Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was not his father's son after all.

It was a sobering thought, and Gleb soon found, after everything that happened, that he didn't much care for being sober anymore. 

He never used to drink like this. When he lived in Russia, he'd always desired something scorching in the winter months, when the cold buried itself deep in his bones, and he was frightened his fingers would freeze off without his fur-lined, leather gloves. Only then had he allowed himself to divulge in the drink.

Now, he desired nothing but the burning liquor, scared of what would happen without it. Paris didn’t quite do vodka like Russia. Paris did wine — beautiful cases of the most delicious wines Gleb’s lips had ever touched, fruity and dark and thick, coating his tongue. But the wine didn’t take the edge off like stiff, Russian vodka managed to do.

Occasionally, Gleb wondered what his fellow officers would think of him if they could see him now. He usually followed the thought by a grim laugh that no-one else could hear in his empty, Parisian flat. Oh, he was sure they’d think him a fool for what he’d become. But what else was there to do except drink these endless days away? What was his purpose now?

Following the events of Paris, Gleb’s Commanding Officer had made it perfectly clear what would happen if he returned to his beloved Russia. It was his own fault, he supposed. He’d told them nothing but the truth; the princess Anastasia had slipped off into the night, and no-one had seen her since. It left everyone to wonder whether she really had been the Grand Duchess, a mad young woman, or a figment of their imaginations. He often wondered if she were a figment of his imagination, but then he would think of her eyes, and end up taking huge, burning mouthfuls straight from the vodka bottle, abandoning all pretence of a glass.

Yes, he had told the truth. And it had cost him.

He’d been stood in the middle of a small, drab hotel room when he’d made the call. He remembered loosening his tie as he looked out the window, onto the cobbled streets below.

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ the officer had hissed through his teeth. Gleb was glad to have been on the other end of the line; he could picture the other man, with his beetroot face and quivering moustache. It was a delayed train that had him phoning him from his hotel room in Paris to explain, rather than deliver the news in person. He supposed he should be thankful for that. ‘You mean to tell me that a girl — nothing but a street rat — evaded you? You? ’

Gleb had listened, pale and unblinking, as the man raged on about how he never should have given him that promotion, how the office with the view had been a mistake, how he had never known such cowardice, and that he would give the order to shoot Gleb’s head clean off if he ever set foot on Russian soil again. He ended with, ‘— your father would have been disgusted.’

‘Yes,’ Gleb had said. ‘I suppose he would be.’

And that was the end of that.

But it was not the commander’s warning that haunted him or the fact that he now knew he could never return to Russia. No, it was not that. 

It was the events of Paris that plagued him, and what almost happened. He knew it was ridiculous and counter-productive to dwell on what-ifs and what-might-have-beens, and he was very much aware that the old Gleb would have chided him for such a sentiment. 

But that was the thing. The man he used to be was nothing more than a shadow of his past. He was changed. Deputy Commissioner Gleb had sat behind his shining desk, finishing reports with a steady hand, filling crisp, blank pages with neat, black ink. The new Gleb whiled away the hours staring at off-white walls and swallowing burning liquor. The old Gleb kept his desk in pristine condition, not one blotch of ink to sully the clean wood and not one file out of place. This Gleb's flat was a disgrace, full of empty plates and dirty dishes, the mantle and coffee table ladened with dust, the floor littered with old clothes he hadn't bothered to wash. The old Gleb was partial to neat suits and crisp ties; this Gleb preferred the same, old shirt two weeks running. The old Gleb had kept his face mostly clean-shaven, allowing a slight scruff that he trimmed into submission. Now, Gleb hadn't shaved in months and neither had he cut his hair, which curled around his cheeks. It was long enough to tuck behind his ears. 

The old Gleb was haunted by the look of shame and disgust in his father’s eyes, unable to understand it. Now, Gleb was haunted by the cool metal of a gun in his hand, his finger a threat over the trigger. He was haunted by the fear in those eyes. 

A man could stare right into them. 

Gleb tormented himself. He played with his memories like he was playing a game, moving one piece from his memories and swapping it for another. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly loathsome, he envisioned pulling the trigger. In his mind, he watched her fall to the ground. Again and again, over and over, until he begged himself no more. Sometimes in these imaginary scenarios, he would see himself standing above her still form, as she laid with her cheek pressed to the floor, as perfect and cold as a doll. Other times, he would imagine himself falling to his knees beside her, dragging her cold, lifeless body to his, sobbing into her neck as his tears stained her crimson dress.

