Genya passed through the first room on her way to the Tsarina's chambers. They were bright and overloaded with pomp, like the rest of the Grand Palace, whose ceilings almost seemed to bend from the weight of the mighty crystal chandeliers. The sweet, heavy smell of perfumed roses assailed Genya, who avoided inhaling too deeply. Soft carpets muffled her steps as she passed the guards and entered the second front room.

Here a handful of ladies-in-waiting lingered, either ignoring Genya or giving her a disparaging look. The poison still tingled on her skin and lips, panic sitting like a tight knot in the pit of her stomach.

A human guard stood stiffly beside the door that separated Genya from the Tsarina's sleeping chambers. The young man handed her the kit Genya needed for her services to the ruler and she took it tensely. In the Grand Palace, as Grisha who wore the servants' colours, Genya was wary. It would not be the first time a cruel prank was played on her.

A shudder ran through her as she remembered how, on one of her visits to the Tsarina, hundreds of spiders had crawled out of her kit. The guards had stood in the doorway laughing while Genya had almost fainted from fear. Not to mention the punishment that followed.

Genya opened her kit carefully and took a look inside. Nothing was missing and everything else seemed to be in perfect order. She gave the guard another suspicious look while one of the bellboys announced Genya's presence.

"Bring her in."

As a small child, Genya had liked, - in fact, idolised - the Tsarina. To serve her at the age of only eleven was a privilege. But as soon as she had grown older, she had attracted the attention of the Tsar and the hatred of his wife. Everything changed. In the beginning, Genya had been too young to understand what was going on. The sudden brutality and cruelty of the ruler had surprised Genya and taught her an important lesson: as the only Grisha, surrounded by humans, she had to be careful.

And by now Genya understood. It was her youth, her beauty, that the Tsarina hated and the Tsar desired. How ironic it was that Genya hated her beauty at least as much as the Tsarina.

Genya entered the bedchambers. The unpleasant, sweet scent intensified drastically and she took a few slow breaths. Genya discovered the Tsarina dressed only in a dressing gown on the stool in front of her enormous mirror. "You are late," the Tailor was greeted coolly.

Her voice could have sounded soft and benevolent, trusting and gentle - at least it had in the past. To Genya, however, her voice sounded like screeching metal, chalk on a blackboard, a sound that gave her goosebumps.

"Forgive me, your highness," Genya curtsied formally and stepped closer, registering a tall figure in the corner of her eye. Genya stopped, indecisively. Usually it was just her and the Tsarina.

"Lew," the Tsarina waved her hand impatiently and the tall figure moved in Genya's direction. The heavy door clicked shut and the Tailor couldn't help but suddenly feel trapped.

Lew was an unusually tall, muscular soldier who Genya had never met before. Strands of grey streaked through his hair at his temples. He wore an eye patch and a bulging scar disfigured his features, which must once have been even and sharp. With a little finesse and an hour or two of work, Genya could have restored his face to its original state. Her eyes flitted over the man and she noticed one thing above all: he wore white, just like her. Just like all the servants.

Lew held himself upright and walked with measured steps, bowing briskly and kept his gaze straight ahead without looking directly at Genya or the Tsarina. He looked more like a veteran who should be sitting in the war council than a man dressed in white to be found in the Tsarina's room. Genya only averted her eyes from him with great difficulty and looked back and forth between him and the Tsarina.

"Lew was a soldier in the first army," she explained without Genya asking, "why are you here Lew? Tell Genya."

Lew was still staring straight ahead. "I spared an enemy in a battle and was discharged from the First Army." His voice was calm and low, a slight accent betraying his origins in South - Ravka.

Genya regarded him a moment longer. His proud bearing did not seem like that of a cocky young man, but that of a man who had seen too much suffering and was struggling to stand upright. Who had been cast out from the ranks of his brothers and sisters because of his kindness.

Genya felt sick with rage. Whether at the Tsarina, the Tsar, the Generals who did nothing, or at Lew who had allowed himself to be brought to this hell, she did not know.

