Apart from the music that sounded useless and annoying in such circumstances, the bedroom was perfectly silent; however, if they had expressed half of the thoughts jostling together in their mind, reproachful voices and shouts would have filled the room. Eager to show him she didn't yield, she had taken the nearest chair to sit next to the phonograph, facing him. Retreating to the bathroom and locking herself in was out of the question. I'll stay on the battlefield. The Hound could see she wasn't whining nor lamenting but she accepted the situation with dignity, keeping her chin up. Have a good look at me: I'm not the girl you frightened anymore. I can hold your gaze when you're glaring at me, now. And you insulted me, so I won't take the first step.
As unreasonable as it was, her determination – Catelyn would have called it stubbornness – delighted her. She had fought with the Hound, a man who left in his wake empty bottles of booze and broken knees, and she had resisted him, even if she knew some of the cruel things he had told her were true. Sansa kept that thought at the back of her mind and folded her arms in a defiant gesture. Later, once he was gone, she would have plenty of time to cry and to ponder on his words, to complain and to regret her obstinacy; right now, she wished to show him she was more than the damsel in distress he said he wanted to rescue.
Sansa had never realized so far the Hound's presence changed her perception of time: most of his visits had seemed very short, due to the revelations, questions and feelings that swamped her during their time together. This one was about to become the longest and the most terrible hour she had experienced, an hour filled with contradictory emotions and shame.
Perhaps he's going to crack and to tell me he's sorry, she mused, getting up to replace a rendition of 'Who's Sorry Now?' by another record. Sansa almost smiled at that idea, as the needle grazed the black, uneven surface of the 78 rpm, but the Hound's knuckles were the only things that cracked, the painful noise making her frown. She sat down, her back very straight and she crossed her legs before smoothing her skirt.
Some men would crawl back to her, after an argument, especially if she was as pretty as she was that night, with her blue dress and this red lipstick Edna had lent her. They would look at her long legs and instantly forget the reason of their fight, thus accepting to swallow their masculine pride: the Hound's features tensed even more as his gaze followed a line between the ankle strap of her shoes and the hemline of her dress. Then he turned to give a look at the clock resting on the console table, revealing more of his scars than she probably wanted to see. You're an idiot, she told him in petto, vexed by his attitude.
For lack of a better distraction, she stared at him, taking in his bulky frame, his elbows rooted in the stuffed armrests, his rolled-up sleeves revealing muscled forearms; the dark fabric of his waistcoat and trousers that looked cheaper than the broadcloth of Berdokhovski's three-piece suits. His legs open, he watched her and waited; from time to time, he sighed deeply or he tapped his foot thus showing he was on edge, but he stayed tight-lipped.
When the big hand finally reached the figure twelve, he got on his feet, moved past her and walked around the bed to fetch his overcoat. Sansa quietly observed him, clinging to the idea that he would not cross the threshold without apologizing or at least talking to her. However, defying all she had imagined, he left the room wordlessly and she fell apart.
Berdokhovski's visit was supposedly a nice change after her quarrel with the Hound. Her rich, gallant customer was always kind to her, showering Sansa with gifts and compliments that he expressed in the most lyrical tone. Berdokhovski was as blond as the Hound's hair was dark, as courteous as the Lannisters' henchman was rude and he had another priceless quality: he never made Sansa nervous. She would even say his visits were good for her self-esteem. She nonetheless didn't expect what he had in mind for that night.
She prepared herself as usual, paying equal attention to her makeup and to her hair, then she waited for his arrival sitting on the edge of the bed and reading her book of religious poetry the Hound had stolen for her. All of a sudden, she heard agitation in the entrance hall, then the typical dialogue between Peitho and Berdokhovski – at first in English, then in Russian – but the footsteps she perceived told her there were more than two people in the staircase. Peitho knocked at her door and Sansa got up to open it; in the door frame, she first saw the madam with her grinning customer. Behind them, two boys dressed as footmen seemed to carry something heavy, if the beads of sweat on their foreheads were any indication. Sansa greeted Berdokhovski who kissed her hand. That was something she loved about the blond man: he would bend forward, and stop inches of her gloved hand instead of putting a wet kiss on it, like some men who believed a movie with Rudolf Valentino would tell them everything about gallantry.
God, now I feel like a real lady. Peitho laughed at the sight of her reddening cheeks and patted her shoulder.
"Andrei has got a surprise for you, darling Sansa. My Goodness, I think it's the first time I've seen something like this in a brothel."
With that, Peitho took her leave and Sansa finally saw what the footmen carried: a pair of folding chairs with a table and a huge picnic basket. She stepped aside so that her customer and the two boys could come in.
"Forgive our intrusion, my sweet sister," Berdokhovski said with a hint of foreign accent, "but this was necessary for the surprise I planned." Then he turned to the footmen "Right there," he commanded, pointing at a spot between the console table and the four-poster bed.
One of the footmen gave Sansa sidelong glances, probably imagining what the pair would do as soon as they would shut the door; Berdokhovski noticed her unease and he immediately sent the nosy footman away.
