13. Sofia
SOFIA
By the afternoon, I have learned three things about Volodin House.
One, the coffee is excellent.
Two, every corridor looks like it has been designed by a man who thinks sunlight is a personal weakness.
Three, absolutely everyone knows where I am at all times, even when they are pretending they don’t.
This last part becomes clear when I leave my bedroom and start exploring.
No one stops me. That’s the suspicious part.
If I were truly free to wander, someone would be less casual about it.
Instead, the guard posted near the end of the upstairs corridor gives me a respectful nod, doesn’t ask where I’m going, and then somehow another man appears downstairs five minutes later near the east hall, also not asking where I’m going.
I walk past him slowly. He stares at a painting as if it contains the secrets of creation.
I stop. He doesn’t move.
I take three steps backward. His eyes stay fixed on the painting.
“Is it good?” I ask.
His jaw tightens.
“The painting,” I say helpfully. “You seem fascinated.”
“It’s old,” he says.
“Excellent analysis.”
He says nothing.
I sigh and continue down the hall.
Volodin House is enormous in that quiet, oppressive way old money houses often are.
Not showy, exactly. The wealth here is too certain for showiness.
It doesn’t shout. It sits in dark marble floors, antique mirrors, carved banisters, heavy doors, oil portraits, rugs too old to step on without feeling personally judged by history.
The sea follows everywhere. Through windows. Down corridors. In the low, endless crash against the cliff below. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also impossible to forget. The whole house feels built on the edge of something waiting to swallow it.
I pass a music room, which makes me stop.
There is no piano yet. Thank God.
Or maybe not thank God, because I’m half-convinced Damir can summon one through sheer arrogance by dinner.
The room is empty except for covered furniture, tall windows, and a fireplace cold with disuse. For a moment, I imagine it filled with music, and the thought makes me uncomfortable in a way I can’t immediately explain.
So I leave.
I’m halfway down another corridor, trying to decide whether the house contains a library or only rooms in which men brood professionally, when I hear a thump followed by low cursing. The kind delivered with great seriousness and imperfect pronunciation.
I pause. A second thump follows.
Then a boy’s voice mutters, “Stupid horse.”
I turn toward the sound.
At the end of the corridor, a door stands slightly open. I push it wider and look inside.
It’s a small sitting room, warmer than the others, with faded green wallpaper, shelves of old books, a low table, and a carved wooden horse lying upside down near the rug. A little boy kneels beside it, dark hair flopping into his eyes, one sock halfway off, his mouth pressed into a furious line.
He looks up.
I look down.
We stare at each other.
He is maybe four. Maybe five. Round-cheeked, serious-eyed, dressed in little trousers and a sweater that has clearly lost a fight with jam sometime earlier in the day.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says.
I blink. “That makes two of us.”
His eyes narrow. “Are you a ghost?”
I look down at my dress. I’m no longer in the wedding gown, thank God, but I am wearing one of the borrowed dresses Marina gave me, dark green and too elegant for wandering around like a suspicious household spirit.
My hair is loose, my face probably still pale, and the giant Volodin ring is tied to my finger like I robbed a royal tomb.
“Not currently,” I say.
He considers this. “Ghosts say that.”
“Do they?”
“My papa says if something answers too politely, you should be suspicious.”
I like his papa already.
“Well,” I say, stepping inside, “in that case, no, I’m not a ghost. Obviously. Ghosts have much better posture.”
The boy looks me over with intense suspicion.
Then he points at the wooden horse. “He fell.”
“Tragic.”
“He was jumping.”
“Ambitious.”
“He died.”
“Temporarily, I hope.”
The boy picks up the horse and sets it upright with a solemnity usually reserved for state funerals. “He is brave,” he says.
“I can see that.”
“He fought a dragon.”
“Did he win?”
“No. The dragon cheated.”
“Typical dragon behavior.”
The boy nods, satisfied by my understanding of dragon ethics.
I crouch carefully, because borrowed dresses and dignity are natural enemies. “What’s his name?”
“General Pepper.”
“Strong name.”
“He has enemies.”
“Most generals do.”
The boy studies me again. “What’s your name?”
“Sofia.”
His eyes widen slightly. “You’re the wife.”
I freeze. Then I exhale through my nose. Apparently I am famous among the preschool demographic.
“That depends who you ask.”
He tilts his head. “Uncle Damir said you are.”
Uncle Damir. Interesting.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“What else did Uncle Damir say?”
“That I shouldn’t bother you.”
“You are doing an excellent job disobeying.”
“I was here first.”
“Fair.”
