Chapter 35
1838words
I've chewed my thumbnail down to the quick. The skin splits, blossoming red. Hissing in pain, I shake my hand out, clenching my fingers. I have to quit this bad habit one of these days. I always do it when I'm stressed. And right now, I am very stressed.
After a fitful sleep in Asher's bed, I woke with a nagging feeling in my head. Though walls and floors separate us, I keep picturing my mother in the house. Did she sleep okay last night? Did Layla meet her, get food for her? How is she getting along compared to my first night?
And on more than one occasion, I wonder if she heard us last night.
Her arrival left me flushed with joy. But after enough hours, the happiness faded to something bleaker. There's something she said yesterday that I can't shed.
Sleep didn't erase it. If anything, the time passing has made my curiosity sharper.
Why did Mom react like that on hearing Yannick's name?
I replay the scene over in my head. My mother was hanging on my every word when we spoke, so there was no way she didn't hear me. For some reason she chose to dodge my question asking if she was okay at the mere mention of Yannick. It calls me back to when we were both going over the paperwork for the studio. She played dumb about all the debt … waited to drop the bomb on me about a buyer.
She's keeping something from me. I'm sure of it.
I'll ask her again. This time, I won't let her avoid answering me.
Jumping to my feet, I pace through the beams of sunlight in the sitting room on the first floor. It's still early; after I slipped from Asher's bedroom, I went to my own room to clean up and change clothes. I passed Mom's room, but didn't check to see if she was awake. Now that it's breakfast, I have an excuse to knock.
In the kitchen, I discover Masha. She's replacing utensils in a drawer. 'Camila Marakov," she greets me, straightening her long skirt. 'How can I help you?"
'Could you please fix me up a breakfast tray? Something quick and simple, with fruit and granola, and some toast, please."
She nods to acknowledge me and immediately gets to work, flying around the kitchen and retrieving mugs, plates, and bowls. No movement is wasted as she fills a bowl while plucking items from the fridge.
I watch her with appreciation. I've gotten used to instructing the staff on what to do. Layla must be feeling smug right now. Before long, the tray is loaded up. Even though I asked for simple, the meal is anything but. A full silver carafe of hot coffee, a container of cream, a bowl of sliced fruit designed to look like a turtle, three glossy, fat cinnamon rolls … and a jar of granola. Not basic granola either—it looks homemade, with large almonds mixed in. And to complete the ensemble, a dash of creamy white yogurt with a drizzle of honey, which reminds me of the mess Asher and I made in bed last night.
I bite my lip to suppress a grin as heat flushes over my face.
'Here you are," Masha says.
'Thank you," I reply. 'I just hope I can carry it upstairs."
She blanches, reaching for the tray. 'I can do it for you."
'A joke, Masha. But thank you for the offer." I tense with the effort of hauling the meal while trying not to spill it. By the time I make it to my mother's bedroom, my arms are shaking. Shifting my hip, I use my elbow to knock. 'Mom? You awake? I brought breakfast!"
There's some light noise inside. A moment later, the door swings open. Mom has layered herself in a pink shawl, white, thigh-length sweater, and black pants. She's left her hair down in lovely waves. One look at her mascara and lip liner, and I know she's been awake for some time.
'Good morning, malyshka," she says sweetly. Her eyes dart to the food. 'Oh, let me help!" Grabbing the tray, she carries it into the room.
'How did you sleep?" I ask, closing us in. I make sure the door is locked—I don't want any interruptions.
'Fine enough. Asher doesn't skimp on luxury, that much is clear." Setting the tray on the bedside table, she's quick to pour coffee into the two white ceramic mugs. 'This is exactly what I need. Thank you." Shutting her eyes, she drinks the steaming coffee. 'Oh, bozhe moi, that's incredible."
'The coffee here is great, yeah." Picking up a mug, I perch on the edge of the bed. She's smoothed the blanket into place, re-making it as well as the house staff could have. 'Eat up. It's all for you."
'I can't possibly eat all of this!" In spite of her denial, she takes a big mouthful of a cinnamon roll. The way she rolls her eyes silently screams euphoria. The food really is amazing here. Danil the chef designs all the recipes himself. Layla tells me that only a few of the staff are allowed to know the full list of ingredients. Danil prefers to do things himself, even if it means waking up at four in the morning to get the fresh bread baking.
