Fifteen
"Well, that was a waste of time," I grumbled as Aleksander and I wove through the compact labyrinth of hallways comprising the Grand Palace's 'downstairs'. People in cream livery were rushing around us, oblivious to our presence beneath the weight of their daily tasks.
Aleksander chuckled, his hand hovering protectively over my left shoulder to shield me from errant elbows. "Even dead leads are important," he countered.
His almost-touch was so voltaic that I had to consciously keep myself from shifting my posture to close the gap between us. "Not when they're so scared to speak that they can't form a complete sentence," I sighed with mixed frustration—at the decorous distance between us and the uselessness of our last two 'interviews'. Aleksander's reputation and intimidating demeanour were turning out to be both impressive in action and a complete and utter nuisance. The first two individuals we had spoken to—a gardener and a footman—had both been so awed and frightened they'd barely been able to talk. And, having been on the receiving end of Aleksander's soul-flaying stare and authoritative tone more than a few times myself, I had understood their stumbling responses to his questions. Ultimately, I'd never seen two men so relieved to be told they were free to go back to doing chores.
"We should have brought a Heartrender," I muttered as a group of charladies stopped to let us pass. Their eyes followed us heavily as we continued down the narrow passway toward the kitchens.
"In hindsight, yes: it's always easier when you can be sure someone isn't lying," Aleksander agreed, his tone running a bit stilted with restrained annoyance. I could only wonder if it was aimed at himself due to his (uncharacteristic) oversight or at the idea of company intruding on our little mission together.
Or perhaps a bit of both, I smiled cheekily to myself, happy that he couldn't see my face as he walked behind me. "I meant to calm them down, but I suppose that would also be useful," I shrugged as we emerged into a slightly wider hallway meant to allow for servants running cleared plates downstairs and fresh dishes upstairs to pass side-by-each easily. As soon as there was room for him, Aleksander shifted to walk alongside me, and instantly, I felt his gaze fall on my face in curiosity.
"The innate ability to detect lies would 'also be useful'?" He asked a touch incredulously.
"Of course. Confirmation is always nice but not necessary," I shrugged. "I think it would have been more useful to get some coherent details out of them."
Aleksander's eyebrow quirked sceptically up towards his jet-black hair when I cast him a glance.
"I knew they weren't lying," I shrugged, answering his silent question matter-of-factly.
"As talented as I know you are, Esfir," he countered just as plainly, "you're no Corporalnik."
"Of course I'm not. I just know where to look," I scoffed as the overlapping smells of different foods cooking—slow-roasting meat, fresh fruits and herbs, butter, bread, cakes—began to waft in on the steadily warming air. Even though I had enjoyed a filling breakfast, my mouth began to water.
"Meaning?" Aleksander drawled, still doubtful.
I cut him a dry, unimpressed look, which he returned. Rolling my eyes, I indulged him. "People are terrible liars—and, before you say anything, that even includes those who do it for a living. We all have tells that give us away, and being able to spot a liar is just a matter of picking up on those small changes in someone. It could be that they unconsciously hold their breath, won't maintain eye contact, or keep touching their hair. Anyone can notice those kinds of things if they spend enough time with another person… I just happen to be better and faster at picking them out than most people."
"And is this talent Saints-given or learned?"
"Learned. It's how I made enough money to eat when I was younger."
Aleksander's sly glances, which had been casual and slightly teasing, turned weighty with consideration as we walked. I focussed instead on the large, plain oak double doors at the end of the hall from beyond which the sound of a tumult of overlapping voices and sounds emanated. My right fingers itched to fiddle with the token ring on left hand, but I kept them apart (in clenched fists at my sides).
After a loaded silence, he said in penitent recollection, "Card sharking since you were fifteen."
My head snapped involuntarily in his direction, and my steps faltered. I had completely forgotten that I'd so carelessly divulged that snippet of my soul at Nikolai's ball to impress Aleksander, to convince him to let me help end the Apparat's persecutions. But what stunned me more was that he remembered that secret disguised as a boast at all. That night, we had barely broached the line of openly enjoying each other's company, yet he had taken that little slip of an admission and committed it to memory. Not to say that I hadn't done the same and selfishly hoarded away each small crumb of himself that he dropped, either willingly or unwittingly, in a futile attempt to know and understand him better. I just didn't think he actually considered me worth caring about.
