The Talleyrand Maneuver

“Dmitri and his men will be at your disposal,” Perun said, after Miss Jesczenka’s long silence seemed to satisfy him of her acceptance of his terms. “He will see that you are provided with everything you need.”

Miss Jesczenka narrowed her eyes at him. “You understand that I must return to the Institute to perform my work. I know Miss Edwards will have to stay, but—”

“You will work from here.” Perun seemed to recall that he hadn’t had a cigarette in quite some time; with a trembling hand he reached for the case on the table and the cigarette he’d tapped against it sometime before. He struck a match and lit it, looking at Miss Jesczenka through the flame.

“Impossible.” Her voice was clipped. “All my things … address books, press lists, contacts … Those are the tools of my trade. How can you expect me to operate without them?”

“You’re a brilliant woman, and I’m sure your memory is excellent.” Perun blew out the flame with a small puff. “I cannot allow you to leave. This location is secret, and must remain so.”

“I was blindfolded when I came. I can be blindfolded again.” She paused. “Are you saying I am a prisoner?”

“I am saying that you must do what you can from here. You will not be allowed to return to the Institute. Miss Edwards’ safety and the safety of Volos’ Anodyne are now one and the same. I will not allow either to be put in jeopardy.”

“I must be able to contact the outside world,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Even you can understand that!”

Perun nodded. “Writing supplies will be provided for you. Dmitri will arrange for messages to be carried.”

Miss Jesczenka glanced at Emily, and Emily could see her internally debating whether to speak the words she spoke next.

“Mr. Stanton won’t be able to hold up without my help,” Miss Jesczenka said finally, quickly. “He’s upset about Miss Edwards’ disappearance. You must let her contact him, or it could destroy the last bit of power he has left before I’m able to execute the Talleyrand Maneuver.”

“No,” Dmitri said curtly. “The less he knows, the less likely he is to send a squadron of his thugs into the streets looking for her.”

“To send men to rescue her,” Miss Jesczenka corrected him sharply. “From her kidnappers.”

“Miss Jesczenka, why must you continue to hold us up in such an ugly light?” Perun asked. “We saved Miss Edwards’ life. We mean neither of you any harm. We cannot afford the smallest of false moves. You must understand this.”

It was his last word on the subject. He swept from the room in a cloud of smoke, slamming the door behind himself.

“Follow me, Miss Jesczenka,” Dmitri said. “I’ll show you where you’ll be working.”

Upstairs, in another small crate-packed room with a tiny creaky table for a desk and a dusty kerosene lamp to shed light on it, Miss Jesczenka threw up her hands. She looked at a pile of paper and a pen that had been neatly arranged on the table. She picked up the pen, looked at it, and threw it down with restrained fury, as if it was the sole author of her annoyance.

“One day? Without any of my tools? I can’t possibly pull it off!” She sank into the chair and pressed a hand to her cheek. Her brown eyes darted back and forth, unfocused. “But of course, he’s right, it must be on Thursday. Otherwise we’d have no choice but to wait until Tuesday, and by then …”

“Pull what off?” Emily asked. “What is all this about? What’s a Talleyrand Maneuver?”

Miss Jesczenka glanced over at Dmitri, who was standing guard by the door, then gestured to Emily. Together, they moved to a far corner of the room, sat on a packing crate by a window that overlooked the narrow backyard below. She put her head close to Emily’s.

“There is something I must tell you, Miss Edwards,” Miss Jesczenka said in a low quick voice. “I’m afraid it will be rather shocking.” She paused, drawing in a breath. When she spoke, the words were slow and carefully measured. “I am the one destroying the Institute.”

Emily gaped at her.

“I am the one subverting Mr. Stanton’s power. I have been playing both sides of the fence. But not to destroy him,” she added quickly. “To help him. It’s a very advanced credomantic technique called a Talleyrand Maneuver.”

Emily held her mouth tight, stared at the woman. Fury kindled beneath her breastbone. “Did you put out that book?”

“No.” Miss Jesczenka held up her hands, as if she were afraid Emily might jump her. “I swear to you, that was Fortissimus. I’m sure he had that vicious thing ready and waiting long before the Investment. My suspicion is that he invited General Blotgate and that odious wife of his with the specific intention of reinforcing the book’s destructive power. But everything else, everything after that, was me. I sabotaged the public Haälbeck doors. I made the shelves collapse in Mr. Stanton’s office, and I caused that annoying lawyer to break his leg. Furthermore, I have been in discussions with disloyal professors who believe me to be one of their own. In all ways, I have worked to undermine Mr. Stanton’s authority.”

