13. Eva
Eva
T he next morning, we all gather in the courtyard and then walk together down to the village. I’ve told Leon to leave us for the day, focus on Markov—not least because I know Robin is still a little suspicious about him.
And perhaps I’m a little suspicious, too.
All the more need for us to resolve the financial issue as soon as possible. I text Uncle Stefan and summon him to the castle as well. I can clear the air with him while I ask his opinion about the financial irregularities—I feel unsettled about the way we left things in Las Vegas.
The path we take down to the village is winding, cutting through dense forest before opening onto rolling meadows dotted with sheep.
“It’s beautiful,” Alicia breathes, and I feel a surge of possessive pride. This land is in my blood, part of my DNA. Her appreciation of it feels like approval of some essential part of me.
The village spreads below us like something from a postcard—red-tiled roofs, narrow cobblestone streets, a church spire reaching toward the pale sky. Market day means the square bustles with activity, vendors hawking everything from fresh produce to handwoven scarves.
We’re barely into the square when Robin waves at a slim figure at the other end. It’s Mira, pushing her dirt bike down the main street, dark hair escaping from a messy ponytail, grease streaks on her cheek. She’s talking to herself, clearly frustrated.
“Mira!” Robin calls, waving. The girl looks up, and her face brightens before quickly schooling itself back to indifference.
“You know her?” I murmur, surprised.
“Sort of,” she replies, but Mira has arrived before I can ask what that means.
“Robin,” she says, with an air of coolness. “You came back.”
“I told you I would.” Robin’s smile is warm. “How’s the English going?”
Mira shrugs, but I catch the way her eyes dart to Adrian, who’s emerged from behind his siblings, eyes fixed on the pretty young woman. “You said you would practice with me,” Mira says. “But you never did.”
Robin’s face falls. “I looked for you! I asked around, but everyone said you were always out in the woods somewhere on your dirt bike.” She points at it.
“Dirt bike,” Mira says, testing the English words carefully. “Yes, probably true.” She sighs dramatically, every inch the put-upon nineteen-year-old. “Now it is broken and I must fix.”
Adrian steps forward, eager in that way young men get when they want to impress. “I could help,” he offers.
Mira’s eyes narrow. “I do not need help. I know how.”
“Of course,” Adrian backpedals quickly. “I just meant…I could hold tools? Or…keep you company?”
She considers this, head tilted like a bird evaluating a particularly interesting worm. “Will you help me practice English?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then you can come. But no getting in my way.”
Adrian grins like he’s just won the lottery. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I catch Robin’s eye and we share a moment of perfect understanding—the universal language of watching young romance unfold. There’s something sweet about it, hopeful in a way I’d forgotten existed.
“We’ll meet back here for lunch,” Robin calls as Adrian trails after Mira like an eager puppy.
We take Maisie to meet some of the village children playing near the fountain, who remember Robin well and are delighted to see her.
Maisie’s shyness lasts exactly thirty seconds before she’s chattering away in her limited but enthusiastic attempts at the local language, making the other kids giggle with her mispronunciations.
Dane and Alicia disappear to explore on their own, with strict instructions to stay together and meet us at noon. That leaves Robin and me to wander the market.
“They love it here,” Robin says, watching Maisie attempt to teach the village children a clapping game.
“Do they?” I try to keep the hope out of my voice.
“Can’t you tell?” She bumps my shoulder gently. “Alicia hasn’t stopped talking about the castle since we arrived. And Dane actually smiled at breakfast.”
“He doesn’t usually?”
“Not like that. Not…free.” Robin’s voice goes soft. “They’ve all been carrying so much weight for so long. Seeing them just be kids again…”
She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t need to. I understand the real gift I’m giving them—not just luxury, but freedom from worry. The chance to simply exist without the weight of reality and responsibility.
It’s the same gift Robin gave me, in a different way. The chance to be something other than the cold-hearted arms dealer, the head of the Consortium.
When noon arrives, we collect our scattered family members. Adrian returns with grease under his fingernails and a satisfied smile, reporting that Mira’s bike is now running perfectly and she’s agreed to show him the forest trails tomorrow.
“Just as friends,” he adds quickly when Dane starts making kissing noises.
“Of course,” Robin agrees solemnly, but I catch her hiding a smile.
“Where do you want to eat?” I ask the group at large.
Dane and Alicia exchange glances. “There’s this pub we saw earlier,” Alicia says. “It looked really authentic.”
Robin hesitates when they point it out. “Maybe we should find somewhere a bit more…family-friendly?”
But I’m already nodding. “Good choice. My father used to go there all the time.” And I know from memory that it’s exactly what tourists will expect from a village pub—low ceilings, dark wood, the scent of hearty food and local beer. But the moment we step inside, the atmosphere shifts.
Conversations die. Heads turn. Hostile stares meet me.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Robin murmurs, but I’m already moving toward an empty table, spine straight, chin high.
I will not run.
We’re barely seated when she rises from her corner table—a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair and eyes bright with fury. “You,” she spits, pointing an accusing finger at me as she crosses the room. “Devil. Demon. What did you do with my sweet Nata?”
Nata? I stare blankly back.