"I've had lots of practice," I answered quickly, the flippancy in my voice manufactured to hide the knot constricting my lungs. Willing my feet onward, the pause in our matched gates was barely a hiccup in time as we drew ever nearer to the palace kitchens.
"And practice makes perfect, it seems."
"Nobody's perfect—especially not me." And if anybody should know that, it's you.
"I'll be the judge of that," Aleksander countered, pausing with his hand resting on one of the large pull handles. He looked at me curiously then, his perfect brow wrinkling with the barest hint of a frown.
"What?" I asked as I stopped next to him, perhaps a little closer than I ever would have before. Defiantly, I crossed my arms, glaring gently up at him in a silent dare to deny me an explanation.
If the predatory smirk that tugged up the corner of his lips was enough to warm my blood, the fire that also lighted in Aleksander's eyes was going to make me spontaneously combust. By some miracle, I held myself together. "Demands will get you nowhere with me, my sunless star," he said, hunger nipping at the velvety purr of his tone.
As before, when we rode together to the Grand Palace, body against body, I should have recoiled at the pet name—the obvious claim he was making, the irrevocable shift in our relationship. But now, just as then, I couldn't feel anything but pure, primal satisfaction at the idea of being his.
Emboldened, I cocked my head at him and asked, "Then what will?"
Aleksander shifted on his feet, abandoning the door and shrinking the distance between us. The sliver of air buffering our bodies became charged, like the space between two magnets trying to keep from being drawn together. "Manners," he answered, towering over me possessively.
Despite the quivering of my heart, I stared back up at him, recklessly—purposefully—insolent. After all, I loved the look on his face whenever I directly disobeyed him. "Too bad politeness doesn't come naturally to me," I sighed with mock disappointment.
Brat, Aleksander's eyes flashed in silent admonishment, but he otherwise remained infuriatingly unaffected. "Then perhaps there are lessons left for me to teach you after all," he mused, his expression shifting into something that hinted at the devilish intent woven into words.
"I'd like to see you try," I grinned impishly, goading him. Saints, what in hell am I doing!?
He considered that—considered me—for a moment, his chin lifting just enough to cast a penetrating look down his nose. "Tempting," he practically growled, leaning in so close that I could smell the delicate perfume of his skin. My breath hitched as Aleksander hesitated there, his face nearing so close to my hair that it stirred with the deep exhale he released… Only for him to continue gracefully past, sidestepping me to grab the door pull I had been blocking with my body. "But we've more important matters to deal with right now," he finished with a cool air of superiority—like he knew just how much that would irk me.
And it did ever.
Whipping around, I gaped at him, unable to suppress the flustered yet incensed expression that was scrawled on my face. "You ass," I hissed as a slight, triumphant smirk bloomed on Aleksander's beautiful lips.
"Hurry up," he commanded before pulling open the door and slipping inside.
"Cocky bastard," I spat before scrambling after him, taking what was left of my wits with me.
o-o-o-o
The palace kitchens were wonderful.
Although they had been neglected in any 'modernisations' that the rest of the palace had been through in the last hundred years, they were nevertheless in pristine, if not rustic, condition. Racks of gleaming copper pots, rows of drying herbs, and shelves bursting with spices and other cooking implements lined the rough stone walls. The many recessed windows bathed the entire space in a warm, buttery glow, echoing the bright colour of the yellowed tile floors. Huge, long prep tables sat at the centre of the room, the bowls, trays, and raw ingredients heaped upon them in various stages of preparation. People—mostly women—bustled to and fro, chattering to and ordering each other around like cogs and gears in a well-oiled machine.