That was out of character for him, Gleb decided. He never cried. He always managed to keep the tears at bay.

Sleep provided little relief from these daydreams. The nightmares were worse.

He dreamt of his father's face, still and displeased, and his dark, hollow-eyed expression in those final days. He dreamt of golden, light-catching hair spilling like water beneath his fingertips. He dreamt of tilting a perfect chin up and finding himself lost in startlingly blue eyes. He dreamt of cool metal and the sparkling waters of the Seine. If he were lucky, he dreamt of his Russia.

The only thing that seemed to numb it all was the vodka and sometimes, mercifully, if he found himself drunk enough, he wouldn't dream at all, and not of her.

The princess Anastasia. The Grand Duchess. Anya. Anya . Where was she now? That was the other question he enjoyed to torment himself with. Where had she gone? And — why? From what he’d seen, she’d finally found everything she had ever wanted: a family, a home, and all the money she could ever desire. It wasn’t as if she had to worry about him anymore; Gleb had made it quite clear that he would no longer be the villain in her fairytale. So — why? 

Perhaps he didn't want to know, considering that her ragged con-man had gone off the radar at the same time she had, and Gleb wasn't sure he believed in coincidences anymore. He knew the last thing he needed was to torment himself over the thought of them , but still...

His heart had different ideas. 

And it’s here that you really are a fool, Vaganov, he thought with a humourless laugh into his vodka bottle. For there was never any chance of what his heart whispered about . He didn't even dare to think it. He may have been a fool, but he wasn’t a stupid man; Anya had been frightened of him, for reasons that were not lost on him, and their friendship hardly had time to bud, let alone bloom. And yet he had felt a connection. Even now, when rivers, lakes and lands separated them, that tug did not yield. Perhaps that was why he was stuck in this bottomless hell of his own making; perhaps these never-ending thoughts would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Well. If that were the case, then so be it. He welcomed it.

It would have been all too easy to do nothing but exist until he simply didn’t anymore, but soon his empty stomach reminded him otherwise. Every few days he would drag himself from the sofa, or out of bed — wherever he was holding up that day — and step out into the bright, invasive sunlight.

Oh, how he missed those Russian winters and the thick snows of Leningrad that would twinkle under the moonlight. Paris glimmered too, but in a make-believe, deceitful way. He hated how he’d become far too accustomed to that glimmering. But Russia. His Russia. His beauty. Oh, how he ached for it. This was another reason why Gleb hardly ventured outside; avoiding Russia was far less painful than having to compare it to the city of Paris every day.

Fortunately, the supermarket was only a few streets away from his flat, so he didn’t have to endure the sites of Paris for too long. He bought nothing grand: a loaf of bread from the bakery, a few tins of soup and beans — what he’d been living off for the past few months — and another bottle of vodka. He kept his head low as he paid for the items, ignoring the way the shopkeeper’s eyes wandered over his unwashed hair and scraggly beard, her dainty nose wrinkling. He didn’t bother to thank the woman as he tucked the items under his arm and headed back out into the sunshine.

The sun was setting low as he stepped outside, but the evening was still far from cool. Sweat trickled down his back, between his shoulder blades. Soon it will be spring, he had once thought, but the days had soon melted into scorching, French summers. The light was so blinding, he held his hand up to his forehead, shielding his eyes.

That was when he saw her. A small, agile body, a flash of golden hair, and a heart-shaped, haughty face. Gleb’s traitorous heart jumped up to his throat. But it couldn’t possibly be—

He desperately blinked the sun from his eyes, but she was already gone.

By the time Gleb had returned to his flat, he was shaking so hard, he could hardly fit the key into the keyhole. He stumbled into his dingy hall, kicking the door closed behind him as he passed into his small, box-like kitchen. He dropped his items on the kitchen counter, hardly noticing when one tin tipped over and rolled off onto the floor with a clatter. 

Gleb gripped the kitchen counter with white knuckles. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose as she invaded his senses. He could smell the flowery, expensive perfume she’d been wearing when he’d seen her last, how it had reached him even when he was halfway across the room, pointing that gun at her, holding her life in his hands, carelessly, as if it meant so little to him. He could see her golden hair, how it shone as if it were kissed by sunlight — and those eyes. 

Oh, those eyes.