Emily couldn’t think of even one word to say. Miss Jesczenka saw the hurt and puzzlement in her face. She placed a hand over Emily’s, but Emily snatched hers away.

“Please, hear me out,” Miss Jesczenka said. “What I’ve done, I’ve done for Mr. Stanton’s benefit.”

“Really?” Emily said softly. “Or are you lying, too, just like everyone else? To serve your own ends?”

“I’m not lying,” Miss Jesczenka said. “I really do want to help Mr. Stanton. A Talleyrand Maneuver, if executed properly, will leave him stronger than he was before, with the full power of the Institute returned to him and then some. Now please stop scowling at me and let me explain.”

She took another deep breath.

“The Talleyrand Maneuver takes its name from a brilliant French politician who was born over a hundred years ago. His name was Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord. He was thoroughly corrupt, he was a blatant opportunist, and he was a traitor to every master he ever served, from the Pope to Napoléon Bonaparte to King Louis Philippe.”

“It sounds as though the two of you have quite a lot in common,” Emily commented frostily.

“While I understand that was not intended as a compliment,” Miss Jesczenka said, “I am honored to be compared to Monsieur Talleyrand. He was one of the greatest credomantic practitioners in recent history. I have made a special study of his life and methods.”

“So Mr. Stanton is to be your Napoléon?” Emily said bitterly. “You’re going to throw him to the dogs for history to chew over?”

“No, Miss Edwards. Mr. Stanton is not Napoléon. He’s not even Louis XVIII—though Talleyrand’s manipulation of that monarch’s fortunes most closely parallels my actual intent. Really, Mr. Stanton isn’t any of the temporal heads of state that Talleyrand used as pawns. Mr. Stanton is larger than that, metaphorically.”

Emily waited for the other shoe to drop. When it did not drop immediately, she prompted: “Metaphorically?”

“Talleyrand was a traitor to every master save one,” Miss Jesczenka said. “France.”

“So Mr. Stanton is France. And while you are a traitor to Mr. Stanton, you are not a traitor to France.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, then,” Emily said. “That clears everything up entirely!”

Miss Jesczenka frowned at her. “Sarcasm really does not become you, Miss Edwards. And there is a difference between not understanding and being willfully obtuse.”

Emily let out a breath. After a moment, she gestured for Miss Jesczenka to go on. Miss Jesczenka smoothed her skirt and rested one slender white hand over the other.

“Talleyrand once said, ‘The art of statesmanship is to foresee the inevitable and to expedite its occurrence.’ After Emeritus Zeno’s disappearance, it was inevitable that Mr. Stanton would lose control of the Institute. It was inevitable that Fortissimus would attempt to take it from him. It was inevitable that Mr. Stanton would not have the strength to defend against him, even with all the ammunition the Institute has stockpiled against Fortissimus—”

“Ammunition?” Emily lifted an eyebrow.

“Damaging information, slanderous assertions with basis in fact, things of that nature. We collect it on everyone who might be a potential threat. It’s standard procedure for any credomantic institution.” Miss Jesczenka paused, glancing back at Dmitri, who was still sitting by the door. He did not seem to be listening, but Miss Jesczenka lowered her voice anyway. “Unfortunately, the information we’ve collected on Fortissimus is nowhere near damaging enough to destroy and discredit him, not with the level of power he currently enjoys. Unless”—Miss Jesczenka lifted a finger—“it is leveraged.”

“And how does expediting Mr. Stanton’s inevitable defeat make you better able to leverage this damaging information?”

“On n’aime point le tyran, petit connard,” Miss Jesczenka said.

“What’s a petit connard?” Emily asked.

“Never mind,” Miss Jesczenka said. “I was quoting something Talleyrand is famously attributed as having said to Napoléon once, over dinner. Napoléon responded by throwing a glass of wine in his face. Translated, the sentiment is simply this: ‘No one likes a bully.’ This statement was made at about the time Talleyrand had decided to sell out le Petit Caporal to Russia and Austria. Talleyrand was not out for glory, nor for gain, but rather for the good of France. Napoléon was destroying it with his savage dreams of conquest. Talleyrand knew that he had to be stopped.”

