"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" she asked cruelly. "You've never been at a loss for words before."
"Perhaps I would be more loquacious if we were discussing a topic which didn't bore me to tears," Sark replied, "Why are you so insistent on pursuing this one inane subject—surely there's something else of interest about me to you."
"It only interests me because you're so obviously avoiding—" Sydney froze and listened. She'd heard something outside the door.
"What?"
"Shhh!" she whispered, "Listen."
They each held their breath in time to hear a muffled sound, like a sack of flour being dumped unceremoniously on the floor, shortly followed by a jingling sound, as if the tiniest sleigh in the world had been parked outside the door to the room.
Their eyes met as someone inserted a lock in the keyhole.
The door swung open and they breathed a collective sigh of what Sydney supposed was relief when Irina peered cautiously around the edge of the door before opening it fully and entering the room.
"Mom?" she exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"
Irina glanced between them without saying anything as she started undoing Sark's bonds first. "As soon as I knew you were both looking for Anastasia, I had a bad feeling," she explained tersely. "It looks like my hunch was right—are you all right?"
"Relatively speaking," Sark mumbled.
"Sydney?" Irina looked at her hard, "Are you OK?"
"Mom, I'm fine," she said, "I think this was all to draw you here—it has nothing to do with Sark or me, really."
Irina made no comment, but moved to untie Sydney's hands and Sark knelt next to her legs, working the knot out of the cord binding her ankle to the chair.
"We need to get out of here," Irina said, her voice low, "I've shot four guards, getting in here was too easy. Sydney—"
Sydney felt her mother's hand on the back of her head, and she had a sudden vivid memory of Irina's hand on her forehead as she stood hunched over the toilet, vomiting from the flu. She could almost see the tile in her parents' bathroom, smell Irina's perfume as she held Sydney's hair out of the way with her free hand.
"There's blood in your hair," Irina said, "Are you sure you're all right?"
"She's fine," Sark snapped, "Did you get the guns from the guards? We're not armed."
"I told you—" Irina straightened up and pointed her finger at Sark, "I told you to leave her out of this. Of course I got their guns."
Sark ignored her admonishment and said, "We can't change what's already done, so how about we just get the hell out of here? My mother apparently has a bone to pick with you, so it would behoove you to move just a bit faster."
Sydney struggled free as her restraints fell slack and stood up quickly. A wave of nausea swept over her and she inhaled sharply, hoping a deep breath of…well, not fresh air, but air would calm her churning midsection. She was salivating like a rabid dog, and she knew she was dangerously close to vomiting.
"Are you going to make it," Sark grimaced as he looked at her, "Perhaps you could try for six times today—six is a perfect score in some Olympic sports, you know."
Sydney swallowed hard against the bile that was rising already in her throat and shook her head violently. She refused to give him the satisfaction of actually seeing her vomit, even if he did deserve to have her puke on his shoes.
"Take a deep breath, Sydney," Irina urged, placing her long, cool fingers on Sydney's forehead. "You're going to be alright, but we need to get out of here."
"You would leave without even saying hello to an old friend?"
They whirled around to see Anastasia, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed in front of her. Wells was just behind her, along with several other guards.
"Hello, Irina. It's been a long time."
"What are you gonna do with that," Franklin's eyes widened in horror as Jack seated himself again at the table with a potato peeler. He was growing more freaked out by the second. Jack had been rummaging in the drawer next to his block of knives for several minutes before he had found what he was apparently searching for.
"The common vegetable peeler," Jack began, "is an amazing instrument." He turned the stainless steel tool over in his hand, examining its construction. "You have a sharpened blade on each inside edge, so that the user can peel a vegetable's skin either towards—" he held his right index finger up like a carrot, "—or away from him."
Franklin's expression was one of frank horror. Jack was trying not to smirk.
"Then, here at the top," Jack used the same extended index finger to point at the little triangle-shaped curved blade at the tip of the peeler, "You have a tiny spade-shaped implement with which to gouge out the eyes of potatoes or other tuberous vegetables which have begun to sprout roots. Sometimes you can carve away enough of the bad that the good part of the potato is still usable."
Jack raised his eyebrow at Franklin. "You're like the root of a potato, Mr. Franklin. The agency can survive without you, but you cannot survive without your potato to leach nourishment off of."
"I… I don't understand," Franklin stammered, "Are you going to kill me with that thing?"
Jack glared at Franklin. "Would you like me to?"
"What kind of a question is that?" Franklin cried, "No—God, are you crazy? No!"
"Then I suggest you start at the beginning, and tell me everything about your dealings with Mr. Sark."
They stood in their little group, Sark and Sydney and Irina, watching as Anastasia sauntered into the room. Sark noticed that Anastasia was a little thinner than Irina, even.
"Bring us another couple of chairs," Anastasia commanded without turning her head. One of the guards scurried out and came back promptly with two more uncomfortable looking chairs. "We need to have a chat," she continued, looking between them. "That was very inconsiderate of you to kill my men, Irina," she chided, "Good help can be hard to find."
"Don't do this," Irina shook her head. "Let them go, they have nothing to do with this."
"What's the matter," Anastasia said in Russian, "Are you afraid they'll find out the truth about you?"
Sark glanced at Irina, then at Sydney. He had no idea what this was all about. Wells was certainly looking smug, leaning against the doorframe.
"Please, sit down," Anastasia beckoned towards the chairs. "We don't have to stand."
Irina looked mistrustfully at the chairs. It was, Sark noted to himself, the least sure he had ever seen Irina look.
"Leave us," his mother barked at the men standing near the door. "Good, now that we're alone, we can sort this out in peace."
As if directed by an invisible hand, he and Sydney sank down onto the chairs they had been bound to only seconds before. He noticed, for the first time, how uncomfortable the chairs actually were. Irina and Anastasia held each other's gaze without blinking, and at the same time, they bent folded their long bodies neatly onto the empty chairs, never looking away from the other. With a smug smile, Anastasia crossed her long, slender thighs and bounced the foot on her top leg, a nervous gesture that seemed like it belonged to a different body than the one that sat regally, impassively with its shoulders thrown back, chin up, the very posture of someone with the upper hand. It was a posture Sark was intimately familiar with.
"What is this," Irina said at last, in Russian. "If you wanted me, you could've found me without bringing them into it."
"Oh, but this little reunion is nice, don't you think?" Anastasia's voice was bordering on sarcasm. "We should've been able to do this…oh, about 6 years ago."
"That was the plan, yes," Irina conceded, "But you stopped making contact."
Sark caught Sydney's glare from between the two where they were arguing, and he couldn't read her eyes, except that she still seemed to be on the verge of being sick to her stomach. He had the paradoxical urge to laugh, to give in to hysterical laughter not unlike the spasms that had wracked him after she'd seduced him in his sister's house. Didn't some people say they had the urge to laugh at funerals? It was some weird human reaction, he decided.
"What do you mean, I stopped? You quit answering my letters," Anastasia's foot bounced faster now. "Either way, I'm still entitled to my portion of the inheritance."
"What?" Sark couldn't stop his mouth from falling slightly open as he stared at Anastasia. "Is that what this is about? The money?"
"Darling," she fixed him with a tight-lipped smile that he could only interpret as condescending, "Doesn't it always come down to that?"