Weak. He was weak. It was pathetic to lose his mind over every sweet, heart-shaped-faced girl he saw walking the streets of Paris. 

‘She isn’t even in Paris,’ he murmured to himself. 

Gleb hissed in another breath between his teeth, before he slowly peeled his hands from the counter. When he’d opened his eyes, some sense had returned to him. And yet, as he poured himself another drink, leaving the bread and tins of beans abandoned, and swallowed the liquid in one swift gulp, his hands were trembling. It had been a while since she had looked so real.

The rest of the night saw him nursing a half-finished vodka bottle in an attempt to drown out any swirling thoughts of Anya before they could drag him under. When there was a knock at his door for the first time in weeks, he was too far gone to do anything but ignore it.

The knocking came again, more insistent, but still, he ignored it, pressing his cheek onto the scratchy cushions of his sofa with a groan. Whoever it was, did they have to be so loud ? He threw a pillow in the vague direction of the door, and it hit a bottle from the coffee table, which fell to the carpet.

The knocking stopped but Gleb was too drunk to care. He was too drunk to notice the patter of shoes outside, the sliding of a window panel, or when a small, thin body found its way in through the window, toes hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud. He was so drunk that, when he opened one eye to find Anya standing in front of him, her golden hair spilling around a cream blouse, he assumed she was another hallucination. A black chuckle escaped the back of his throat. 

‘Gleb.’ Her voice was as soft as ever. She crouched down beside him, her skirt whispering as she did so. Those eyes searched his face, shaped with an emotion he couldn't make out. Probably disgust. It was usually disgust when she came to him in his dreams. 'I found you.'

Gleb stared at her and Anya stared right back.

‘Haven't you tormented me enough?’ he sighed and closed his eyes to block her out. ‘Just let me be for one night.’ If he were lucky, he wouldn't find her in his nightmares too.

Let me dream of Russia, he thought. And then, funny , as he felt gentle fingers brush the hair back from his eyes. His hallucinations had never touched him before. By some miracle, it lulled him into sleep.

His rest was dreamless.

Chapter Text

Hot, unfeeling light poured through the open window, spilling out into the living room, over threadbare carpets and furniture. That was the first thing Gleb noticed when he roused from his sleep and cracked one eye open, only to promptly close it once again. The second thing he noticed was the aching stiffness embedded in one side of his body, a dull pain that spread down his neck, shoulder, and arms. That was how he realised he'd fallen asleep on the sofa— again. He'd drifted off with his arm tucked to his side, pinned to the cushions. His cheek lay flat against the hard arm of his second-hand sofa. Gleb shifted, the springs groaning underneath his weight.

It was going to be a bad day today. 

He knew it was going to be a bad day because he'd dreamt of Anya. He saw her the night before, as clear as he'd ever seen anything, stood in front of the sofa. He couldn’t recall what she wore in this particular dream, but he remembered it wasn’t the dress, as crimson as the blood he’d almost spilled all over the cold, polished floors. She was so close that, if he’d had the strength, he could have reached out and touched her, and she would have rippled through his fingertips like the shimmering waters of the Neva. As she always did. 

A beautiful, terrible dream.

Gleb turned onto his back, throwing an arm over his sore eyes to block out the light. His mouth felt dry as he darted a tongue out to wet his chapped lips. His stomach was aching and bottomless with nausea. Perhaps his body had finally had enough of the alcohol and, by some miracle, that wouldn't be the first drink of the day. Perhaps he craved something else, something rather like— 

Coffee.

Gleb's nose twitched. 

Coffee. He could smell coffee. It was the scent of freshly brewed, roasted coffee that usually wafted from small French café windows and wide-open doors. Gleb frowned. More dreams? 

He turned his head away from the ceiling to the side and risked opening his eyes. The sunlight was invasive and sudden but after a few attempts, he managed to keep his eyes open, to stare, puzzled, at the steaming beverage on his coffee table. He stared at it for too long, watching clouds of steam rise and fade into the air as he tried to make sense of it. 

'I didn't know—' 

Gleb jumped violently at the sudden sound of the voice, his aching neck and side protesting as he ripped himself from his sofa and whirled around. 

There, cocooned in the doorway that connected his living room and kitchen, stood Anya.

Gleb closed his eyes. He could feel his pulse everywhere; in his throat, in his head, his wrists, his heart. You're not real , he thought. You are not real. You cannot be real. 