“So … wait. That means Fortissimus is Napoléon?” Emily was beginning to wish she had a pencil and paper.

“You’re taking this all far too literally,” Miss Jesczenka said. “The point is, in the end, everyone wants to see a bully get his just deserts. A bully who pushes things too far—like Napoléon, or Fortissimus—is laying the groundwork for his own defeat.”

A glimmer of understanding kindled in Emily. She inclined a thinking finger at Miss Jesczenka. “But you knew that Fortissimus wasn’t stupid enough to push things far enough. Not on his own.”

Miss Jesczenka smiled at her. “Very good, Miss Edwards,” she said. “I had to add a little extra malice to the mix. I had to make Fortissimus look even more of a bully than he already is. By making it seem that Fortissimus is behind these relentless, merciless attacks, he comes to be seen as the kind of fellow who’ll kick a man when he’s down. He becomes every villain the Dreadnought Stanton of the pulp novels has ever battled against. And thus, when the information is brought to bear against him, it will be more damaging than it would be otherwise, because the prevailing attitude will be that he deserves what he gets. If all goes as it should, the attack should be sufficient to nullify him as a threat forever.”

“All right, so you destroy Napoléon,” Emily said. “But you tear France apart in the process. I don’t see how this is a good thing.”

“Ah, but France was not destroyed,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Indeed, after the demon Napoléon was exorcized from the poor unwilling body of France, the Bourbons were restored, the country was allowed to retain its original borders, and Monsieur Talleyrand went on to some of the greatest political victories of his career. Napoléon bore the full brunt of disgrace. All the damage was reflected back onto him. Every imperial aspiration, every greedy barbarism, every expansionist impulse. They lashed back and crushed him.” There was a particular relish in Miss Jesczenka’s voice when speaking these last words that made Emily feel surprised at exactly how passionately the woman hated Napoléon. But of course, Napoléon wasn’t Napoléon. He was Fortissimus.

“All right,” Emily said, summarizing for herself. “Mr. Stanton is France. Fortissimus is Napoléon. The more of a despot Napoléon is made to seem, the more brutal the retribution when he is finally discredited.”

“Exactly,” Miss Jesczenka said. “But there’s one more character in this credomantic drama that I’ve left out. The victim. The martyr. Someone who has been specifically and terribly damaged by the actions of the cruel bully.”

“Well, that would be Mr. Stanton, wouldn’t it?”

“Certainly, he is the logical choice, but he cannot be cast in that role. He must be fit to rule once Napoléon is exiled to Elba, and he cannot do that if he is seen as pitiable or pathetic.”

Emily looked at her warily. She was aware of an uncomfortable certainty growing in the pit of her stomach. “If not Mr. Stanton, then who?”

Miss Jesczenka said nothing, but looked at her for a long time.

“The innocent, blushing virgin with dreams of a happy future, crushed under the loathesome weight of indecent suggestion,” Miss Jesczenka said at last.

Emily let out a long sigh. Miss Jesczenka nodded a confirmation.

“You’re going to be the martyr, Miss Edwards. You’re going to save the Institute.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“I’ve never been more serious.”

“But you said it yourself, I don’t have a dissembling bone in my body!”

“Good,” Miss Jesczenka said curtly. “The more truthful you can be, the more powerful you will be. Remember that.”

“But how can I do that?” Emily said. “I don’t know what the truth is. I don’t know what Mr. Stanton did, or didn’t do … I don’t know what’s true at all, anymore!”

“I didn’t say this was going to be easy,” Miss Jesczenka said.

A long silence hung between them. They stared at each other, calm brown eyes looking into troubled violet ones.

“What if I can’t pull it off?” Emily whispered. “What if the Talleyrand Maneuver isn’t successful? What if Mr. Stanton can’t regain control of the Institute?”

Miss Jesczenka smiled at her. “Of course it will succeed, Miss Edwards—” but Emily cut her off with a curt gesture.

“Spare me the credomancy,” Emily said. “What happens if the Talleyrand Maneuver doesn’t work? Will it hurt him?”

“Mr. Stanton is the Institute. He is the physical body of the Institute as much as the white marble mansion. And you have seen what’s been happening to the mansion.” Miss Jesczenka’s face became serious. “As the power of the Institute crumbles, so does he. As long as the power of the Institute is in decline, he will continue to decline with it. If the Institute is destroyed …”

Miss Jesczenka did not need to finish the sentence.