"He'll pay for looking at you like that," he whispered to Sansa as the other boy set the table, retrieving china plates and silverware from the picnic basket.
Sansa stared at Berdokhovski, noticing the crow's-feet at the corner of his eyes and his clenched jaw; she read this detail as a sign of nervousness and wondered why her guest seemed so preoccupied.
"You put yourself out, to plan all this," she commented with an encouraging smile. "May I ask what I have done to deserve such a... kind attention?"
He casually shoved his hands in his pockets, and let out a sigh.
"In fact, I wanted to dine out with you – I had even booked a table in a restaurant – but... Mr Baelish told me it was not possible. Security reasons, he said."
Despite his politeness, there were traces of annoyance in his tone and he seemed to grow impatient at the sight of the footman lining up the flatware. The boy gave them a sheepish smile before finally retreating from the room and Berdokhovski helped Sansa sit down. The folding chairs were surprisingly convenient and the tiny table, once covered by a scorched tablecloth and china, looked like any good restaurant table, except the plates were empty. Are we supposed to play tea parties? She gave him a curious smile and he understood what puzzled her, for he immediately gave her an explanation.
"As I couldn't take you to the restaurant, I ordered some food and the boys will bring it here. They shouldn't be long. In the meanwhile, we can taste that Burgundy," he said, pushing himself from his seat to take a bottle carefully hidden in the wicker picnic basket. "Do you like red wine, Sansa?"
"Well, I was fourteen when the Volstead Act was enacted so... I never drank alcohol."
He arched his eyebrow.
"God, you're so young. When I see you in one of your evening dresses I always forget you're but a child."
Sansa noticed a hint of melancholy in his voice, as if her youth cruelly reminded him of the passing of time. He isn't that old, though. Or he ages gracefully. Berdokhovski was slender and took care of his appearance. Even his hands with long fingers had a sort of elegance she seldom saw about men; he poured some red wine in his glass, tasted it, then filled Sansa's. The liquid with its rich color – a dark red, somewhere between maroon and oxblood – fascinated the girl and it took her some time before she raised the glass to her lips. The taste was out of the ordinary for her; it smelled of ripe red berries and black cherries like the ones she ate in the family orchard when she was younger. She repressed a frown at the metallic taste she found on her tongue afterward, then, raising her gaze, she saw Berdokhovski's smile. The tenderness she read in his eyes disturbed her, but the arrival of the footmen with plates protected by dome covers created a diversion. She marveled at the sight of the hors d'oeuvres, like lobster canapés and salmon mousse served with sliced bread, two types of delicacies she had not eaten since her arrival in Baelish's house.
Berdokhovski let her savor the canapés in silence, barely touching his food, and the footmen came again to bring the Waldorf salad before he cleared his throat.
"Do you know why I came to see you?"
"I thought you wanted to see me dance, but I was wrong, obviously," she offered, daintily putting down her fork.
"I- I wanted to make an offer," he replied. "You know Baelish decided – this is such a horrible expression – to sell your virginity in a few months, probably in March, when you'll turn nineteen. A sort of birthday party, I was told, you being both the one they'll celebrate and a piece of the birthday cake."
Sansa's heart skipped a beat, refusing to imagine what it would look like; her guest seemed disgusted and he remained silent for a while.
"You can't stay here," he resolutely added. "I saw the marks on your back once, though I didn't tell you. I've been in places like this one for years and I know how it works. It will be like an auction sale. The one who gives the most money spends the night with you. And then, you'll be one of them, sleeping with a different man every night. You're brave, Sansa. I'm sure you are, but I don't know how long you can resist. I've been thinking and here's my offer: I give Baelish more money than he will earn if you are his employee and you become my mistress."
She sucked in a deep breath.
"You'll leave this place and I'll make sure you'll want for nothing."
His solemn tone showed her he was sincere; his good intentions nevertheless raised dozens of questions.
"Why- Why do you offer-"
She was so confused she couldn't even finish her sentence, but Berdokhovski was able to fill in the blanks.
"I need someone by my side," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "And I had a crush on you the day we met. It sounds strange for an old man like me, right?"
"You're not old. How old are you?"
"Take a wild guess."
"Forty," she suggested gingerly, even though she believed he was at least forty-five.
"Fifty-two. Which means you'll get rid of me in a few years. You'll still be young at that time and you'll be rich. You'll marry a man of your age or you'll travel around the world if you want to."
"Why would you die in a few years? You are a healthy man in his early fifties," she protested, sipping her red wine.
"Men die rather young in my family. Heart condition. So, what do you think?"
He locked eyes with her and she felt at a loss; she didn't expect such an offer and she knew it was generous. Somehow, it was a more sensible offer than that of the Hound, who had no money and who didn't know if his daring plan to go overseas could work. What she saw in the pale blue eyes was a genuine affection for her and she wished she could return his feelings.
"I barely know you," she shyly answered. "I didn't even know your first name before I heard Peitho call you Andrei... I don't know what you like, nor what you do for a living."
