Page 126 of Winterveil

She remained completely still and silent as Chane reached into the pocket of his hoodie and drew out a box. It was deep scarlet with a gold-embellished border, which Klaudia recognized immediately as Cartier.

Without waiting for her to say anything, Chane flipped it open, revealing a glittering diamond choker. Even just looking at it, Klaudia could feel its heaviness.

“Well?” Chane prompted. “Do you like it?”

She nodded.

“Great!” Chane beamed. “Wear it for me tomorrow, okay?”

Klaudia hesitated. Then she nodded once more.

“Awesome!” Chane thrust the box into her hands. Klaudia was clumsy in taking it. “See you tomorrow night! You’re going to look great!”

With that, he turned and clomped down the corridor. Klaudia closed her eyes, slumping against the doorframe.

Once she had ducked back inside her room and bolted the door, Klaudia lifted the necklace from the box and held it up to her throat. It was even heavier than she had expected and the diamonds were almost blinding when they caught the light. Like everything about Chane, it was garish. Loud.

Klaudia returned the necklace to the box, biting down hard on her lower lip. Yet even now, she questioned herself. Was her disgust toward Chane all part of the same wrongness she had always felt? Would another girl be flattered to be courted by someone like him? Would they be preening in front of the mirror in their $300,000 necklace and $10,000 dress?

There were other questions, too, that had lurked for a long time in her subconscious. Was her resistance to killing Satow really the product of some deep-seated loyalty to Russia? To her motherland? Klaudia hardly remembered the years she had spent there, memories blurred by time and the poor recollection of a child. She’d had no qualms about renouncing her Soviet citizenship. After the interview the Immigration Services officer had given her a tiny American flag, and she had kept it on her desk at home for years, the white stripes turning yellow with age. She had known plenty of other Russian immigrants, like Mikhail, so her background had never seemed unusual to her.

Yet . . . there was always the tacit suspicion from Americans, small leading questions or subtly dubious looks. It made Klaudia wonder if there was some latent treachery lying low within her, like a sleeper agent that could be activated at any moment. Maybe she didn’t know herself at all.

Here was an opportunity to prove her loyalty to others and to herself. Here was an opportunity to prove that she could be an ordinary girl, an American girl. Klaudia would wear the dress. And she would wear the necklace, too.

Interstitial

SUBMITTED: JOURNAL ENTRY OF SATOW, MORITZ [TRANS., GERMAN TO ENGLISH] [CLEARANCE REQ.]

JANUARY 1, 2037

“How dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.” (Shelley)

I must go back. The doctor fled his monster but could not escape it. Did he in truth cherish the memory and conception of himself as a genius, did he desire to feel again the close pulse of his own brilliance, like a second beating heart?

It is MY world [sic]. They call it “Projekt Traum” but I call it my home, my paradise, my ruin, MINE. I should never have let another enter.

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven . . .” (Milton)

Please, let me dream again.

Thirty-Nine

Spring 2037

New York, New York

Giselle knew she had been dreaming, but she couldn’t remember anything when she woke. The bright canvas of colors shuddered away when she opened her eyes.

Nadiya was still asleep beside her, dark hair cast across the pillow. Her shoulders rose and fell in a gentle rhythm. With slow, deliberate movements, careful not to wake her, Giselle slid her arms from around Nadiya’s waist and stood.

Quietly, she crept into the bathroom and regarded her face in the mirror. Sleep had helped to shrink the dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hair was as unruly as ever, hanging heavy and hot to her waist. She held it up and allowed the waft of the air conditioner to cool the back of her neck, letting out a sigh of relief.

The face that looked back at her was both familiar and not. Giselle saw the shades of her former self in the bow of her lips and wide blue eyes. But there was a set to her jaw and a sheen of resolve in her stare that did not befit Giselle Anne Buckley, Sutton Reeve’s girl, her mother’s cherished daughter, Belle’s beloved pageant queen. She had changed, in ways she still didn’t fully understand.

With the sudden, soft patter of footsteps, Nadiya joined her in the bathroom.

“You let me sleep for too long,” Nadiya accused.