17. Mikhail
MIKHAIL
By the end of Taylor’s second week, she no longer looks like a visitor.
She moves through the office as though she has quietly memorized its pulse.
She knows which secretary will answer immediately and which one must be called twice.
She knows the deputy minister prefers documents printed even when they’ve already been sent electronically.
She has learned that Oleg forgets every meeting not physically written into his calendar and that Viktoriya will agree to almost anything if asked before her first coffee.
More impressively, she has learned when not to speak. Americans often struggle with silence. They rush to fill it, terrified that an empty space in conversation means they have lost control. Taylor uses silence like a blade.
I watch her from my office as she stands beside Oleg’s desk, waiting while he explains something to her in Russian.
He speaks too quickly and uses three unnecessary idioms, likely because he enjoys reminding her that she is foreign.
She lets him finish. Then she responds in careful Russian, correcting the date he has given her.
Oleg frowns and checks his computer. Taylor is right.
Her mouth curves slightly, but she doesn’t gloat.
She returns to her own desk as though she has done nothing unusual.
I look back at the briefing document in front of me. I have read the same paragraph four times. This is becoming inconvenient.
I had assumed she would struggle longer.
Not because she is unintelligent. I understood quickly that she was not.
But intelligence is not the same as usefulness, and academic confidence often collapses when confronted with real pressure.
Students believe deadlines are serious because their professors deduct points.
They do not understand deadlines that cost elections, contracts, or lives.
Taylor understands faster than most. She asks questions once. She remembers the answers. When someone gives her contradictory instructions, she doesn’t panic or choose whichever person holds the higher title. She finds the source of the contradiction and resolves it.
She’s also good with people, though she doesn’t possess the polished, artificial warmth of a professional diplomat.
She doesn’t smile constantly or flatter anyone.
She listens. She notices details. She speaks to drivers and ministers with the same dry patience, though she’s considerably less afraid of the drivers.
My phone vibrates against the desk. Arkady. I look at the message without opening it.
We found another transfer connected to Orlov’s transport office. Call me.
It’s the third message he has sent this morning. I turn the phone face down and return my attention to Taylor.
I’m still pretending to read half an hour later when I leave my office to get coffee. As I step out of the break room, Viktoriya’s sharp voice cuts across the main office. “No, no, no.”
I stop in the corridor with one hand still on the door. Viktoriya is standing at her desk with one hand pressed to her forehead. Her face has gone pale. Several people look up.
Taylor turns in her chair. “That sounds promising.”
Viktoriya ignores the remark. She clicks furiously through something on her monitor, then reaches for the telephone, her fingers opening and closing uselessly above it. “The Governor’s Winter Education Benefit.”
“What about it?” Taylor asks.
“The venue is gone.”
Taylor waits. Viktoriya looks at her as though she has announced a death in the family. “The ballroom was double-booked.”
“For the same night?”
“Well, yes. That is what double-booked means.”
“Sorry.”
Viktoriya turns her monitor toward her. An email fills the screen, dense with apologies and entirely useless. “The hotel accepted a private wedding after confirming our reservation,” she says. “They claim there was an error in the system.”
“Well, Mikhail is the governor.” Taylor says my first name before she realizes she has done it. Viktoriya notices. So do I. Taylor’s shoulders tighten, but she keeps going. “Surely they can make the hotel move the wedding?”
“The bride’s father owns part of it.”
“So no.” She sits straighter. Now she understands. So do I.
The benefit is still more than a month away, but the invitations have already been approved, donors contacted, and the catering deposit paid.
The event raises money for teacher-retention bonuses and emergency improvement grants for schools that cannot wait for the next budget cycle to repair a roof or replace a failing heating system.
It’s organized through the governor’s office, and changing the date would require explanations, refunds, and calls to several people who believe inconvenience is a personal insult.
“The date has to stay,” Taylor mutters. “So we move the location.”
“We need somewhere large enough for dinner and dancing,” Viktoriya says. “And speeches. An auction. The education-fund presentation. Security. Press photographs.”
“Anything else?”
“A small orchestra.”
Taylor glances at her. “Of course there’s an orchestra.”
I remain in the corridor and listen.
Viktoriya opens another document. “I have called every hotel on the approved list. They are either booked or too small. The Radisson has space, but Governor Korolev rejected the ballroom last year.”
“Why?”
“It is ugly.”
I lower my coffee before either of them can see the corner of my mouth move. Taylor considers this. “Fair.”
Viktoriya scrolls farther. “The old assembly hall cannot accommodate the separate press entrance. The museum closes too early, and the director will not extend the hours. The conservatory has enough space, but it has no approved catering kitchen and does not allow large private evening events.”
Taylor rolls her chair closer. “The conservatory attached to the old cultural center?”
“Yes.”
“The one your administration funds?”
Viktoriya looks at her. “The regional government supports many cultural sites.”
“That one receives a protected annual grant.” Taylor returns to her own computer and begins typing. By the time she turns her monitor toward Viktoriya, I have moved closer without deciding to.
She has found the conservatory’s website.
A photograph fills the screen. The conservatory is a long glass pavilion built behind a restored nineteenth-century estate.
The main building hosts exhibitions, lectures, botanical programs, and minor diplomatic receptions.
During my campaign, I promised to preserve regional cultural and educational sites threatened by budget cuts.
Once elected, my office placed the estate under a protected grant program that guarantees its annual operating funds.
Viktoriya already knows this. What she has not yet seen is the angle Taylor sees immediately.
