Nine
You're going to fail, doubt nagged as I stood before the wall of shadow Aleksander had summoned.
Admitting what you are will get you killed, fear shrilled as I took a deep breath to steady myself.
You don't deserve this power, insecurity spat as the trembling of my hands ceased.
Murderous abomination, disgust hissed as I closed my eyes.
You're scorning your family's sacrifice, shame jeered as I let the gentle whispering of the darkness fill my mind.
And as the void-like eyes of the beast slumbering inside my soul opened fully, I felt a sense of contentment, unlike anything I'd ever experienced before, wash over me.
"I'm sorry I pushed you away," I heard myself murmur as the creature rested its massive, horned head against my chest with surprising gentleness, its incorporeal snout directly over my heart.
The beast sighed peacefully in reply. As it leant into me, its weight and strength a comfort, I brushed my fingers delicately over its shifting form. At my touch, it faded into nothingness, dissipating like ink dropped in water…
… And so, too, did the shadows blocking my path.
o-o-o-o
"Good morning, Miss Kosilov," Svetlin said perfunctorily as he buttled into the room, having previously announced himself with a proper yet unapologetically-loud knock at the doors.
The look I fixed Aleksander's manservant with could have peeled paint. "It's barely after sun-up," I groaned after turning my bleary-eyed wroth on the barely-illuminated bedside table clock.
"It's half-past eight," Svetlin countered primly as he properly lit the lamp nearest me. "Sunrise was two hours ago."
"An even more unholy hour," I moaned into the pillow, turning into it to shield my eyes.
Entirely unruffled by my corrosive greeting, Svetlin replied without missing a beat, "On that, miss, we agree."
Rolling back onto my side, I watched, blinking against the sudden brightness, as Aleksander's manservant went around the bed to light the lamp on the opposite nightstand. "Then why are you here?" I complained sourly.
"Your schedule is quite full today," he replied before retreating to stand before the doors.
"That's news to me," I grumbled as I sat up properly. For once, my body didn't ache in protest.
"Yes, which is also why the Darkling has requested your company in the sitting room for breakfast," the silver-haired valet announced, his hard, blue eyes trained primly on the wall just over my left shoulder. "He'd like to discuss the matter with you. Personally."
As much as I wanted to go back to sleep, I had to admit that I was quite hungry. "Of course, he has," I sighed with a (not so) subtle roll of my eyes that made one of Svetlin's perfectly groomed eyebrows arch.
"Is that to say you will be joining him?"
"I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
"No, miss."
"Then, yes: I will grace the Darkling with my presence," I drawled sarcastically as I attacked my sleep-mussed hair, trying to unsnarl it with my fingers. "Before you go," I asked offhandedly as I worked through a difficult knot, "could you bring me my clothes and my kefta, please?" Although I would have been happy to get my things myself, I had no idea where they were or if they were even nearby. I also wasn't about to breakfast with Aleksander in infirmary-issue pyjamas. He's seen enough of me like that already, I blushed.
"A bath has been drawn for your pleasure, miss, and your clothes laid out in the dressing room," Svetlin answered with some satisfaction at having anticipated my request. "If that will be all," he continued with a slight bow to excuse himself, "I will inform the Darkling of your response and return to my other duties."
"One last thing," I hedged as I abandoned the mess of my hair. Hopefully, a comb would be waiting for me alongside the bath.
"How may I be of service?" Svetlin asked, his voice as neutral as his expression.
"The Darkling—how did he know… ?" I trailed off, the words I wanted to say awkward on my tongue.
I could have sworn a small smile tugged at the corner of the butler's mouth. "As much as I appreciate your confidence, miss, I can't pretend I understand yours or the Darkling's powers. That's a question you'll have to ask him yourself."
"Right," I murmured as I absently rubbed the crook of my elbow where the transfusion needle had pierced my flesh. Remembering myself and my present company, I cleared my throat and folded my hands in my lap to keep them from wandering. "That's everything, then," I said more impassively to save face.