Stanton regaining control of the Institute was a matter of life and death—not just for the world, but for him as well. She had to save the Institute—save the very thing that would take him away from her. She had to help him become a man who could never really be hers, ever again.

She shook her head and smiled at the neat horror of it, but her smile was small and bitter.

“Checkmate,” she whispered to herself.

Miss Jesczenka was right about one thing. A single day was not nearly enough to satisfactorily execute the coup de grâce of an intricate Talleyrand Maneuver. But it was all the time they had.

“The first thing is the press conference,” Miss Jesczenka said. Sitting at the makeshift desk with paper, pen, and ink, she wrote furiously as she spoke. Emily stood at her shoulder, watching the woman’s steel-nibbed pen move swiftly over the paper. Quite amazingly, Miss Jesczenka was writing a catering menu, an order for a dressmaker, and a list of names while she spoke. “We will hold it at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. It’s the nicest in town, and I am good friends with the manager. He will see that we’re given the Imperial Suite. It’s got wonderful acoustics.” Miss Jesczenka paused momentarily, signed her name with a flourish, then lifted the piece of paper and wafted it in the air to let the ink dry. She looked at Emily. “We will invite every newspaperman not in thrall to Fortissimus.”

Copies of all the morning newspapers were spread out before Miss Jesczenka. Emily reached over and pulled out The New York Times and scanned the headlines.

“Javanese Regent Declares Mass Evacuation of Batavia,” that morning’s headline read. “Aberrancies Swarm the City. Stadhuis Reported Destroyed.”

Emily sighed, pushing the paper back. Temamauhti’s inexorable march. But she had enough to worry about at the moment without adding Java to the list.

Miss Jesczenka turned a disdainful gaze on Dmitri, who was watching from his accustomed place by the door. “Dmitri!”

Dmitri lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Miss Jesczenka glanced at the paper, deemed it dry enough to fold and tuck into an envelope. She wrote a name and address on it and handed the envelope to him.

“See that it’s delivered immediately,” she said tersely. “And hurry back. I’ll have quite a lot more for you very soon.”

“I shall give it to one of my men,” Dmitri said pointedly, turning to step out of the room.

“Russians! There’s no getting rid of them,” Miss Jesczenka muttered under her breath. “For pity’s sake, I might as well be back in Poland.”

“So what’s going to happen at this press conference?” Emily asked.

Miss Jesczenka slid a fresh sheet of paper before herself, then dipped her pen into ink again.

“You, Miss Edwards, are going to put on a show like no one’s ever seen before.”

“I gathered that much,” Emily said, “but I don’t understand why anyone’s going to care. No one knows who I am. And if they do, their whole notion of me is built around a lie, that I’m some kind of cattle baron’s daughter. You said that we had to be truthful!”

“It wasn’t my idea to make you a cattle baron’s daughter,” Miss Jesczenka said, chewing the end of her pen thoughtfully. “And of course, Fortissimus engineered that ridiculous cover story with just this kind of situation in mind. He’s always known just how powerful a weapon you could be, if someone took it in their mind to use you. So he made sure to hobble you well in advance.”

Emily lifted her hands in astonishment. “How far ahead do you people think?”

Miss Jesczenka smiled.

“It’s like chess, Miss Edwards. The current move is of no importance. It’s how the current move relates to the moves yet to come. And to answer your question, just for my own personal amusement, I’ve strategized your future out as far as the birth of your fifth child. After that, I’ll admit, it gets a bit hazy.”

Emily blinked at her. “Five?”

“As for no one knowing who you really are, it doesn’t matter all that much, really. Fortissimus hoped that in trying to live up to his cattle baron’s daughter story, you’d make some kind of hideous blunder. Once the truth about your background was revealed, you’d end up looking like a lying little gold digger, and you’d be nullified as a threat forever. He hoped, in short, that you’d cut your own throat. The tactic might have worked, if you’d gone around in society a bit more. But as you’ve done such a very good job of avoiding society, you’ve evaded his trap.” Miss Jesczenka gave Emily a little look that recalled her old exasperation about Mrs. Stanton’s lunch. Emily suddenly felt very pleased—quite undeservedly—with her own cleverness.