He sat back in his chair, tilting his blond hair back and closing his eyes for a second.
"Of course. I'm a fool. Andrei Berdokhovski, fifty-two years old, separated. That's why I can't marry you even if I wanted to: my dear wife refuses to divorce. You'll never meet her, though: she lives in Chicago. I love Gothic architecture and classical music. What else do you want to know, my sweet sister?"
He seemingly was more embarrassed by the situation than he expected and he laughed nervously.
"What do you do for a living?" she asked him, forgetting her half-empty plate and looking at him over steepled fingers.
"That's what I would ask in your situation," he said, cracking a smile. "You see, I grew up near Moscow and I had connections in New York. My mother was Jewish and a part of her family emigrated at the end the nineteenth century, so I began to travel from Russia to the United States, doing business. I got married to one of my American customers' daughter, who soon got tired of my wanderlust. I'm a sort of middleman: I introduce people to my customers. I've been doing this for years between Russia and New York until the October Revolution. At that time, I realized I couldn't get along with the Communists, so I left my country."
Sansa was accustomed to his flight of lyricism; listening to him summarizing his life so briefly was new and unexpected. He poured more Burgundy wine in her glass and brushed her hand resting on the table.
"What about you?" he asked. "I know your father was a successful banker, but we never really talk about you."
"Do you know how my parents died?"
"I've heard they died in a car accident."
"It was not an accident. The man who planned their death sent me to this place, so that he could keep a close eye on me. You know who I'm talking about. I think- I think your offer is very generous but I don't want you to get into trouble because of me. He's a dangerous person."
Berdokhovski put his hand on hers in a protective gesture.
"You know, Sansa... My mother used to say falling in love was getting into trouble. If she was right – and I believe my dear mother was always right – I got into trouble the day I met you."
Her eyes widened and she swallowed painfully: the thought that she could unite her destiny with the man sitting across her, combined to her argument with the Hound's two days ago turned the tables. What should I do? If he gives me a chance to escape this life, should I seize the opportunity and answer yes? Berdokhovski saw her turmoil and gently squeezed her hand.
"You probably didn't expect what I told you, Sansa. It will be a huge change in your life so you probably need time to make your decision, but there's something I wanted to ask you. At first, I thought you were shy, but there's more than shyness in your attitude. You always look like you don't allow yourself to flirt. Is it because you already love someone?"
Sansa averted her eyes, surprised by his sagacity. She hesitated between the urge to tell him the truth and the possible consequences – on Berdokhovski's feelings and on her secret.
"I'm- confused," she finally offered. "As you said, I need time to make up my mind."
"Can I expect a positive answer?"
"I need time," she whispered, afraid to hurt him.
The footmen came back, carrying a venison with grand veneur sauce; Sansa went into raptures about the huge dish and its steaming content, before confessing she wasn't hungry anymore. Berdokhovski took some and began to eat, though she noticed his lack of enthusiasm. Once his plate was empty, he tried again.
"Is there something I could do to impress you?" he asked her with a playful smile. "French cuisine doesn't impress you, obviously."
"I'm from the North. In Minnesota, we like good food, but our recipes are much simpler. Maybe... maybe there's something you could do to impress me."
His question had given her an idea. It's a bit daring, but I've got nothing to lose.
"I have a brother," she went on. "His name is Robb, he lives in Saint-Paul. He has a hydroelectric power-plant out there. I didn't hear from him since my parents died."
"I'm truly sorry," Berdokhovski said, caressing her hand.
Do it. Ask him. If he really wants to impress you, he'll say yes.
"I don't know if he's alright and he doesn't know where I am. Could you... could you send him a letter?"
Berdokhovski withdrew his hand at once, setting his jaw.
"Peitho had told me you could ask for such a favor," he replied after long seconds. "She told me you're not allowed to write nor to phone to anyone."
"She told you to refuse, if I ever asked," Sansa stated. "The same people who killed my parents, sent me here, now prevent me from coming and going... they forbid me any contact with Robb. If you mean to impress me, send him the letter I'm going to write. You can even read it, if you want: I won't tell Robb where I am because I don't want to endanger him, I just need to reassure my brother."
Before he could protest, she got on her feet and hurried to the desk. She took some paper and a fountain pen, then wrote hastily:
"My Dearest Robb,
You are in my prayers and in my thoughts: I hope you are in good health and I miss you everyday.
I know you didn't hear from me in weeks, but you have to know I was not allowed to write any letter. A friend of mine will post this message to you. Don't try to find me and please stay in Minnesota, where you are much safer than in New York.
I still can't tell you where I am but hopefully, I will find a way to leave this place and to start a new life.
Your loving sister, Sansa."
Once she was done, she held it out to Berdokhovski whose furrowed brow struck her. He took the letter, but instead of looking at her message, he locked eyes with her.
"If your brother loves you, and I'm sure he does, he'll try to answer this," he pointed out.
"Can I ask you to write down your address at the bottom of my letter, so that he can-"
Berdokhovski pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'm sorry," she said, ruing her lack of common sense. "Of course, you don't want to be involved in all this, but perhaps you could ask one of your employees to give his address..."