He wrenched his eyes open, but to his utter horror, she was still there, hands folded neatly against a dark blue skirt, her searching eyes looking out from that pale, heart-shaped face.

'No.' The words were barely a brush of his lips as he closed his eyes again, firmly, with a slight shake of his head. 

But her voice was still there.

'Gleb…' The voice sounded concerned now. 

Well, it's finally happened , he thought to himself. You've gone mad. It was only a matter of time, he supposed.

He opened his eyes again, but she was still there , still watching him from across the room. Anya took a step forward, out of the shadow of the doorway and into the light of the living room. Gleb took three steps back, almost falling backwards over the coffee table before he managed to steady himself. 

Anya's eyes widened. She quickly held up her hands, palms facing him. 'I didn't mean to startle you—' Her voice was rushed as she spoke. Panicked. '—or barge in like this, but you weren't answering the door, and I knocked four times and—' 

'I don't understand.' He drowned her out, turning away from her as he spoke. Every glance at her sent his stomach reeling. He did not trust his eyes, or his ears, or what they were telling him. She couldn't be here. It was impossible. She wasn't even in France. 

'I can explain everything if you'll let me. I mean you no harm, Gleb.' 

Gleb’s hand hovered over his mouth, as he fought the bile at the back of his throat. Anya. Anya. He didn't dare let himself believe it. He was waiting for the next part of his dream, the performance that was soon to play out. In a moment or two, he would look down into his trembling hand and feel the sudden weight of a gun. Only after he shot her would he wake up, his sheets, cold and sticking to him like so many times before. 

' No. ' Another brush of his lips. 'Go away.' His voice was hoarse. 'Leave me be.'

There was a small silence. He thought that, mercifully, it had all ended. But then—

'You would turn me away? Without even hearing what I have to say?' She sounded wounded.

He heard the soft sound of footsteps meeting the carpet and the whisper of material as she ventured further into the room. Gleb dragged his trembling hand from his mouth to rest against his chest, where his heart beat violently against his rib cage. 

'I understand this must be a shock for you—'

You have no idea, he thought.

'—but please hear what I have to say before you turn me away.’ She paused, waiting for an answer, but none came. ‘ Gleb, just look at me.'

Gleb turned slowly, clumsily around to find she was much closer than he thought she'd be; she stood only a few steps away from him, bathed in the golden sunlight spilling from his window. He watched, frozen, as she closed the few steps between them, her eyes open and searching, those expressive eyebrows pulling together. 

How clear she seemed. He could make out every single eyelash and each golden strand of hair that the sunlight kissed. 

For a time that felt much longer than it was, neither of them spoke. It was Anya who shattered it.

'What did they do to you?'

She brought her hand up to ghost the side of his face. On instinct, Gleb reached out and caught her wrist in one hand, stopping her from going any further. He hissed in a breath at the contact, and they both stared at his hand. Gleb's eyes moved from her wrist to her face, unblinking with realisation. 

She hadn’t rippled beneath his fingertips. She was real. 

He released her wrist, letting his hand drop by his side. 'I don't—' He swallowed. It was hard to speak with his heart in his throat. Or perhaps it was because he hadn't really spoken to anyone, not properly, in months. 'I still don't understand.' How was she here? Why?

'Please. Come and sit down,' she said. 'I will explain everything.'

Gleb gave a small nod of his head; he hadn’t the strength to do anything else. Anya breathed out a sigh and turned, making her way to his armchair as she said, 'I didn't know if you took sugar in your coffee.'

'I don't drink coffee.' Gleb's voice seemed to work of its own accord.

He was glad that Anya had turned around because, when he took a step forward, his knees shook so violently, he thought they might buckle under him. Weak , he heard in his mind. Pathetic . But somehow, he managed to make it to the sofa, where he finally allowed his legs to collapse. 

'I only had coffee with me and I don’t know where you keep your tea. I wasn’t about to go rooting through all your cupboards.’

'No,' was all he said.

‘I picked it up from a small supermarket not too far from here. The coffee, I mean,’ she rattled off, adjusting herself as she spoke, pulling on her skirt, crossing her legs at the ankle, and uncrossing them again. She settled for sitting as straight as she could, resting her hands limply on her lap. Gleb made no move at all.

'I…' He cleared his throat, hardly knowing what he was saying. 'I didn't realise you'd come back to Paris.'

'I never left Paris.'

Gleb glanced up at her then, surprised. 

'Oh.'