But despite the hustle and bustle and the din of overlapping voices, our presence didn't go unnoticed. Much to my surprise, a short, plump woman with ashy-black hair tucked tightly under a frilled bonnet approached Aleksander and me almost immediately after we entered the sprawling room. Shed stopped before us, hands set imperiously on her aproned hips and gave me a once-over before turning her dark brown eyes shrewdly on Aleksander. "Grisha have no business being down here," she said, her tone as no-nonsense as her glare.
"Not ordinarily," I said quickly before Aleksander could pull rank. When he shot me a peeved glare, I ignored him.
Serves you right, prick.
"Then explain yourselves," the woman ordered, her eyes raking warily over our black keftas. "I've a batch of pryaniki* to tend to, and I don't want them to burn. The queen will have my head if they're not ready for her luncheon."
A stutter seemed to run through the room as dozens of eyes lifted from their work to look at us. I did my best to ignore the palpable shift in the room's energy. "We're here to speak with your newest scullery maid," I said, squaring my shoulders with feigned authority.
"Ah, right," she nodded as if remembering something inconsequential in the grander scheme of her incredibly busy day. "You'll be wanting to go to the dry larder—over there on the right." Here, she brandished a flour-dusted finger to the opposite side of the sprawling room. Three large doors took up the wall. "Ask for a kitchen maid by the name of Melina. Tell her Mrs Novoseltseva sent you, and she'll help you further."
"Thank you," I nodded with a smile to the baker. "We'll be out of your hair soon enough."
"Best you be," the older woman agreed shrewishly. "The kitchens are no place for fancy folk, especially not you lot." With that, she bustled back to her place at one of the prep tables and what looked like a batch of tart shells in the making. The tension building in the room seemed to deflate with her dismissal of us, and the din of normalcy returned with the sound of knives clacking on cutting boards, ladles clanging in pots, and frenetic overlapping orders.
Aleksander and I shared a glance before pressing on through the hustle and bustle of the work around us, picking our way carefully through rushing bodies. It took a little longer than it should have, but we eventually reached the dry larder and slipped inside beyond the heavy, plain door. Several porters were inside the cavernous space, moving boxes and taking inventory, along with two young women at the back who were busy schlepping burlap sacks. All you could see over the pile of their work and the many shelves, baskets, and crates filling the space were their kerchiefed heads—one brunette and the other blonde—as they moved back and forth, organising the new stock.
"Which one of you is a kitchen maid by the name of 'Melina'?"
Both ladies abandoned their task with a start, turning around to look at Aleksander and me as we rounded the piled sacks of dried nuts, peas, and beans yet to be sorted and stored. "I am, sir," the blonde replied with a hurried and clumsy curtsey.
I didn't need her confirmation, however. I immediately recognised the other girl, standing nervously at Melina's side, as Yelena. She was clad in a cream dress and flounced pinafore instead of her usual austere grey. Yelena recognised me, too, and shot me a smile and a subtle yet enthusiastic wave. With all that had happened in the roughly last three-and-a-half weeks since Nikolai's ball, I'd barely registered that I hadn't seen or interacted with Yelena in such a long time. And now, here I was to interrogate her—to try and root out whether or not she had been spying on me for the Apparat. The idea disgusted me to no end: that someone so seemingly innocent and friendly could have tricked me at the behest of such a contemptible man… But, even so, it was nice to see that she looked happier than she had last under the thumb of Ms Orlov. Life working at the Grand Palace suited her more than being under the scrutiny of Grisha ever did.
"How may I help you, sir? Miss?" Melina asked, looking at each of us in turn, focusing on Aleksander. The fear in her voice and eyes was unmistakable: she knew exactly who he was.
"Mrs Novoseltseva sent us to you for help," I cut in pleasantly to try and ease her mind and keep the conversation as light as it could be, given the circumstances. "We're looking to talk with a scullery maid who just started working here in the past month."
"Oh! Thank the Saints," the kitchen maid said with a relieved chuckle. "I thought you were looking for me."
"If not you, then who?" Aleksander pressed. I didn't have to look at him to know he was mildly annoyed with the young lady's attempt at small talk.