"That's not the point, Sansa."
He took the fountain pen from her hands and wrote down his address at the bottom of the letter, before looking up at the girl. She had trouble holding his pleading gaze and in the end, she urged him to read the few lines she had written, which he did reluctantly.
"I'm sorry to ask you such a favor, but I have no one to turn to," she explained, as tears welled up in her eyes.
He tried to comfort her the only way he knew, by showering her with compliments and declarations of love.
"I love you even more for asking me to post this letter," he said, taking her hand in his. "You're not only the most beautiful dancer I've ever met, but you have a gentle heart. Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you?"
Sansa shook her head, while dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief; something in Berdokhovski's tone told her he had put aside his usual flight of lyricism to confess his feelings with more sincerity.
"I told myself you were stunning, then, I noticed your gaze," he went on. "You looked very sad, that night, and it took me some time before realizing what your eyes reminded me of. I see that gaze on the morning, sometimes, in the mirror, when I wake up after dreaming of Russia. You and I are exiles, Sansa, though you're not so far from your hometown."
She had never considered the sorrow she felt like a kind of homesickness and she didn't compare her pain to the immigrant's nostalgia, yet she admitted Berdokhovski was somehow right. By train, she could easily reach Minnesota, except she couldn't leave Baelish's house, let alone get on a train. Are we so similar? she asked herself, confused by the thoughtful gaze she saw every time she glanced at him.
"So will you?" she inquired shyly. "Will you post the letter?"
As he nodded, she noticed how his smile revealed wrinkles around his eyes and on his cheeks.
"Have you got children?"
Sansa knew she changed the subject like it was going out of fashion and she bit her bottom lip afterward; Berdokhovski smiled again at her embarrassed expression.
"I had a son," he replied after a while. "He died of consumption when he was fifteen."
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have asked..."
"It was years ago, Sansa and you couldn't imagine he was dead."
Silence stretched between them until the footmen came back, bringing the dessert, an incredible Pavlova with pomegranate. Because of Berdokhovski's insistence, Sansa had no choice but to take a piece of meringue.
"Peitho speaks very highly of you," she said after a bite or two of the crisp crust. "You two are good friends, right?"
For lack of an answer, she raised her gaze and noticed his hesitation. Forgetting about the expensive sweet dish he had ordered, he rooted his elbows in the folding table and bored into Sansa's eyes.
"What do you think of Peitho?" he asked her straight out.
"She's brave. She had her share of hardships but I suppose she always make the best of her circumstances."
Ignoring how strong was the bond between her customer and the madam, Sansa had decided not to point out the dubious choices Peitho had made. She donned her best smile, hoping Berdokhovski would agree with her.
"She confided in you," he commented. "She told you about Kiev, her husband, her stillborn son-"
"Peitho said it was a daughter," Sansa cut him off, brow furrowed. "Her husband abandoned her!"
"Did she talk about her trip to South America? Did she mention the part she played in counterintelligence during the war?"
Sansa was at a loss.
"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, hitting the high note.
"Peitho has a lot of stories to tell about her past. Too many stories for a single person. She's a liar, Sansa. It doesn't mean some parts of her stories never happened, but she lies compulsively."
Sansa let her eyes fall to her lap, trying to process what Berdokhovski had just told her. It can't be true: I saw her crying and lamenting about her child... but what if he's right about her?
"How do you know?" she asked him, raising her gaze. "How can you be sure?"
"We were lovers."
Taken aback, Sansa averted her eyes, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him. Their laughter, their complicity... I should have understood before.
"I thought she could change at that time," he added. "I thought she could forget her past and start a new life. I gave her a shoulder to cry on and she confided in me. She told me her family was well-known in Kiev, she said her flight with an officer had ruined everything... Later on, she told me more stories about her past and I began to have doubts about all this. It was two or three years after the October Revolution, and one of my Russian partners who feared for his life, had just arrived in New York after a stay in London. He's from Kiev, so I asked him about the Kostychyn family who owned big lumber mills. He had never heard about the Kostychyns and he had never met Peitho."
He paused and Sansa gave a blank stare at the red seeds of pomegranate and the crumbs of meringue in her plate.
"Who is she, then?" she asked Berdokhovski.
"I don't know. I'm not sure Kostychyn is her real last name, I'm not even sure she was born in a wealthy family."
"Of course, she is!" Sansa protested. "Her education, her good manners..."
"She grew up in a beautiful house where a rich family lived. It doesn't mean she was the owner's daughter. Such things existed in the Russian Empire before the Revolution: the servants' children lived in their master's house, often playing with the master's children. You know, Peitho is one of the smartest persons I've ever met and she's a quick learner. She speaks five languages and she reads a lot of books, though she never mentions it. She knows how to behave in whatever circumstances and how to gain somebody's confidence. She knows exactly what she wants and what to do to get it."
All of a sudden, the woman Sansa thought she knew more than anyone else in Baelish's house had become a stranger and a manipulator.