Anya wasn't looking at him. She'd settled into the armchair, her eyes cast down at her hands as she smoothed over her fingernails. 

'I'd intended to. That was the plan. Me and— Dmitry had intended to, but…' 

Gleb fought to keep his face expressionless at the mention of that name. He wasn't sure how well he'd done — he hadn't had to hide his emotions and keep up pretences in months — but he needn’t have worried; she wasn’t looking at him anyway. 

'But?' he prompted.

'We were separated. I got caught here, and Dmitry ended up in— well, that’s the thing.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know where he ended up exactly.' 

Gleb wondered if that was really the truth, or if she knew exactly where her conman was hiding out, keeping the information hidden to protect him. He remained silent, waiting for her to continue. He’d often found, when he was the Deputy Commissioner, that if he remained silent, people would jump to fill it. People in general, he found, didn’t like silence. But Anya didn’t speak straight away, and he got the impression that she was choosing her words carefully.

'We didn't choose to get separated,’ she finally admitted. ‘But there were... officers at the border.'

Gleb arched an eyebrow. 'Bolsheviks?'

She stared across at him. 'Yes. Dmitry managed to get on the train, but one caught me, and dragged me back onto the platform before I could. There were two. The other followed Dmitry onto the train seconds before the door closed. I barely managed to escape. They knew who we were. Who— who… I was.’ This, she said with the slightest tremor in her voice. It was a far cry from how she’d shouted the words, all blazing, vengeful defiance, from across that expensive, high-ceilinged room. 

Gleb was suddenly back there. White, marbled floors. A flash of red. A tie that was too tight against the pulse of his throat. Cool metal in his hand. That metal, slipping with sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut to block the image, moving his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. It was Anya’s next words that brought him back to the present. 

‘I've been hiding ever since, jumping from hotel room to hotel room, looking for you . '

His head snapped up to meet her gaze. 'Me?'

'I thought you could help me.' Her voice lowered to a murmur, her eyes sliding to meet the leg of his coffee table. 'Though I see now, I might have been wrong.'

It was all too much. Gleb hardly knew what was happening. Him? Help her? How? He didn't understand any of it. Why had she disappeared in the first place? Where had she been intending to go? These questions ticked around and around in his head like clockwork, and it took every morsel of control to stop them from spilling from his mouth.

'How did you get in?' he asked instead.

Anya sniffed. 'The window. You really should lock that, you know.'

Gleb blinked at her. Another memory surfaced before he had the chance, or had gathered the self-control to block it out. He recalled the first time he met the little, frightened street sweeper, scurrying about the streets of Russia. How terrified she'd seemed of him then, how she'd shook like a leaf as he’d offered to take her to the tea shop — only for tea. There was nothing dishonourable about his intentions. How her wide eyes had darted around before finally settling on him. To have her sitting in his living room, able to fix her steady gaze on him, able to talk back while he was the one who trembled, was bizarre.

But then again, how often had he pathetically hoped for that? How he’d wished she wouldn’t be afraid of him. He’d looked out for her after that first meeting, and had concocted great, ridiculous plans in his head of how he would approach her when he next saw her, and what he’d say. Please don’t be frightened, he would have told her. I’m really not so bad . But the next time they'd met, she had been dragged into his office, and he’d barked at her like how he would have at any other miscreant.

'I didn't expect anyone to break and enter,' he said, as evenly as he could. She didn't say anything to that, so he continued. 'What is it that you want from me?'

He had no money to give her, after all. Gleb had always been a meticulous man and had saved every penny he was able. He'd managed to secure a good few months of rent in advance when he’d paid the deposit for his flat, but what leftover money he had was swiftly running out, and Gleb didn’t know what he’d do when it did.

Anya tore her gaze away from him, back down to her hands. 'I need somewhere to stay.'

Gleb stared at her blankly. Here ? She wanted to stay here?

'Just for a small while,' she continued. ‘Just until Dmitry can get back, or I hear from him and we work out what to do next.'

'What about your—' He couldn't bring himself to say the words, but Anya seemed to understand his meaning.

She frowned. 'No, it's not safe for either of us. She already told the world I don't exist, and, well— that's the first place they'll go. The officers.'

'Yes,' he agreed. That was where he went, after all. He'd followed the Dowager Empress’ trail and it had led him straight to Anya. It should have been much harder to track her down. It all should have been so much more difficult. 

