“You never told me.”
His skin grows pale and papery again. His brow wrinkles as he considers it. “No,” he says. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t feel like I needed to—most of Bulikov was Kolkashtani back then. Still is. Lots of the Continent still is. They got used, I suppose, to living without a Divinity. After the Kaj and the War, the transition was just so much easier for Kolkashtanis than anyone else. …” He pours off the rest of one bottle of wine. One of his rings making a chipper tink tink tink as he taps out the last drops. “My father was a rich Kolkashtani, so that was even worse. To most Kolkashtanis, you show up to the world with plenty to be ashamed of—born in shame—but to the rich ones, you show up poor, too. Just one more thing to be ashamed of, y’see. Strict man. If we did anything wrong, we had to go and cut a switch”—he extends his index—“the size of our finger for him to beat us with. If we picked one too small, then he got to choose for us. And though he was a stingy man in life, he was never so stingy with his switches. …” A glug of wine. “My brother loved him. They loved each other, I suppose I should say. Maybe it was just because Volka was older—father always had a grudge against children for having the insolence to not act like reasonable adults. And when my father died, my brother never forgave … Well. Everything. The world. Saypur, especially—since we Continentals assumed the Plague was a Saypuri invention. He joined up with a group of pilgrims when he was fifteen and went on a trek to the icy north to try and find some damn temple. Left me with a bunch of nannies and servants when I was nine years old. And he never came back. I got news years later that the whole bunch of them died. Froze to death. Expecting a miracle”—Vohannes lifts his wineglass to his lips—“that never came. Maybe I want to ruin Wiclov, sure. Perhaps he’s an obstacle to the future of the Continent—for I don’t see him ever wishing to see a bright new future, but rather the dead, dull, dusty past. Either way, I wouldn’t shed a tear to see him go.”
Shara shuts her eyes. How easily, she thinks, my corruption spreads. “If you offer me it again, I’ll have to take it.”
“Do it, Shara. If this is what you do for a living, I’d love to see you do it to him.”
Shara opens her eyes. “Fine. I will. I presume the contents of the safety deposit box are in the other suitcase?”
“You presume correctly.” He picks it up, slams it down on the table, and starts to open it.
“No, no,” says Shara. “Don’t.”
“What? Why?”
“I … made an unfortunate promise.” And Aunt Vinya remembers what promises are made to her … and which ones are broken. She wonders if she is willing to disobey her aunt and crack the suitcase open. To do so, she feels, could bring hells’ shrieking down on her, especially after Vinya’s threat. A last resort, then, she thinks, wondering if this is how fools rationalize their poor choices. “If you can just give me the suitcase, the Ministry would be more than happy to reimburse you.”
“You want me to just give you the suitcase?” Vohannes is agog at the idea. “But this luggage is worth a fortune!”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. … I didn’t buy them. I have people for that.” He grumbles and inspects the suitcases. “It ought to be worth a fortune. …”
“Send us an invoice, and we’ll compensate you accordingly.” She slides one suitcase off the table. It is only mildly heavy. Paper? she thinks feverishly. Books? Some artifact? Then she takes the other suitcase from Vo. She stands, a suitcase in either hand, and feels quite absurd, like she is about to depart for a relaxing vacation at the beach.
“Why is it,” says Vohannes as he walks her to the door, “that whenever we finish our business, it feels like neither of us got what we wanted?”
“Perhaps we conduct the wrong sort of business.”
*
Escaping the air of the club is like swimming up from the depths of the sea. I shall have to throw these clothes away, she thinks. The very fabric has been poisoned. …
“Oh,” says a voice. “Is it … Miss Thivani?”
Shara looks up, and her heart plummets. Sitting in the back of a long, expensive white car is Ivanya Restroyka, face as pale as snow, lips painted bright, bloody red. She looks somehow more colorless than when Shara saw her last, at Vohannes’s party. One curl of black hair escapes her fur hat to curl across her brow and behind her ear. Yet despite these carefully cultivated features, she stares at Shara with a look of unabashed shock.
“Oh,” says Shara. “Hello, Miss Restroyka.”