“They host government receptions,” Taylor says.
“Small daytime receptions.”
“Then make ours a reception instead of a formal dinner.”
“The invitations promise dinner.”
“Cold dinner.”
Viktoriya stares at her.
Taylor gestures toward the screen. “Cold hors d’oeuvres, pastries, fruit, smoked fish, caviar. The caterer prepares everything off-site and plates it there. They don’t need a full kitchen.”
“This is an education benefit, not a cocktail hour.”
“Call it a winter reception and supper buffet. People are coming to drink, donate money, and look important in photographs. They will survive without hot chicken.”
A laugh escapes someone at the central desk. Viktoriya narrows her hazel eyes, but I can see her reconsidering.
Taylor continues. “The cultural center already has service entrances and government security protocols because they host diplomatic events. Parking can be handled through the estate grounds and the municipal lot across the street. The conservatory is climate-controlled all winter because the plants would die otherwise.”
“Tropical trees,” I say.
Taylor turns. She finds me standing a few feet behind her. Color rises in her cheeks, subtle but immediate. “Yes,” she says. “Tropical trees.”
Viktoriya looks between us and wisely says nothing.
Taylor turns the monitor farther toward me. “Your office protects their annual funding. The event raises money for regional education. They would be hosting the people who keep their programs open.”
“We do not threaten cultural institutions with their funding,” Viktoriya says.
“I didn’t say threaten them.”
“You implied it.”
“I said we have a relationship.”
“You said they owe us.”
“I said it politely.”
Viktoriya folds her arms.
Taylor lifts one shoulder. “Politeness is mostly saying threatening things in a nicer order.”
I look at the photograph again. The glass walls curve around a central courtyard. Iron balconies overlook the main floor. At night, with the interior lit properly, it would be more striking than the hotel ballroom.
“The orchestra could go on the upper level,” Taylor says. “Tables around the outside. Dance floor in the center.”
“There is no dance floor,” Viktoriya says.
“There is a floor. People can dance on it.”
“That sounds almost respectable.”
“It is respectable.”
Viktoriya leans closer to the screen despite herself. “The conservatory may still refuse.”
“They will not,” I say.
Taylor looks up at me. “How do you know?”
“Because I will ask.”
The room becomes quiet. I turn to Viktoriya. “Have Olga contact the conservatory director and arrange a tour. Tell her I will attend.”
Viktoriya nods. Olga has spent most of the week on our floor preparing for the education forum and the benefit. Her presence makes the request appear administrative rather than personal, though I know she will ask why I am suddenly touring a venue that was dismissed months ago.
“And have the caterer prepare a reception menu,” I add. “Cold service. No kitchen.”
Viktoriya looks at Taylor, then back at me. “Of course.” She walks away toward the conference room where Olga has been working.
Taylor remains seated, still looking at the screen rather than celebrating.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“The conservatory may say no.”
“They will say yes.”
“You seem very confident.”
“I am the governor.”
Her mouth twitches. “That did occur to me.”
I should return to my office. Instead, I stay beside her desk. “Well done, Miss Hayes.”
“Thank you.” Her lips part as though she has prepared several other responses and forgotten all of them.
“You handled that well.”
“I’m glad you approve.” The words are dry, but her voice is not steady.
I take a step closer. She grips the pen in her hand. Praise is dangerous.
“You are good at this,” I tell her.
Her face changes. The sarcasm disappears first. Then the suspicion. For one unguarded moment, she looks pleased. Not flattered. Not victorious. Proud. The expression strikes me with unexpected force.
Then she lowers her gaze to the papers on her desk. “Careful. I might start thinking you want me here for my qualifications.”
I lean one hand against the edge of her desk. Her breathing changes. “I do,” I say.
It is not entirely a lie.
Her green eyes lift slowly to mine. The office continues around us—phones ringing, keys clicking, Dima arguing with someone in the corridor—but the space between Taylor and me becomes unnaturally still.
She looks at my hand on her desk. Then at my face. “That almost sounded convincing.”
I straighten. Her mouth curves, but the flush has spread down her throat. She knows I saw her succeed. For some reason, this unsettles her more than my anger ever has.
Across the room, Olga stands in the conference-room doorway with her tablet against her chest. Her gaze moves from Taylor to me, then to my hand as I remove it from the desk. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to.
I return to my office before I allow myself to ask why Taylor’s pride affects me more than her embarrassment.
Behind the darkened glass, Viktoriya begins making calls, and Taylor sits still for a moment, looking pleased with herself and flustered.
She takes a deep, steadying breath before returning to her work.
The conservatory will work. Not merely as a substitute. It will be memorable. And when Taylor attends the benefit next month, every light, table, and piece of music in that room will exist there because she imagined it first.
My phone vibrates again. Arkady. I open the message this time.
The number on the second phone belongs to one of Orlov’s logistics companies. We need to speak now.
I look down at the briefing document in front of me, then back through the glass. Taylor is different when she’s occupied. The uncertainty disappears. So does the cautious defiance she wears around me. There’s no space left for self-consciousness. She becomes direct, composed, almost severe.
Beautiful, certainly. But beauty is common enough.
Competence is rare. People mistake confidence for it constantly, particularly in politics. They speak loudly, move quickly, and create the illusion of control while someone quieter repairs the damage behind them. Taylor doesn’t create the illusion of control. She finds the damage and repairs it.
I read the same paragraph for a fourth time. This is becoming inconvenient.