"Right, of course. Sorry, sir. This is Yelena," she answered hurriedly with an off-handed motion to the shorter girl on her left. "She started working with me under Mrs Novoseltseva, the head baker, just over three weeks ago."
"Miss Esfir. Darkling, sir," Yelena said, taking her turn to curtsy, the motion just as practised as always. "What can I do for you?"
"We're here to ask you some questions," Aleksander said, his voice as icy and impatient as during our last two (disastrous) interviews. He was never good at asking for things; commanding, directing, and demanding came far more naturally.
Saints preserve me: not this again.
When dread flitted across Yelena's face, I jumped in to distract her and save the situation by saying, "If you're not too busy, of course."
"I'm never too busy for you, Miss Esfir," Yelena replied quickly, falling right back into the friendly rapport we'd always shared.
"How fortunate," Aleksander grumbled almost inaudibly under his breath. I resisted the urge to jab him in the ribs with my elbow.
"If it pleases you, miss, we'll talk out the back doors," Yelena suggested with an unaware, beaming smile. "It's more private and quiet there."
"Excellent," I smiled, motioning for her to lead the way. A heartbeat later, we were trailing after Yelena like two inky shades, the three of us walking in silence back through the dry larder and the kitchen proper. Curious stares followed our every step until we stood beyond another set of heavy double oak doors in an unremarkable delivery courtyard hidden in the shadow of the Grand Palace.
"There," Yelena sighed as she smoothed out her skirts to try and look more presentable. "Melina and the rest of the kitchen staff are terrible snoops. They won't be able to eavesdrop on your business while we're out here."
"Very considerate of you," Aleksander said by way of thanks, even if his delivery was a little aloof.
"My pleasure, sir," the young girl smiled, always eager to please. "What can I help you with?"
"We just wanted to ask you a few questions about how you got to be working at the Grand Palace," I explained. When her face fell with concern, I quickly added, "I promise it's nothing serious."
Liar, the stern look Aleksander fixed on the side of my head screamed. I decidedly ignored him.
Yelena considered me for a moment, her face etched with the careful thought she was giving my words. It was plain to see she wanted to help us—well, me—but was worried she would get herself or someone else in trouble. "Alright," she said after a pause.
It was a struggle not to sigh with relief. Already, we were getting a lot farther with Yelena than we had with the other two servants, and I was hopeful she would reveal something important. "Thank you," I smiled, implying, once again, that I was at her will. One of the best sweet-talking tricks I knew was to make someone feel in control, even when they most certainly were not. Someone who thinks they're directing a conversation will always speak more freely than if they're feeling threatened.
"You started working here, under Mrs Novoseltseva, just over three weeks ago, correct?" I asked, the question intentionally easy and pointless. I already knew the answer, but it was another vital trick in my repertoire: the best way to loosen someone's tongue is to start the exchange by asking unimportant questions with immaterial answers. If the mark feels as if they're just chatting with you, they're less likely to notice when you start asking more probing questions.
Yelena nodded. "Yes, three and a half weeks ago, almost exactly, just like Melina said."
"And you like it here?"
"It's harder work than I did under Ms Orlov, but I enjoy it."
"Good. Are you learning lots?"
"Yes, miss. Lots of skills that might help me run a shop one day, just like I've always dreamed."
"Such as?"
"Taking inventory and making orders."
"And what else do you do for Mrs Novoseltseva?"
The young woman paused to think before counting off tasks on her fingers as she spoke. "I help do the prep work, weighing ingredients, cutting up fruits and vegetables, and fetching things from the larders. I watch the ovens, help keep the worktables clean, fetch water, and mop and sweep. Unlike at the Little Palace, I don't see much outside the kitchens, but that's alright. The other staff are friendly, and we work together like a big, loud family."
Another rule: wait until the mark brings up the subject you want to discuss. "Speaking of the Little Palace," I echoed as if suddenly remembering something I had forgotten, "I've missed seeing you around."
Compliments and fond regards always loosen people's lips.
"The feeling's mutual, miss," she smiled, if not a little sadly. "I didn't leave that job lightly."