Wanting to keep my mom relaxed, I decide to take up her invitation and join in the meal. I pick up a strawberry and nibble at it. The less we argue now, the greater my chance at digging out answers from her.
'Have you had a chance to look around the mansion yet?"
'No," she admits. 'This place seems confusing. Lots of hallways and rooms."
'Yeah, it took me a week before I stopped getting lost."
Her eyes narrow; she chews another bite. 'Have you been here this entire time, malyshka?"
'Yes," I admit. Turning the mug in my hands, I rub at a coffee stain on the rim. 'It was scary when Asher first brought me here. I thought he was going to hurt me." The brown spot vanishes from my vigorous rubbing. 'But I learned that all he wanted to do was protect me from the war I didn't know was going on around me."
'Nonsense. There's no war anywhere that would involve you," she says blandly, shifting to face away from me.
Okay, just go for it! Soothing my nerves, I force my voice to remain strong and clear. I can't shrink away. I need clarity.
'Mom," I start, fighting to keep my voice even. 'What do you know about Yannick Grachev?"
'Nothing." Her answer is fast. Too fast.
'Mom," I sigh, exasperated. 'Come on."
'Why would you think I know anything about him?" she asks, her voice growing harsh.
'Because yesterday, when I brought him up, you had this weird reaction."
'You're imagining things."
'No, I'm not!" I shake my head sharply. 'You just refused to answer my question. That's not a denial!"
'Well, I'm answering it now." She keeps her attention on the breakfast tray, taking her time as she picks through the fruit. 'I don't know him."
Tensing up, I grip my mug so hard I'm shocked it doesn't shatter. 'I don't believe you."
My mother turns slowly, until we're eye to eye. Her expression is placid—but I know better. Her disinterest is an act. 'The past is the past, Camila."
I jump off the bed; coffee splashes onto my dress, but I'm oblivious. 'So you do know him!"
She lowers her eyes, her hair curtaining her face. 'Please, don't fight with me. This is already hard enough."
'I don't want to fight you! I just want to understand."
'There is nothing to understand," she grumbles. Her head tilts up, letting me see how annoyed she is with me. 'This topic makes me ill. I'm trying to eat."
'But—"
'I'd like to have my breakfast alone."
I wait for her to change her mind. Instead, she pointedly drops the apple slice back into the fruit bowl. She then pushes herself away from the tray, hands on her knees, jaw jutting forward. I know this stubborn side of her; there's no way to get through to her when she gets like this.
'Fine," I sigh, setting my mug on the tray. 'If you don't want to tell me what you're hiding, I can't make you." I unlock the door. It's a sharp click, but she doesn't acknowledge it.
I didn't want her to know I locked us in for privacy, but when she says nothing, it's almost worse.
I open the door, moving deliberately slowly to give her a chance to call me back.
She remains silent.
Slumping from her coldness, I let myself out of the room. Leaning on her door from the outside, I take a heavy breath. My eyes wander down until I notice the coffee stain on my clothes. I tug at the reminder of how poorly this whole situation went.
She really doesn't want to talk about this. I blink. I don't know what this even is. What did she say? Something about the past is the past?
Rubbing my chin absently, I start down the hallway. I wander aimlessly as my mind races. Mom and the past and Yannick ... What could it all mean? I stop short, stumbling on the thick fibers of the red and gold runner. Suddenly, I notice where I am. With an uneasy push, I nudge my way into the room. The walls are still covered in Asher's odd array of photos of me.
Walking over to them, I remember how much this place scared me. Now, though, the photos bring a different emotion. Something that bubbles around the edges with the promise of satisfaction. I'm particularly drawn to one of myself outside the dance studio.
What I need is access to information about the past.
And I know exactly where to find it.
The office in the back of the studio is still packed with boxes upon boxes of paperwork. I dug through many of them while trying to help get the bills sorted. Maybe there's something stored among the documents that might give me insight into Mom's connection with Yannick.
Rubbing my temples, I groan under my breath. 'Doesn't matter. Nothing at the studio can help me if I'm stuck here." Scrunching my nose, I drill my head for a solution. I have to get out of here. But who can I ask? Not Asher. Definitely not Layla.
Ollie might want to help, but her eagerness is useless without some sort of influence or, barring that, skill. I picture her trying to slip me off in a getaway car, and the thought of it alone is laughably unrealistic.
I need someone smart, slick, and sneaky. A grin splits my face as the solution rises like cream to the top of fresh milk.
I know the perfect person for that.
Mila.