He looks pleased with that.
I sit on the edge of the rug because standing over a child while interrogating him about his terrifying uncle feels rude, even for me. The boy immediately hands me a wooden soldier missing one arm.
“This is Captain Luka,” he says.
“What happened to his arm?”
“Cannon.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“He still fights.”
“Good for him.”
The boy nods gravely. “He is not a coward.”
“No,” I agree. “Clearly not.”
For the next ten minutes, I help General Pepper and Captain Luka defeat a dragon represented by a velvet cushion. The battle is fierce, poorly organized, and ends when the dragon is banished under the table for “being rude to civilians.”
Honestly, I have attended worse negotiations.
I’m placing Captain Luka on a book-fort wall when a man appears in the doorway.
Grigori Volodin.
I remember him from yesterday. Sandy-brown hair, crooked nose, broad shoulders, grin like a man born with a talent for irritating dangerous relatives and surviving through charm.
He looks less formal today, jacket open, shirt collar loose, and there is something startlingly ordinary about the way his face softens when he sees the boy.
“Maksim,” he says. “There you are.”
The boy brightens. “Papa.”
Ah. So this is his father.
Grigori steps into the room, gaze moving from his son to me sitting on the rug with a one-armed soldier in my hand. His grin appears slowly. “Well,” he says, “I see you have met the general staff.”
“I have,” I say. “Their leadership structure concerns me.”
Maksim gasps. “It’s good.”
“It’s brave,” I correct. “Not organized.”
Grigori laughs, and the sound is easy enough that I almost forget where I am.
Almost.
“Maksim,” he says, “were you told not to bother Sofia?”
Maksim points at me. “She came in.”
I place one hand over my heart. “Betrayed by a soldier. History repeats.”
Grigori’s mouth twitches. “Go find your nanny. She is probably tearing the house apart looking for you.”
“I was fighting dragons.”
“Tell her that. I’m sure she’ll apologize.”
Maksim gathers General Pepper and Captain Luka with the frantic urgency of a general retreating under fire. Before he leaves, he turns back to me. “You can come tomorrow,” he says.
I blink. Not a question.
A royal decree.
“I’ll check my schedule.”
He frowns.
I soften. “Yes. I can come tomorrow.”
Satisfied, he runs out. A woman’s relieved exclamation sounds from the corridor a second later, followed by Maksim explaining loudly that the dragon cheated.
Grigori leans against the doorframe, still smiling. “He likes you.”
“He has questionable taste. He also liked the armless soldier.”
“Captain Luka has endured much.”
“So I heard.”
Grigori looks at the little battlefield on the rug, then at me. His smile remains, but his eyes sharpen with the same Volodin awareness I am beginning to recognize. Friendlier than Damir, yes. Easier. Warmer.
Still dangerous.
“I hope he didn’t trouble you,” he says.
“No. I liked him.” That comes out too honest. So I add, “He’s currently my favorite Volodin.”
“Wise. He is the least likely to shoot anyone.”
“Currently?”
“He’s young. We have hopes.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Grigori’s grin widens.
I stand, smoothing my dress. The ridiculous ring bumps against my finger, and his gaze drops to it briefly.
There it is again. That quick flicker men keep failing to hide when they see it.
“You all stare at this ring like it’s going to explode,” I say.
Grigori looks back at my face. “In this family, it might.”
“What does that mean?”
“This ring belonged to his father, and his father before him. Women don’t exactly prefer this fashion. But, well, Damir is dramatic.”
“I gathered that when he interrupted my wedding with armed men,” I reply, though I don’t see what’s dramatic about giving me the ring.
“He does like an entrance.”
“He shot Dmitri.”
“Also an exit strategy.”
I stare at him. Grigori gives me an innocent look that fools absolutely no one.
I like him.
Damn it. This house is becoming a problem.
“You seem very casual about all this,” I say.
“About what?”
“Your cousin kidnapping a bride, marrying her under gunfire, bringing her home, and apparently ordering a piano because mentioned the word once.”
Grigori laughs again, louder this time. “He ordered a piano?”
“And knitting supplies.”
His eyes brighten. “Oh, I like you.”
“I’m not taking responsibility for his insanity.”
“No one does. That is why it has flourished.”
I cross my arms. “Is he always like this?”
“Damir?”
“No, the horse.”
Grigori shrugs. “The horse is more reasonable.”
“So Damir is always impossible.”
“That depends on what you mean by impossible.”
“Controlling. Arrogant. Terrifyingly calm. Capable of turning a normal sentence into a household command.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Sometimes.”