"I hope it wasn't me that chased you away," I offered teasingly.
"Never," she replied quickly, vehemently. "You were wonderful. I appreciate how well you treated me—truly, I do."
I knitted my brow with visible, albeit overly acted, concern. "Then why did you leave?"
Yelena cast Aleksander a look as she weighed the worth of what she wanted to say next. Surprisingly, he nodded at her, bidding her to speak freely. The act shocked me just as much as it did Yelena. "You'll face no repercussions for answering honestly," he said, the double meaning of his words unmistakable.
It took a monumental effort not to smack him upside the head when Yelena paled a bit, clearly catching his meaning despite his impassive tone.
"Understood, sir," she affirmed with a slight, submissive dip of her head. "I left because… Well, because of Ms Orlov, sir."
"Did she mistreat you?" Aleksander asked icily, his eyes narrowing.
"No, sir. Not directly, sir," she answered, shrinking a bit into herself.
For fuck's sake.
"'Not directly'?"
"Ms Orlov is… stern." Here, Yelena glanced off to the left, intentionally avoiding Aleksander's gaze.
There it was: her tell. Not that she was lying right now per se, but she was intentionally softening her words into half-truths.
I scoffed, seeing an opportunity to salvage the quickly deteriorating situation. "'Stern' is being generous: that woman is the most miserable hag I've ever met in my entire life." Yelena's eyes widened with shock and admiration as I turned to Aleksander. "I'd leave for greener pastures, too, if that bitch was screaming at me day in and day out."
He frowned at me, and although it merely looked as though he was disgusted with my choice of language (which he was), I could tell he was also equally confused by my assertion. Apparently, he'd never played 'good guard, bad guard' before. And I mean, why should he have? When you usually have a Heartrender on hand to bleed the secrets out of anyone you wish.
Saints give me strength…
Imploring him with my eyes to play along, I quickly looked back to Yelena to keep her from getting suspicious. "You don't have to be nice about it: she was horrible—even to me," I sympathised.
The worry in the young maid's eyes softened into camaraderie. "She was terrible and never liked me, no matter how hard I tried to please her," she confessed in a hush. "It's why I took it right away when a spot in the Grand Palace kitchens opened up."
"No other reasons?" I asked lightly.
Yelena looked at me, puzzled. "Not that I can think of. The pay was good, and the other servants were fine to work with. That's why I hung around for as long as I did."
"What else did you like about your work at the Little Palace?" I pressed, keeping things conversational even though we were finally dancing nearer to the questions I wanted to ask her.
Her mouth turned into a pout as she came up with an answer. "I got to meet many interesting people," she decided. "I don't get to see many people beyond other members of staff here, but it was always a surprise who I might bump into when I was a chambermaid."
"Sounds exciting."
"It was! I even got to wait on the Zemeni Ambassador's wife once. She was very kind."
"Did you ever meet the Apparat?"
"No, but my brother has," she offered with a hint of pride. Not once did her eyes waiver from mine.
"Your brother?" I repeated, intrigued. "I didn't know you had a brother. What's his name?"
"Ruslan," Yelena said brightly. "He's a scullion under the palace butcher and the one who told me about the opening in the kitchens for a scullery maid. He never liked that I worked at the Little Palace," she tacked on cheerlessly.
"Really? Why's that?" I pried.
"He didn't think the work was dignified—fetching things and cleaning up after others, I mean," she explained as her eyes strayed away, off to the left once again.
That struck me as extremely odd. Chambermaid positions in any grand house, let alone a literal palace, were highly sought after. As Yelena had said: the work paid well, kept decent hours, was generally clean, and was secure. I knew women in Kribirsk who had seriously contemplated murder to ensure they landed such a coveted position. If anything, Yelena's brother should have been overjoyed to hear she had just a stable and respectable job. So why had he been so eager to get her out of it? Being a scullery maid was, objectively, neither better nor worse than being a chambermaid, which meant that it couldn't have been the type of work Yelena did that bothered him.
It had to be where she worked that he disliked.