"You'll find the dressing room and bathroom down the hall to your right, miss," Svetlin said with an equally crisp bow. Taking my answering nod as a dismissal, he let himself out.
Not wanting to seem like I was chasing after anyone, I waited a minute or so before sliding out of bed. Padding across the room, I approached the doors to the hallway. And even though part of me was still worried I would collide face-first with a wall of resistance, I reached for the crescent-shaped ivory door pulls and effortlessly walked out into the hallway beyond.
Like the war room, the t-shaped passageway was panelled in rich, dark wood, but here, luxurious charcoal-coloured runners carpeted the polished hardwood floors. Sconces studded the walls in orderly lines, giving a warm glow to what would otherwise be a branching, windowless mausoleum. Turning right as instructed, I wandered down the corridor until I reached a set of austere double doors with equally simple, silver handles. Finding them unlocked, I let myself in.
Aleksander's hexagonal dressing room was spacious and comfortably appointed. There was a cosy sitting area (with room enough for one) nestled against the wall on my left, a single, gigantic armoire to my right, and a handsome ebony privacy screen in the background. Closing the doors behind me, I walked towards the far side of the room and through the translucent black drapes waiting there. The slate floor beyond was cold on my bare feet, but I barely noticed beneath my sudden and overwhelming amazement.
The bathroom I stood in was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. Opposite me on the far wall and nestled into a squat, stepped dais that took up half the available space was a bathtub big enough to fit three people comfortably. A breathtaking canopy of perfectly-arranged greywood boughs hung over the colossal copper basin, and the surrounding area was tiled with uninterrupted slabs of silver-veined black marble. Like all of the other rooms in Aleksander's chambers, there were no windows in the otherwise dark, panelled walls, but this particular space felt warm and relaxing, like a magical, wooded sanctuary far removed from the rest of the Little Palace.
I relaxed there until my bath water started to go cold.
As Svetlin said, my clothes, boots, and kefta were waiting for me behind the screen in the dressing room, arranged neatly on a mirrored ebony valet stand. Much to my relief, the rest of my rings were also there, carefully laid out in two neat rows on the stand's small table. I put each one on in its proper place before setting aside the plush grey towel I had wrapped myself in and dressing. Feeling more human than I had in the last few days, I reached lastly for my kefta and slipped it on, relishing the security its weight inspired. I would need it for what I was going to do next.
The entrance to the sitting room was back down the hallway to my left—directly opposite the doors to Aleksander's accursed bedroom. As with earlier this morning, I hesitated before pushing my way inside, though not because I was worried I would smash into a conjured wall. Aleksander was waiting for me, seated in one of his usual thrones at the head of a large table with what looked like the contents of his desk arranged neatly before him. At the far end of the same table was an array of silver and flatware, domed serving dishes, chafing trays, and carafes—our breakfast. An oversized, plush couch sat squarely before the fireplace on the wall immediately to my left, its cushions neatly festooned with blankets and pillows. More furniture than seemed normal lined the perimeter of the hexagonal space, though I had to admit it made the room seem intimate, which was probably not its usual atmosphere.
"You seem well this morning," Aleksander said as he continued to write in smooth, neat lines across a piece of parchment. He never bothered to look up at me as I came to stand beside the table.
A furtive glance at what he was penning told me he was requisitioning yet another report on the Fold. "Being free will do that to a person," I replied casually as I picked up a complex brass instrument from nearby and gently toyed with it.
Aleksander paused in his writing, his quill hovering mid-sentence before setting it aside in a filigreed inkpot. Finally, deigning me his full attention, his glinting grey eyes first paused on my hands before drifting upward to return my stare. It was a struggle to keep my breath from hitching. "If I didn't know any better, I would think you resent me for helping you realise your full potential," he observed, the barest hint of sarcasm lifting his otherwise cold tone. He was preparing to launch into another fight with me.
Desperate to look anywhere else and quell the embarrassed blush threatening to rise in my cheeks, I turned my eyes down to the makeshift plaything I held. The device was most certainly worth a small fortune, but I continued to fiddle with it regardless. "'Resent' is a strong word," I shrugged, forcing an air of confidence. "But, considering I'm getting the better end of our deal, I've decided to be gracious."