The pub falls completely silent. Even the kitchen sounds cease. Robin’s family stares in shocked confusion, able to understand the tone if not the words.
The only thing I am grateful for is the fact that she’s not speaking English.
“Who on earth are you talking about?” I ask with my usual imperious edge. I won’t be cowed.
“My Nata,” she shrieks. “She went to work up at the castle?—”
“Oh,” I say, things finally clicking into place. “You mean Natalya?”
“Don’t you dare speak her name!” The woman’s voice cracks with grief and rage. “She was a good girl, a sweet girl, and you…you took her away from me!”
Natalya. Beautiful, ambitious Natalya, who came to my bed willingly for a few weeks, and left just as willingly when I offered her something better than this tiny village could provide.
Robin stands smoothly, her voice calm but firm. “I think we should find somewhere else for lunch.”
“Yes,” the woman snarls, still staring at me as I turn to follow Robin. “That’s right. Run, demon, before we cast you out! You don’t belong here.”
Some in the crowd are remonstrating nervously with her, telling her to quiet down if she wants to keep her life.
As though I would have the woman killed merely for speaking to me disrespectfully.
Is that what my father would have done?
“Come on,” Robin says gently, herding her siblings toward the door.
Outside, the bright sunlight feels like an assault after the pub’s dim interior. Maisie slips a hand into mine and looks up at me with huge, confused eyes.
“Why was that lady so mean to you?” she asks in her sweet, innocent voice.
I open my mouth, but no words come. How do you explain to a child that sometimes the things you’ve done—even with the best intentions—leave scars on other people’s hearts?
Robin intervenes. “Sometimes people just won’t like you, Maisie. And that’s okay. We can’t control how others feel about us.”
“But everyone likes you,” Maisie protests, looking at Robin with absolute faith.
I can’t help the ironic smile that tugs at my lips. It’s true—everyone does love Robin. While I am feared, resented, called demon and devil by grieving mothers who don’t understand that I gave their daughters better lives than this village ever could.
A voice speaks up in the back of my head: For God’s sake, it’s not my fault that Natalya never bothered to tell her mother where she went.
Still. I can’t help feeling…
Guilty.
“There’s a tavern just down the street,” I say finally, finding my voice. “Their lamb stew is excellent.”
We walk in subdued silence, Maisie’s hand warm in mine, Robin’s presence a steady comfort at my side. The confrontation has shaken me more than I want to admit, dredging up guilty feelings I don’t know how to process.
Once we’re in the tavern, Adrian and the kids wander around a little, looking at the art on the walls and other objects from history, leaving Robin and me alone for a moment. I lean toward her.
“The woman at the pub,” I begin quietly, “she was asking about Natalya.”
Robin’s brow furrows. “Natalya?”
“One of the village girls. I…paid for her company a few times.” The admission is bitter, but I push forward.
“She was beautiful, intelligent, but trapped here under tradition. She was deep in the closet, and dreamed of getting out. When we were…done, I helped her leave. It was what she wanted,” I add quickly.
Defensively. “I had a new identity created for her. Papers, contacts, financial means.”
“Where is she now?”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “Whichever city is currently having its Fashion Week, I suppose. She’s walked for Dior, Chanel, Versace. You’ve probably seen her on Vogue covers.”
Robin processes this, her expression thoughtful. “That woman shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. But…” She hesitates. “She must miss her daughter.”
“If she misses her so much, she should have treated her better,” I reply dismissively.
But even as the words leave my mouth, I feel Robin’s gentle disapproval. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t lecture, just lets the silence stretch until I’m forced to confront what I’ve said.
The truth is more complicated than my glib response suggests. Natalya’s mother wasn’t cruel—just limited by circumstance, by poverty, by the narrow horizons of village life. She loved her daughter in the only way she knew how, and I took that daughter away without a backward glance.
The fact that Natalya is happier, more successful, living the life she dreamed of doesn’t erase her mother’s grief. Doesn’t make the loss less real.
Robin doesn’t say any of this. She doesn’t need to. Her compassion is a mirror that forces me to see my own actions more clearly, and I’m not sure I like what I find reflected there.
“She’s better off,” I insist, but the words lack their usual conviction.
“I have no doubt,” Robin says softly.
But I know what she’s left unsaid: that still doesn’t make it right .
I hated the Gattos for what they did to vulnerable women. And yet I, too, have taken advantage of such people.
I took advantage of Robin. Of her circumstances. Of her family .
Later that evening, back at the castle, we gather in the Great Hall for what Robin laughingly calls “family game night.” Leon, pressed into service as a reluctant participant, ends up wearing a series of increasingly ridiculous hats as part of some elaborate charades variant Alicia and Maisie have invented.
I watch from my chair by the fire, wine warming my blood, and think that this might be the most perfect evening of my life.
Robin curled in the chair beside me, her siblings’ laughter echoing off stone walls that have been silent too long, Leon’s grumbling protests as Alicia places a feathered fascinator on his head.
This is what happiness looks like. What home could be.
But even as I smile and join their games, words echo in my memory. Devil. Demon.
And I wonder if Robin’s family would still be laughing if they knew exactly what I’d done to earn such names.