Page 63

Anya sighs. “I miss my friends.”

I put down my pen. “I'm sure you do.”

“Lily has a birthday party on Saturday, and I was supposed to go, but Papa hasn't said if I can.”

I look at her. “Maybe you could ask whether she can come here instead.”

“Lily?”

“Lily, and perhaps a couple of your other friends. You have enough space to host a small nation, so I assume a birthday visit wouldn't be too difficult.”

Anya smiles, but it fades quickly. “Papa doesn't like people coming here.”

I glance toward the library doors. That’s becoming increasingly obvious. The estate is beautiful, but the security is difficult to ignore once you start paying attention. Men stand near the entrances, patrol the grounds, and appear in corridors that seem to lead nowhere particularly important.

Yesterday, I am almost certain I saw a gun beneath one man's jacket.

I have been trying very hard not to think about what that means.

Nikolai's name appeared on several legitimate business and charity websites when I searched for him, but the other results were less reassuring. There were articles about alleged criminal connections, investigations that never seemed to lead anywhere, and photographs of men who looked as though they considered smiling a prosecutable offense.

I haven't asked him about any of it.

Partly because I don't know how to begin that conversation.

Partly because I suspect I might not like the answer.

And partly because I have discovered that it is surprisingly easy to convince yourself a situation is normal when the beds are comfortable and somebody keeps bringing you excellent coffee.

Anya looks at me. “Do you think Papa is going to keep me here forever?”

I turn back to her. “No, sweetheart. I think he's frightened because of what happened, and he's trying to make sure you're safe.”

“But I was safe before.”

I don't know what to say to that.

She wasn't.

That’s the problem.

Still, I cannot imagine spending my childhood inside a beautiful house, watching the world through windows while everyone insists the restrictions are for my own good.

“Maybe we can talk to him about finding a way for you to see your friends safely,” I say. “There might be things he's comfortable with that you haven't thought of yet.”

Anya looks hopeful. “Will you ask him?”

I hesitate. Then I nod. “I can try.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. Your father and I have very different ideas about how conversations should go.”

She giggles. “I know.”

I narrow my eyes. “What exactly has he told you?”

“Nothing.”