"You? Gracious? That begs for an explanation," Aleksander pressed a little more playfully as the tension eased out of the air.
"Yes, I can be gracious," I cheeked as I returned the bobble I held to precisely where I had found it. As I did, I snuck a peek at Aleksander through my lashes and discovered a smile tugging at his mouth. "I forgive you for placing me under house arrest," I explained as I ambled toward the fireplace and leaned informally against the back of the sofa. As I did, it dawned on me that this must have been where Aleksander was sleeping while I occupied his room, and chagrin burned anew in my chest.
"That's fortunate for me, I suppose," he allowed before I heard his chair move along the floorboards.
"Yes, but don't get used to it," I warned dryly as I turned around to face him as nonchalantly as possible and found him standing where I had just been. Eager for something else to say to fill the awkward silence that followed, I nodded toward the opposite end of the table and asked, "Shall we? Or have you already eaten?"
"No, I haven't," he answered easily while gesturing for me to go ahead. "While you readied for the day, I caught up on some work."
Although I tried not to, I became entirely focussed on how Aleksander trailed after me as I obliged him, seating myself in my usual place to the right of the head of the table. Even so, I was completely caught off guard when he swooped in to help adjust my chair, his slender but powerful hands hovering precariously close to my shoulders as he gripped the carved mahogany stiles. "Thank you," I murmured, flustered, as he leaned in a little closer with the motions of his courtesy.
"My pleasure," Aleksander responded as he pulled away to sit at my left. "Although my mother was a beast at times, she did teach me to be a gentleman," he joked with a hint of a smile when I mustered the courage to look up from my plate.
"And here I thought you just appeared out of thin air to be raised by wolves," I teased as Svetlin appeared through the doors, miraculously summoned by some sixth sense he had no doubt acquired over his many years of service. Without instruction, he efficiently set about removing the covers from the various dishes on the table and then disappeared again.
Most of the food was as I expected: simple fare of pechyonochniy pashtet*, dark rye bread, assorted pickles, fresh fruit, tea, wine, and water. However, what struck me as odd was the small plate of raisin-studded vatrushka** placed directly before me. The golden, sweet pastries were far too fancy to be part of any usual Grisha breakfast at the Little Palace.
"Genya sent those for you," Aleksander explained as I eyed the treats with a mix of distrust and desire. It had been a long time since I'd had enough money to treat myself to something so frivolous. "Have one if you like: they aren't poisoned," he added offhandedly as he poured us both glasses of water.
"Very funny," I chuckled as I reached for a sweet bun.
"I'm being serious, Esfir," he countered, his steely gaze meeting mine just as I grasped one of the pirogi**.
That made me pause. "That's not—but, why—how did you—on second thought, I don't want to know," I replied haltingly, closing the matter by placing the sweet bun on my plate. "Tea?" I asked saccharinely as I reached for the pot that sat atop the nearby samovar, trying to change the subject.
"Please," Aleksander nodded, a smile once again flirting on his lips as he served himself some pâté and bread.
I filled his cup before my own, which I left unadulterated. "So," I sighed after bolstering myself with a sip of the piping hot tonic, "you have a busy day planned for me?"
"Us," he open-endedly corrected as he doctored his bread to his liking.
My stomach clenched with a mix of nerves and butterflies. "Meaning?" I pressed before taking a bite of my pastry. It was so delicious that I almost let out a small groan of pleasure.
"Training: you need practice defending yourself," Aleksander clarified, leaving no room for discussion as he began his meal.
That didn't stop me, however. "I know how to defend myself," I countered saltily around another mouthful of vatrushka. "You just won't give me a proper knife."
Aleksander gave me a scathing sideways glance, though I wasn't sure if it was because I was speaking with my mouth full or because I was being insubordinate. "Knives are a safety net, not the first line of a Grisha's defences," he retorted, his voice running hard.