"The only thing that is real is the name she chose for herself. You know what 'Peitho' means in Greek? 'Persuasion', I've been told. I guess her moniker is the most sincere confession she's able to give us. That doesn't mean she didn't suffer a lot," Berdokhovski whispered. "You don't become such a silver-tongued, calculative person without going through much torment."
A sudden melancholy shadowed his harmonious features, bringing out his age; he was mentally reliving the roller coaster of his relationship with Peitho.
"What happened when you understood she lied about her past?" she asked shyly, trying to catch his eyes.
"I felt... what you're experiencing right now: betrayal, disillusion. Especially as I finally understood she couldn't change her life. Let's get things straight: she hates this life, but she already spent too much time in this environment to change habits."
Does it mean she can't be faithful to a man? Sansa didn't dare ask and bit her lip.
"Her lies, her behavior... it's a sort of illness. Still, after we broke up, we managed to become good friends, Peitho and I."
"Why telling me all this?" Sansa asked him.
Berdokhovski leaned forward and took her hand.
"I want you to trust me, dear. And in my experience, telling the truth is a good start," he said in an undertone, massaging a spot on the back of her hand, between her thumb and her fingers.
She had no choice but to smile back at him. All of a sudden, she saw him getting on his feet and walking to the phonograph.
"May I?" he asked, pointing at the wooden box where Sansa stored her father's 78 rpm.
She nodded and observed him rummaging through the records. He commented on what he found, saying this song was too modern for him and that one too sad. In the end, when the needle brushed the black surface of the record, she heard the first notes of a waltz. Berdokhovski crossed the room and stopped in front of her.
"Would you be so kind as to dance with me, dear?" he asked her.
Once she stood up, he guided her with a confidence that made her feel safe. I thought he was acting like a gentleman and I found his manners ridiculous. I was wrong. Maybe his compliments are excessive but he is a gentleman. For real. She looked up at him, since he was a bit taller than her. There were thin wrinkles on his face, and he had some gray hair on his temples. Anyway, his icy blue eyes exuded a tenderness that struck Sansa. I could feel good with him. Why couldn't I? She soon convinced herself he could make her happy and help her forget the terrible events she had witnessed since her arrival in New York. Yet, there was something amiss, as if a part of her mind wouldn't relax. What's wrong with me? Why do I need to spoil that moment? She couldn't find what was wrong before the song ended.
They went back to their seats; there was a lull in the conversation and a hush had fallen on the room now that the phonograph was silent. He most likely thought that I would kiss him, she mused, watching Berdokhovski pouring more red wine in their glasses. Maybe there were traces of disappointment in the perfunctory yet reassuring smile he gave her. Sansa's gaze fell on the dark liquid in her glass; with the raw light the chandelier provided, the cut crystal stem gleamed, catching the eye. Wordlessly, she raised the glass to her lips and felt the wine warming her throat.
Burgundy wine. Her future life could be like this: exotic names and expensive food, creature comforts and a man who, in all likelihood, sincerely cared for her. Once more, she savored the taste of berries she identified while taking another sip of wine and she relished the warmth it gave her – a feeling of well-being that came along with the realization of her own giddiness. However, in the end, she felt a faint but bitter aftertaste, echoing to her confused unease. What's wrong with me? she repeated to herself, scanning the room as if she could find the answer in the showy decoration. Her eyes fell on the leather armchair where the Hound had glared at her for long minutes two days ago.
The Hound. He's not the Hound.
Rose was still in her bedroom when Sansa went back from her morning chores – which consisted in combing Peitho's hair and advising her about the clothes the madam would wear that day – and by the fidgety looks of the blue-eyed woman, she understood the Hound might have talked to her. Sansa carefully closed the door behind her and greeted the cook.
"I suppose you stayed here because you have something to tell me," the girl stated. "Why don't you take a seat?"
Rose didn't need to be asked twice: she walked to the desk and dragged the chair on the rug before seating on it.
"Your... friend came to me," she explained Sansa, with a reproachful tone.
Sansa instantly shivered at the thought that he could have hurt Rose again. No, please no.
"He didn't say much," she added, pursing her lips and watching Sansa's reaction. "This beast of a man just gave me a parcel for you and he told me you might ask me to send back a message. Anyway..."
Rose walked to the foot of the bed where she had left a bucket and a heap of sheets about to go to the laundry; she retrieved a parcel wrapped in brown paper from the heap of sheets and held it out to Sansa. It looked heavier than a book and its irregular form surprised the girl. The Hound had tied up the parcel with sisal twine in such a way she was forced to use scissors to free the content from its wrapping. She put the package on her desk, took scissors from her sewing basket and methodically cut the strings until the wrapping went loose; then, with a dainty gesture, she moved aside the brown paper and recoiled at once. What she saw was a firearm with a thin barrel and a strange shape – if Sansa was any judge. My Goodness, what does it mean? Is it a threat?
"Are you alright?" Rose inquired, suddenly concerned by Sansa's silence. "So what is it? It was damn heavy for such a small parcel."