“Even if the Institute had been completely open and above-board about your background,” Miss Jesczenka continued, ignoring the self-satisfied look on Emily’s face, “that would have presented its own set of challenges. Ultimately, the specifics of who you are matter less than the truth of what you are.”

“And what am I?”

“You are a young woman. You are pretty, and when I’m done with you, you’ll be prettier still. And, most important, you are in love. Those are the ultimate truths that we will use to our advantage.”

Emily said nothing, but wrinkled her nose. Three such simple components. A young woman. Pretty. In love. Each individually might be said to have truth in it, she supposed. But there were so many caveats, so many shades of meaning and doubt and conflict in each one. Taken together, they added up to a truth so oversimplified and abstract as to be nearly meaningless. How could such a truth have any power in it at all?

“It’s a matter of symbology, Miss Edwards,” Miss Jesczenka said, as if she could read the doubt on the curve of Emily’s brow. “You signify something that people treasure, an ideal that they cherish. That is what is important. That is why you will be able to play this role, and why you will succeed in it.”

“But it’s still not the truth,” Emily muttered. But if Miss Jesczenka heard, she did not comment.

“The good news is, your path has already been well prepared. You remember the photos that were taken before the Investment? They’ve proven as popular as I’d hoped they would be,” Miss Jesczenka said with some satisfaction. “You did not notice, but I placed a subtle glamour on you while I was helping you prepare. You have no idea how lovely you looked. I was quite proud of the effect.”

“I’ve seen the pictures,” Emily said. “I saw one in a shop window in the Bowery. They didn’t look like me at all, but the counterman said that they were selling well.”

“Excellent,” Miss Jesczenka said, and whether she was pleased that the pictures didn’t look like Emily or that they were selling well was hard to discern.

“You really did have this all planned out, didn’t you?” Emily looked closely at the woman.

“Someone had to keep a level head on their shoulders,” Miss Jesczenka said. “Zeno and Stanton were larking around like a couple of schoolboys, with all their credomancer’s assurance and bravado. It is a great weakness of credomancers, Miss Edwards. They often believe their own press.”

“You’re a credomancer, too,” Emily said.

“I’m also a woman. Failure, struggle, and doubt are my constant companions. They are not always pleasant, but they inoculate me against overconfidence. As such, I would not trade them for all the arrogant bravado in the world.”

There was the sound of the key scraping in the lock, and the door opening. Emily pressed her lips together and Miss Jesczenka turned back to her writing desk, resuming her elegant scribbling.

Emily expected Dmitri to take his chair, but instead he came to stand behind Miss Jesczenka, arms crossed.

“Yes?” Miss Jesczenka said without turning.

“You’re going to present Miss Edwards to reporters at a press conference at the Fifth Avenue Hotel?”

“What of it?” Miss Jesczenka snapped, pen hovering briefly over the paper.

“Every Temple Warlock in the service of the Black Glass Goddess wants her dead,” Dmitri growled. “And you’re going to parade her around in front of reporters in a public place?”

Miss Jesczenka turned, fixed Dmitri with a blazing glare. “Well, that must be your lookout, mustn’t it? I can hardly arrange for Institute security if you aren’t going to let me contact them.”

Dmitri said nothing. His jaw flexed uneasily.

“If you will keep me informed as to the arrangements, I will see that there is sufficient security.”

He caught Emily’s gaze. And for the first time, instead of something disapproving, she thought she saw a warning.

Miss Jesczenka worked unflaggingly into the night. By the time the small clock on the table chimed 1 a.m., Emily sat drowsing in a chair, her body quiescent but her mind feverishly active. She was remembering everything Ososolyeh had shown her, rubbing vision against vision, trying to strike the meanest spark of understanding. The Temple, a cold terrifying place of bones and blood; the Black Glass Goddess, ancient and malicious; twelve men, cut to ribbons … Why twelve? she wondered. Twelve was such a strange number. Twelve astrological signs, twelve disciples, twelve dancing princesses—Emily abandoned the line of contemplation as it went from promising to preposterous.

I can give him one last chance.

Emily shivered, remembering the horrible hunk of slimy flesh on which Zeno had died. What had Zeno’s dying thoughts meant? Him who? Perun? The sly white-haired Russian had said that he and Zeno had been friends, and Emily believed it; she had seen the real sadness in his eyes when she’d told him that Zeno was dead. But how could Zeno’s wasting the last bit of his strength on destroying that … thing, whatever it was, help Perun?