"Right" the Tsarina detached the remaining diamond-studded hairpins from her blonde hair and turned to her mirror. "The enemy does not deserve our kindness, Lew. You will have to continue to practice ruthlessness."

"Yes your highness," Lew nodded and turned his gaze to the tips of his brightly polished boots.

"Genya was too late," the Tsarina's tone had grown even colder, clinking like ice. She appraised the soldier, who towered over her by a good two heads, with a cruel look. "Now practice ruthlessness."

Genya's insides froze. What was that supposed to mean?

Lew hesitated. For a moment Genya thought he was going to ask what he should do.

It dawned on her at the same moment that realisation flitted across Lew's face. For the first time, he looked directly at Genya, his gaze irresolute.

In silent agreement, Genya tensed her shoulders. The Tsarina's cruelty no longer surprised her. Apparently the ruler was tired of getting her own hands dirty with Genya.

The moment of absolute silence passed faster than the blink of an eye. A clap tore the air and Genya's head flew to the side. Her left cheek burned and she tasted blood.

"Very good."

Genya only perceived the Tsarina's voice as if from afar. For a moment, the world spun. She blinked. Lew had averted his gaze again, but the guilt was clearly legible between the deep lines battle had left in his face.

"Now get to work, Genya."

Genya tried hard to ignore the throbbing side of her face, as well as the sweet metallic taste of blood. She had her pride, under no circumstances would a cry of pain or a tear escape her.

Genya had made a friend of pain, a confidant who accompanied her silently and constantly through the halls of the Great Palace.

Lew stepped back into the corner where he had stood before and Genya set the kit down at the Tsarina's feet. What followed was one of the longest hours she had ever had to endure.

While she was working on the Tsarina's ageing, sagging body, and if she made even the slightest mistake, the ruler called for Lew and the soldier slapped Genya across the face again. This procedure was repeated a few times. The Tailor counted to six, but her head was pounding so much that she was hardly sure whether it was still true.

The more times Lew raised his hand against Genya, the more mistakes she made.

"That's enough," the Tsarina's unnerved voice brought Genya out of her trance. "Get up," she ordered her and Genya forced herself to her feet from her kneeling position. Lew's last blow had made her slump. She staggered and caught only a glimpse of Lew, whose eyes glittered strangely.

"What are you wearing?" the Tsarina wanted to know, and Genya noticed how her ice-blue eyes were fixed on the hem of the dress that peeked out from under Genya's kefta.

She remained silent.

"Answer me," the Tsarina hissed, grasping Genya's wrist roughly, "or does Lew need to school his ruthlessness a little more?"

Genya shook her head wearily, which was acknowledged with a sharp pain in her left temple. "A dress," she answered slowly. Something warm trickled from the corner of her mouth. She raised her hand to wipe the blood away from her chin.

"Where is your uniform?" the Tsarina probed further, but Genya lapsed back into silence and lowered her hand.

With a quick flick of her wrist, the Tsarina ripped the top buttons of the Kefta open. Genya flinched as they fell clattering to the floor. Her gaze followed them, one rolled under the bed, another stopped at her feet, the third rolled to the corner where Lew had now retreated. The soldier did not move.

Genya looked down at herself now and nausea seized her again as her gaze fell on the damaged Kefta. She couldn't possibly go to the Winter FĂȘte like this.

The light blue satin dress was now showing, and the Tsarina snorted angrily.

"I knew you whore had nothing else on your mind but bewitching the Tsar," she hissed, to which Genya just shook her head mutely. That was further from any truth than she had been able to imagine. And yet there was nothing she could do to prove the Tsarina wrong or do anything else that would not further fuel her anger. Genya was already walking on thin ice that threatened to crack beneath her at any moment.

"Get out of here! Get out of my sight!" the Tsarina raged, and Genya bent down with a throbbing headache and shaking hands for the buttons and her kit.