"It's- it's a gift," Sansa explained, swiveling her head to meet the cook's gaze.
No need to throw her into a panic. If she learns she's been carrying a weapon...
"A gift? That's a good one!" Rose laughed. "Somebody should teach him how to gift-wrap presents, then."
But it is a gift, at least in the Hound's mind. Sansa noticed there was a note with the gun, whether it be a revolver or a pistol – she couldn't tell the difference. The Hound had written the message on a leaf torn from a notebook and she rolled her eyes at his round, dreadful handwriting with some crossing-out.
"Little Bird,
I lend you my Luger. It's a fine gun and you may need it. I'll sneak in tonight, at 11 o'clock, and I'll show you how to use it. If you're still pissed off and don't want to see me, just tell the old bag."
There was no signature, but she saw a single word, at the bottom of the leaf: "Sorry". That word, scribbled at the bottom of the page, without any context or explanation, was as close as she would get to an apology.
"Is there a message?" Rose asked, yawning. "I've got some work to do."
"There's no message."
"Are you sure? 'cause he said there would be a message, most likely."
He thought I would turn him away. No, he convinced himself I would. The notion puzzled her and she slowly relented when imagining his nervousness. Writing the way he talked, tying up the parcel as if it was some pork loin and frightening Rose with his bad manners revealed how he expected her rejection. A lump in her throat, she turned to Rose but not before hiding the gun under its brown paper.
"Did he say something else?" she asked.
"No. I didn't know you wanted me to make conversation with him."
Rose's cutting remark appalled Sansa and she let the cook go downstairs. She spent the rest of the day thinking of the Hound's strange gift and the note he had addressed her; neither the stories Jo regaled the girls with at lunch nor the costumes she had to sew for a rendition of 'Hot Lips' could distract her from the gun tucked into brown paper. After lunch, she read the message for the umpteenth time – though she already knew it by heart – and began to feel restlessness and irritation in equal parts.
'I lend you my Luger'. As if she knew what was a Luger! And what did he mean, by 'lend'? Was she so untrustworthy he needed to precise it was a loan and she had to give it back someday? Does he think I would like to keep something like this? His foul language, his disrespectful words towards Rose scandalized her, as well. He's so rude you'd say he does it on purpose.
As a result of her nervousness, her performance before Doctor Pycelle, that night, was less than satisfactory and the old man suggested he preferred the other girls' services he bought once a week to Sansa's musical talent. Before leaving, he admitted visiting her after Meryn Trant's assault had made him want to see her dance. That notion nauseated Sansa. And to think he's one of the most popular doctors in Manhattan... He's just a pervert.
Once Pycelle gone, she freshened up then she got ready for bed, in case Peitho or some other girl would knock at her door. Pretend nothing's wrong. You're just in your bathroom, taking your time. She slightly opened the bathroom window and crossed the room to sit down on the edge of her bathtub. Nothing's wrong. I'm not flustered, I'm just waiting for him. It's not as if I have a damn pistol or revolver or whatever it is in the upper drawer of my desk.
A faint clank warned her someone was using the fire escape and she hurried to the window, imagining he was still on the first steps and she could watch him from above, if only the street lamps lit up the back alley. As soon as she opened wide the window, a dark figure loomed in front of her and she repressed a cry, before walking backwards to the tub. The Hound stepped over the window ledge, his long hair half-covered in snow, despite the cap he wore; he shook himself like her father's dogs when they had been swimming in the pond near Winterfell and he wordlessly looked down at the puddle of sleet and mud his Pershing boots had brought in.
"Good evening," she mumbled.
"Good evening, little girl."
His raspy voice made her body limp. Why do I become so stupid when he's around? she chided herself. As he stepped forward, an unpleasant squelch came from his boots and she imagined Rose's expression next morning, when she would see footprints and mud on the tiles. Under the electric light, his face still damp with melted snow, tensed.
"I'm sorry," he said.
The doubts she had had, the irritation she had felt suddenly vanished and she restrained the urge to throw herself in his arms.
"I'm sorry too," she managed to answer. "I behaved like a spoiled child. We should just stop quarreling. You don't come here to argue with me. I'm sorry if I offended you, I never meant you would-"
"I'll never ask to see your back again," he offered, in an apologetic tone.
"I don't really mind. I mean- It surprised me, but-"
"Come, now," he said, crossing the space between them.
His rasping voice soothed her; she didn't move but she let him take her in his arms. Her head found its place against his collarbone, despite the wetness snow had left on his overcoat. I'm exactly where I wanted to be, she told herself, relishing the warmth he provided her. Sansa snaked her arms around his midsection, finding more melted snowflakes when her fingers reached his back.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm a jerk, sometimes. Most of the time."
His remark forced a tiny laugh out of her: her breath must have tickled his neck, for he stiffen a bit, then he let out a sigh of relief. He's just like me; he doesn't like it when we fight, but he doesn't know how to avoid it either. She could have stayed in his arms for a while and he didn't seem ready to put an end to this moment but a door slamming somewhere on the landing made her jump. He let go of her so slowly she read it as a proof of his reluctance.