“Miss Edwards needs to rest,” Dmitri said, as if intuiting the frenzy of Emily’s thoughts. “I will escort her to her room.”

“Well, don’t be long about it,” Miss Jesczenka said, not looking up. “We’re working through the night, and I need you.”

With dull complaisance, Emily followed Dmitri. When they reached her room, he followed her in and closed the door behind himself.

“I want to speak with you,” he said brusquely, answering the question in her eyes. “There may not be another chance.”

Emily settled herself on the edge of the bed. Dmitri sat on a chair against the wall, his straight back pressed hard against the wood. He frowned for some moments before speaking, finally shaking his head in frustration.

“I am not a man of schemes, like Perun. Nor of language, like Zeno. But I am a man who listens. I am a man who hears.” He looked at the floor, at his feet on it. “I am a man who believes in good, and in evil.”

He drew a deep breath.

“I do not believe you are evil, Miss Edwards,” he said, glancing up at her. “Perhaps I have been too unkind. But after my father was murdered, I hated everyone who practiced magic. Everyone.” He sighed heavily. “It does not do to hate everyone. Only those who do wrong. Who do evil.”

Dmitri looked up at her, his face tight as a fist. “This man … Dreadnought Stanton. You love him very much?”

Emily drew a deep breath, her whole body tensing. She nodded, once.

Dmitri shook his head bleakly, as if he had just watched her put her signature to a confession of treason. “You have no idea what he is.”

“I know what he is,” Emily said.

“He is no better than a Temple Warlock. No better than the men who killed my father.”

“If you’re going to outline my fiancé’s errors to me, at least keep your facts straight,” Emily hissed. “Yes, he studied sangrimancy at the Maelstrom Academy—but he never had anything to do with the Temple.”

“The Temple draws Initiates from Erebus Academy cadets all the time,” Dmitri countered harshly. “Did you know that? No, I am sure you didn’t. Why should anyone tell you that?”

Emily bared her teeth.

“Why should you tell me?” she spat. “What do you want from me?”

“There’s a woman at the Erebus Academy,” Dmitri continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “She recruits young men to serve the Temple. She takes them as lovers if they please her. The General’s own wife, Alcmene Blotgate.”

Emily blew out a breath as if she’d been punched in the gut.

“What do you want?” she said.

“I want you to admit that he’s lied to you. Every time you turn around, you’re faced with another one of his lies. He wants you to love him for who he is not.” Dmitri’s voice filled her ears, hard and demanding. “I want you to understand that he doesn’t care if you’re hurt.”

“That’s not true.” Tears were standing in Emily’s eyes now. Seeing them glitter, Dmitri nodded with harsh satisfaction, as if they indicated awakening understanding.

“You will be hurt when he dies, will you not?” Dmitri said. “In ten years, five years? He will leave you a widow, your children orphans. He doesn’t care. If he did, he would have taken the cure from Zeno when he had the chance.”

Emily looked up, stricken.

“There is no cure.”

“He could have been cured anytime.” Dmitri spoke the words with relish. “Anytime before Zeno was kidnapped. That was what Perun was speaking of, only he was too gentle to make you face the truth.” Dmitri stood, stalking the length of the room, fists balled. “Zeno spoke of it once. An old custom called Touching the Evil. It takes nothing more than a coin, a touch-piece of silver. Your fiancé could have asked the blessing of his Sophos, and his illness would have been lifted.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “Like that.”

“I don’t believe it,” Emily whispered.

“Of course, the cure comes at a cost. All magical channels in a man’s body must be fused, closed permanently. It would leave him unable to work magic. But I suppose that would be too much to ask. I suppose you’re not worth such a great sacrifice. And anyway, it’s too late now. Zeno is dead, and your fiancé’s fate is sealed. And he never told you.”

Dmitri stood in silence for a long time, looking down at her. Tears spilled down Emily’s cheeks, and she wiped them away angrily.

“Leave me alone,” she said finally. “Just … go away.”

Dmitri did not move for a long time. When he did, he came to stand next to her. He put a hand on her shoulder, let it rest there for a moment.

“I am sorry, Emilia Vladimirovna,” he said softly. “I really am very sorry.”

Emily lifted her head. She didn’t know if she intended to strike him or scream at him. But she could do neither, for Dmitri was already at the door, and in an instant he was gone.