Finally, she staggered out of the Tsarina's chambers in a daze, her hand closed tightly around the three buttons.

The eyes of all the remaining ladies-in-waiting focused on Genya as she reached the front room. A thudding silence spread. Genya, however, perceived none of it, she only hurried unsteadily towards the exit.

The pain spread throbbing over her entire head. With erratic gestures, Genya, without a mirror, tried to fix her face, at least to reduce the swelling that now limited her vision.

She followed the labyrinth of corridors almost blindly until the penetrating scent of perfumed roses finally faded and Genya could breathe again. She opened the door to one of the empty guest rooms and stumbled inside.

In the dim light of the half-drawn curtains and pale rays of sunlight, Genya's gaze fell on two closely entwined figures on the otherwise deserted bed. She paused, taking more than a moment to register what was happening in front of her.

The frightened face she looked into was Maria's. The slender young woman had pushed her grey skirt worn by the maids up to her waist and was propping herself up on her left hand, her right buried in a mop of dark hair.

"Zoya," she gasped breathlessly, her cheeks flushed, trying to escape the grip of her lover who had positioned herself between Maria's slim, pale thighs, "Zoya stop it."

"What?" the dark-haired woman growled indignantly, lifting her head. She looked Genya straight in the face. "Get out," she demanded gruffly of Genya.

In any other situation, Genya would have fled instantly, but the Tailor was still coming to terms with what she was seeing here.

Maria with Zoya Nazyalenski, first officer of the Darkling. The Squaller straightened to her full height. The fact that her dark blue Kefta was unbuttoned to her stomach and her white blouse, as well as parts of her underwear, were showing did not make her any less scary.

"No," Genya heard herself reply, "find somewhere else." She was acting a lot braver than she felt, however, she couldn't risk being seen like that by anyone. It bordered on a miracle that Genya had reached this room at all untroubled. She held Zoya's angry glare and felt a cold breeze sweep through the room. "Get out, Genya."

Just a tiny demonstration of Zoya's power, but quite enough to scare anyone.

Maria hastily pushed her skirt back into place before sliding off the bed and leaving the room. As a human, Genya wouldn't have wanted to stand between two arguing Grisha either, although she didn't feel like arguing at all.

The door slammed shut behind Maria and Genya sank weakly against the wall, her eyes closed.

The air had cooled the throbbing side of her face, so Genya almost pitied the fact that Zoya seemed to calm down and the wind finally died down to a faint breeze.

She took a deep breath and felt her cheek carefully. At least she could take away some of her pain. Genya was no healer, yet her skills were enough for this kind of trivial injury. She would need a mirror to make her face look fine again.

When Genya opened her eyes again, she cried out softly in shock. Zoya had crouched down in front of her and was looking at her closely. Even in the semi-darkness, Genya could see the Squaller's heavy lashes, dark eyes, smooth tanned skin in detail. Zoya was one of the few Grisha even Genya wouldn't have known what to improve on. The slight blush that had also been evident on Maria's face still graced her cheeks.

"What happened to you?" Zoya inquired slowly, looking at Genya so piercingly that the Tailor felt called to give a snippy reply.

"As if you care," she hissed tensely, straightening up with an effort to put as much distance as possible between herself and the first officer. Zoya had already made it clear on more than one occasion that she looked down on Genya simply because she wore the colours not of an order but of servants.

"Speak," Zoya was in at least as challenging a mood as Genya herself, "I command you."

"You are not my superior," Genya shot back, motioning towards a dresser on which lay a hand mirror. She didn't take her eyes off Zoya as she did so, "I only answer to the Tsarina or the General."

Zoya began to button her blouse and laughed joylessly. "As you wish," she replied coldly, tossing her thick, shiny hair over her shoulders after closing the last button of her Kefta.

Her gaze darted from Genya's face to her damaged Kefta. "Sewing kit is in the third drawer," she said, then Zoya left the room, leaving a confused Genya behind.