"The old woman gave you the Luger?" he asked her, hands lingering on her waist.
She nodded, ignoring how she was supposed to thank someone for the gift of a weapon. She tilted her head to the door.
"It's in my desk."
"Bring it here, then. We'd better be quiet and stay here. Anyone can see the light under your door if we're in your bedroom. This place is safer."
She helped him remove his coat and she dropped on the console table then she took the gun, while he blocked the door handle with a chair. She flicked off the light in her bedroom and joined him near the bathroom window.
"I'm not sure I can use a revolver," she said shyly, watching him removing a part of the gun – was it the magazine?
The Hound froze and gave her an exasperated look.
"I knew it. That's why I gave you a pistol."
"How am I supposed to know the difference?" she protested, slightly vexed.
He rolled his eyes, thus expressing he didn't know where to start.
"Alright. Basically, a revolver has got a revolving barrel – hence his name – and the pistol's chamber is integral with the barrel. Got it?"
Wide-eyed, she stared at him, discovering a side of his personality she ignored so far: the man she thought uneducated became pedant when talking about weapons. Sadly, her fascination for him didn't help her understand the difference between a revolver and a pistol.
"See that stupid gesture actors make when they want to impress the audience, in movies? When the cylinder spins, that's a fucking revolver. And when the guy just shoots at his enemy because he has no time to lose, that's a pistol."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she commented a bit stiffly. "Not everyone soldiered in the artillery."
"I wasn't in the artillery," he said, his back stiffening as if she had insulted him. "I was in the infantry. I was a marksman."
"You become touchy, when it comes to guns," she observed, repressing a chuckle. "The comparison with the movies was quite clear, though. You'd make a good teacher, if pupils had to learn the difference between a revolver and a pistol. Where did you get that pistol, by the way?"
"I brought it back from Europe. Took it from a German officer. Assuming somebody finds you with this gun, they'll never know where it comes from."
"Did you have the right to do that? To bring it back?" she asked suspiciously.
"Everyone did that, Little Bird. All the French soldiers I met intended to bring back their pistol as a souvenir."
Sansa frowned.
"I thought they had to lay down their arms after demobilization."
A mischievous half-smile twitched his lips.
"Of course. And Santa Claus will bring you a pretty doll for Christmas if you're a nice little girl. No one gave a fuck if we brought back guns, and now you should be glad to have a Parabellum to protect yourself. It's a fine weapon."
"It's heavy."
"Mine is heavier," he rasped, retrieving his pistol from his shoulder holster and holding it out to her. "See?"
Now that the Hound's pistol rested in her palm, she could feel its weight and notice the differences between the two weapons. In her eyes, the Hound's dark handgun with its rather thick barrel and simpler design looked more modern than the Luger he had given her.
"Why is the barrel of the Luger so thin? Its shape is quite strange..."
"German arms manufacturers must love weird-looking guns," he sighed, putting his pistol back in his shoulder holster. "I don't know, Little Bird. So much for that... Take the Luger in your hands. Good. Stretch your arm, as if you were aiming at someone... No, not this way..."
Shaking his head, he placed himself behind her to show her what to do; he corrected her position, telling Sansa she had to relax her shoulders, then he put his hands on her hips.
"Legs slightly open," he rasped in her ear, his chest flush against her back. "You can't aim at someone if you stay like that. That's better."
She found it difficult to focus on his advice as he was so close. His smell and his hands going from her arms to her hips in order to show her how to hold the gun gave Sansa too many distractions.
"You'll have to do it again and to train everyday, so it becomes natural," he warned her. "You won't have anytime to think about what you're doing the day you'll need a gun. I will tell you how to load the magazine, now."
The Hound resumed his instructions, taking the pistol from her hands; he showed her the magazine, the safety, then he taught her how to disassemble the gun.
"I'll grease it for you, if you want," he suggested.
The long look he gave her at that moment made his offer sound scandalous. Or improper. Even indecent. She blushed and thus stirred something inside him, for a spark appeared in his gray eyes.
"So where are you going to keep the gun?" he rasped, catching her off-guard.
Sansa had never thought of a hiding place for the Luger; she slightly shrugged and raised her gaze to him, convinced he already knew the answer.
"It's a pity you can't keep it in your garter," he whispered, nudging at her. "I heard some women do that. The Little Bird keeping something that comes from me between her thighs... I like this idea, but the Luger is too big, I guess."
He stared at her shamelessly and enjoyed her reddening cheeks as if he fed on her embarrassment.
"Alright," he sighed after a while. "The phonograph. You always stand by it when you dance, so if a customer becomes too bold, you walk to the phonograph and you take the gun you keep from the nearest drawer."
They came back to her bedroom, the only lighting from the bedside lamp, and they hid the Luger in the drawer of the table on which Eddard's phonograph had been put. Time was flying and Sansa realized she had to ask him the question that haunted her since days: there was no way around this.
"Are you going to stay?" she shyly inquired.
