it.
But you must go alone.
But what about Valentin? He won’t let me out of his sight, not with the scrubber still on the loose. I sigh, two primal needs warring within me. I have to stay safe with Valentin, but horrible things will surely happen if I don’t visit the Ferris wheel—
Alone.
No, the voice is absolutely right. Valentin would worry too much. Everyone tries so hard to protect me. No sense in troubling him. I’ll just slip away …
I will distract your partner, but you must hurry.
I pull back from the bench and re-glove my chapped red hand. Valentin is transfixed by the Red Army procession; by the truck beds laden with covered cylinders. Missiles of some kind, or test rockets, perhaps.
Go.
I charge up the hill. Valentin doesn’t even stir. I glimpse Rostov in the trees, but he, too, is lost in a daydream. The crowd shifts around me; no one complains when I push to the front of the line for the Ferris wheel. I press some kopecks into the operator’s palm. He opens the door to help me in—
—and as I jolt out of my reverie, the scrubber climbs into the car with me, and the metal door slams shut.
CHAPTER 33
THE COILED CONFUSION LOOSENS around my brain, and I find myself caged into the Ferris wheel car with a burning star. I scramble back against the far wall, but I can’t escape his heat, his blinding light. He turns toward me with an awful metallic scrape. I wish it was only the sound of the Ferris wheel tearing apart around us.
I pile one song on top of the other. Every American pop song Valya’s shared with me. Mama and Papa’s Tchaikovsky records, their Shostakovich, their Bartok. Zhenya’s symphony. The national anthem, plodding and grim. But the scraping continues, chipping away at the melodies, chiseling straight for my brain.
And then, just as painfully, his brilliance dims into a silence that leaves me hollow and aching.
“You are Chernin’s daughter,” the scrubber says.
The Ferris wheel lurches forward and we begin our slow rise into the Moscow sky.