"I'm sure Botkin would beg to differ," I groused before taking another (aggressive) bite of my pastry.
"I'm sure he would," Aleksander allowed with a huff of a laugh, staying true to his mercurial nature.
We ate silently for a while before I ventured to speak again, letting loose the thought that had been nagging at me all morning. "How did you know?" I asked as I gently twisted the stem of my water glass between my index finger and thumb, sending the crystal sparkling.
The tinking of porcelain cup meeting saucer drew my attention to Aleksander, who met my gaze with guarded curiosity. "You'll have to be a little more specific," he replied evenly.
"Don't play dumb," I said pointedly, an embarrassed blush unexpectedly heating my face. "You know what I mean."
"I'm afraid I don't," he insisted with an audible shrug.
It was too late to backtrack now, so I said, "How did you know I was able to… Use my powers?"
Aleksander scanned my face for what felt like an eternity, his shrewd quartz eyes taking in every minute detail of my determined yet chagrined expression. "I didn't," he answered finally, though the way he proceeded to busy himself with arranging his cutlery on his empty plate told me he wasn't being completely honest. When he looked up and saw me glaring at him sceptically, he chuckled under his breath. "I'm sorry to disappoint," he apologised.
"I'm not disappointed," I countered, "I just don't believe you."
"And why is that?" Aleksander pressed, his mouth curving up in a playful half-grin that made his gem-like eyes glimmer.
"I know you. You wouldn't waste time on all this—" here, I motioned to the remains of our meal "—without being completely certain I could join you."
"Perhaps," he allowed, leaning back in his chair with his slender hands steepled under his chin. "But, even if that's true, I still had no way of knowing for certain."
Liar. "Then why bother?" I asked, desperate to get some sort of concrete answer out of him, even though I had no logical idea why it mattered to me.
"Because, as you said," Aleksander smiled, his face softening with a sort of admiration that threatened to make me turn scarlet, "I know you."
At that, I did flush red with an unusual mix of bashfulness and flattery. "Only what I want you to," I deflected, my reproach coming out more flirtatiously than I'd meant it to be. And suddenly, discovering the infinite number of ways I could fold my napkin over itself became a very fascinating endeavour…
"Sadly, yes," I thought I heard him murmur before the sound of chair legs moving against hardwood drew me out of my fidgeting. Looking up, I found Aleksander standing and straightening his kefta, almost as if he was also feeling suddenly awkward. "When you're finished," he said, clearing his throat, "call for Svetlin: he'll show you the quickest and most discreet way to my private training room from here."
"And where will you be?" I asked, trying futilely to keep the concern that clenched my stomach from creeping into my voice, my expression. How had I managed to offend him this time?
Gladness flitted across Aleksander's face before he schooled his expression back into the composed mask he usually wore. "I didn't think that my whereabouts were of any concern to you," he mused as he brushed some invisible fleck off the sleeve of his perfectly-tailored sleeve.
"Oh, they aren't," I corrected just as blandly to save face. "I just don't want to waste my day waiting for you if you've had a change of plans. My time is valuable, too, you know," I pointed out impishly.
"In that case, I have another, brief matter to attend to before I devote the rest of my day to your training," he explained, his mouth twitching upward in a suggestion of a sly grin. "I trust you can survive without my company until then?" He then asked by way of a disinterested farewell, though a satisfied purr underscored his words.
"I'll do my best to manage," I scoffed, our usual banter a welcome change of pace, "but forgive me if I'm not openly pining for you while we're apart."
"I'd expect nothing less from you," Aleksander murmured, his eyes going soft in a way I didn't understand, before he quickly disappeared through the twin doors just beyond his seat at the head of the table.
* 'Pechyonochniy pashtet' (печёночный паштет) is Russian for 'liver pâté'.
** 'Vatrushka' (ватрушка) is a Russian pastry (or 'pirog' [пиро́г]; plural 'pirogi' [пироги]) formed as a ring of dough with quark in the middle, sometimes with the addition of raisins or fruit.