After sleepless nights, she had imagined every situation: the Hound staying with or against her will, the Hound confessing how much he loved her, or taking what he wanted without asking. In her feverish imagination, he always stayed. Now that he was here for real, uncertainty began to creep over her. What if Joffrey needs him somewhere else? What if he simply doesn't want to stay?
He stared at her, hesitating. After a few seconds, she clearly saw in his eyes the fight between what he wanted and what caution commanded him. No, please don't say you have to go.
"They don't pay me to stay out all night, Little Bird. Besides, I'm supposed to leave early tomorrow. Business in New Jersey."
He sounded so sorry she convinced herself something would have happened between them had he stayed.
"Didn't think you wanted me to stick around," he offered, glancing at her.
Sansa wondered if he was telling a lie to get at the truth or if he was completely at a loss when it came to relationships. In the end, she decided sincerity was her best option.
"I need you more than they do."
When he stared at her, she read disbelief in his gray eyes. He wasn't putting on an act, he doesn't understand what's going on. The realization she was more experienced than him despite her young age burdened her with a responsibility she didn't expect. He peeked at the clock and let out a deep sigh.
"I've got to go within an hour," he rasped, sitting in the armchair.
The urge to throw herself in his arms came back with the confirmation he wouldn't spend the night lying next to her. She bit her lip, a bad habit he probably found attractive for he motioned her to him. She gingerly sat on his knees.
"It's alright," he said, pulling her close until she rested across his lap.
No make-up, no more rouged lips, no more perfumes when he's here, she told herself as a mental note. Father would have agreed with him. And it's a form of resistance against what Baelish wants me to become. The thought that Eddard Stark would approve of the Hound's opinion on cosmetics delighted her and she saw him frown at her sudden cheerfulness. Soon she remembered they didn't have much time and there were important matters to discuss.
"I don't know if you noticed it the last time you came, but there's a man who keeps a close eye on who's coming and going, these past few days," she warned him, regaining her composure. "At first, I thought there were more than one person, guarding Baelish's house, but I'm pretty sure the man I saw works alone."
"The Little Bird has been spying?" he said, amused.
"I thought it could help you. And I also wanted to do something for Evie. I wanted to see if we could sneak out. It's more difficult than I thought, so I'll need your help."
He swallowed hard, holding her gaze even if her plea seemingly annoyed him.
"Your escape is my priority," he explained, sighing. "Suppose Evie escapes this place... Baelish will harden the surveillance and we'll be fucked up. That's how it works. I know you like Evie but don't ask me to save both of you."
"Baelish will sell the baby. He'll give Evie's child to some wealthy family. I can't accept it."
Her tone was sad rather than angry. Disappointed, she let her eyes fall on her lap, then on his sleeve. As he held her like a precious thing he didn't want to let go of, his left arm rested against the dark-blue fabric of her dressing-gown and the rolled-up sleeve showed his forearm, scarred and even bearing burn marks; they were the traces of a life spent in the shadowy world she had been propelled into weeks ago. No matter how hard he tried to protect her from the monsters who ruled that world, there was hardships she couldn't avoid, like the anguish she felt every time she thought of Evie. Sansa hoped she would escape the brothel soon, 'without a scratch', as the Hound had put it once, but she wouldn't leave Baelish's house without a few invisible scars, Evie's fate being one of them.
Sansa rested her head against his chest and took his big hand in hers in a childish gesture. His skin was thicker than hers, dry by places and she noticed faint scars. Slowly, she traced the fingers, one by one, following the bones, caressing the joints.
Please let yourself go. Don't protest, don't laugh at me. You need to get used to this. As if he listened to her silent prayer, he didn't move and barely suppressed a shudder when her fingertips traced the veins on the back of his hand. Sansa went on with the other side, caressing the hard skin on the phalanges and exploring the palm where the lines and the scars interlaced.
"Am I your teddy bear, or something?"
He wasn't as relaxed as his words conveyed: he did his best to conceal the remains of uneasiness in his tone, but his joke didn't fool Sansa. She shifted to level her eyes with him, searching the apprehension in the gray irises with a mix of curiosity and amusement. It feels strange, right? But you'll get used to it.
This hand had only received blows and hit people; he had clenched his fist to fight back or to hold the money he had made renting his arms and his strength to the Lannisters. This big hand she held in hers belonged to an expert in violence. Things can change. She brushed the palm and the inner side of his wrist, eliciting a chuckle; her touch tickled him, the sensation waking up his playful side. He caught hold of her hands suddenly and when she looked at him, she briefly saw the child he once was, before the scars. Before everything ran out of control. As he let go of her wrists, she took his hand again and they stayed for a while like this, their fingers intertwined.
"Sandor," she said, all of a sudden.
"What?" he rasped, more surprised than he would ever admit he was. Perhaps it was the second time she called him.
"Nothing. I'm just getting used to your first name."
If you're curious to know what the Luger pistol look like or what kind of handgun Sandor carries in this fic, you can find more info on my tumblr: asimplylucia.