Excitement flashed through me like electricity, but I strangled it back before my expression could shift to betray my realisation. "But you kind of do the same thing now, don't you?" I asked, acting perplexed even though I felt like screaming with delight.
"Yes," she agreed with a hint of distantly-aimed exasperation, "but he…" Quickly, she trailed off, realising she was about to reveal something she shouldn't. Her hands wrung nervously atop her apron as she looked down and away to the left again, trying to figure out what to say next.
"But?" I pressed gently.
"I shouldn't, miss," Yelena cringed, her eyes darting down to take in my kefta.
"You said your brother has met the Apparat," Aleksander cut in, the dark edge in his voice so amplified after his prolonged silence that even I started. Poor little Yelena, on the other hand, was so suddenly terrified anew she turned as white as milk.
"Yes, Darkling, sir," she said, her voice so timid it barely came out as a squeak.
"And you attend church regularly?" He asked silkenly.
"Yes, sir," Yelena said again, the sudden shift in our questioning catching her off-guard that she was answering with blind honesty. It was another trick I often used when orchestrating conversations but hadn't thought would be helpful here.
Clearly, I was wrong.
"Good," he allowed, pleased. "Then tell me: the church espouses truth as a Saintly virtue, does it not?" He continued, his quartz eyes suddenly going shrewd and cold as if he was intentionally trying to be as unpredictable and threatening as possible.
Perhaps Aleksander did know how to play 'good guard, bad guard' after all.
"It does, sir," Yelena answered, reduced to an obedient child standing before the one and only Babayka**.
"Then be truthful or face the consequences," he ordered. And Saints damn me to hell if the pure and practised command in his tone sent an unexpected shiver running down my spine to settle between my legs.
This man will be the ruin of me, I just know it, I lamented internally, all while (by some grace) managing to keep myself composed enough to shrug apologetically at Yelena when she looked at me, seeking rescue. 'You'd better do as you're told,' I implored her with a glance, which she gobbled up and took to heart with eagerness.
"He didn't like that I was working for you, Darkling, sir," she quickly admitted in a whisper as if exposing a dirty secret.
"Because he's Grisha?" I offered gently, sweeping in to save the day even though my heart had fallen to my feet. It wasn't something most people admitted aloud. Still, it wasn't unheard of for Ravkan otkazat'sya to mistrust and shun Grisha on principle, just as they shunned Shu or Fjerdan expats amidst the neverending war between our three countries.
"Because he's a Shadow Summoner," she corrected, latching onto the softness in my voice like a raft in the ocean. "Ruslan believes that he—that you both—are devils—that your existence is keeping the miracle of the Sol Koroleva from being delivered to Ravka and her people. Which is radical, Sun Cult nonsense," she hurried on, babbling. "When he heard that you, Miss Esfir, had arrived at the Little Palace, he nearly lost his mind. I've never seen him so beside himself. He disappeared for three days. And when he came back, he wouldn't tell me where he went—only that 'a miracle was coming'. He returned to normal after that, but it was so strange."
Turning to look at Aleksander, I found him regarding me quietly. The icy chips of his quartz-like eyes were screaming with a mix of emotions so volatile I couldn't keep up: first, I shock, then fury, then dismay, then elation, then a hundred other nameless feelings. It should have scared me, that look—the intensity of his reaction. But instead, it was what sat atop it all that scared me the most. For even though a tempest seethed inside of him, his perfect features were arranged in a chiselled mask of pure, perfected calm. It was the look of a man who knew something he wanted desperately was near and would do whatever it took to take it for his own.
"Take me to him," Aleksander said serenely, the pleasantness in his voice more chilling than any vitriol could have been.
* 'Pryaniki' (пряник) are a range of traditional sweet-baked goods in Russia and other eastern European countries. Traditionally, they are made from flour and honey. While some Russian-English dictionaries translate pryanik as 'gingerbread', ginger is an optional pryanik ingredient, but honey is not.
** 'Babayka' (Баба́йка) or 'Babai' (Баба́й) is a night spirit (Bogeyman) in Slavic folklore who abducts children who do not sleep at night or misbehave.