If it was, and if he were still chasing Anya now, then maybe he would still be the Deputy Commissioner. Maybe then he wouldn't have allowed himself to entertain the awful, sickening truth that he was reminded of whenever he looked in her eyes.

Anya leaned forward, pinning him with those pleading eyes. 'I have nowhere else. Nana gave me some money before I left. I can help with bills. I've been jumping from hotel room to hotel room for the past few months, but they always find me. I only narrowly escaped last time. I glimpsed them in the lobby.'

'But why me? What's to stop me from turning you in? Or finishing the job?'

I am not my father's son , after all.

'You won't.'

'Last time we met, I held a gun to your head. I very almost pulled the trigger.' He waited for the flinch that didn't come. He was ready to relish in it, that deserved flinch that would prove to him exactly what he was. 'What's to stop me now?'

'You won't.'

She said it with such conviction that a disbelieving laugh escaped his throat. 'How can you be sure?'

Anya's words were soft when she next spoke. 'You promised me a long life, comrade.'

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then, he sighed. 'I did.’

Gleb wished he could tell what she was thinking. Did she really trust him so willingly? After everything? It felt like a con. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was something she and her street rat had cooked up — a final, well-deserved stab at revenge.

'But I need to know, and soon. Can I stay?'

Gleb dragged a hand down his face and through his beard. What was he to do?

Then, something struck him.

He removed his hand from his face and pointed right at her. 'I saw you.'

A small, sheepish smile crept across her lips. 'I thought you might have but I didn’t know for sure. I'd given up all hope of ever finding you, but then I caught sight of you coming out of that supermarket. I wasn't even sure it was you. I had to get closer just to be sure. I would have approached you then, but I didn't think— I was frightened that—' She shook her head. 'It doesn't matter. I'm here now. That's all that matters.'

'Did you follow me to my apartment?'

'I wasn't about to lose you.'

Gleb's heart had calmed significantly, but he could still feel its wet pulse beneath his skin. He stretched out his fingers against his lap, trying to force some kind of natural movement. The air felt far too heavy with uncertainty. He knew she was waiting for his answer.

'I don't want your money,' he eventually said. If it came from the Dowager Empress, he couldn't stomach taking a penny of it. 

'What else?' she said before he could get his next words out. 'I can cook. I can cook almost anything out of nothing.'

'Anya—'

'I can clean, too. When I was travelling Russia, I—'

' Anya. I don't want anything.' 

He should have left it at that, really. Every gut feeling in him was telling him to march her out of his house like he might have done to the troublemakers who came by his office. But he was not Deputy Commissioner Gleb anymore. And this was Anya. Even the man he used to be wouldn’t have done that to Anya. He was doomed the moment that truck had backfired and she'd thrown herself down onto the hard, icy path.

And he sure enough damned himself further with his next words.

'You can stay.'

He watched as Anya's eyebrows pulled up in surprise. ‘For nothing? You don’t… want anything?’ 

Gleb shook his head. ‘No.’ 

The relief that washed over her face pained him. How desperate must she have been to come to him of all people? How scared and alone and frightened must she have felt? This was a woman who had slept under bridges and blistered her hands day in day out to keep the streets clean. A good, hard-working, Russian woman. 

And a Romanov princess, a dark, suppressed part of him whispered, and his stomach rolled with nausea. 

He wondered which soldiers they’d sent to find her. Brutes, most likely. Ones who they knew wouldn't hesitate like he had, ones who would get the job done. Maybe Boris Chaban, with the chunk missing from his nose, or Gogil Molchalin who could never take a joke, as silent as the grave. Gleb was a fool to think that it would end with him. He should have anticipated they’d send others.

When Anya opened her eyes, her face had changed. There was a guarded uncertainty about her expression.

‘Thank you.’ Her voice, too, lacked the determination it had held mere moments ago. 'I…' She turned her gaze downwards again, smoothing out her skirt. 'I don't know how long I'll be staying for. I know it's not… ideal. But as soon as I have word from Dmitry, I'll be on my way and you'll never have to see me again.'

Gleb almost gave a hollow laugh at that. No, he may not see her again in person, but his nightmares were a different story.

A thought struck him. He arched an eyebrow. 'How?' 

'What?'

'How will you have word from…’

'Oh. He'll get word to me, I'm sure.'

Gleb was struck, first, by the faith in this boy of hers. He wondered if she’d considered the possibility that Dmitry might have abandoned her when they parted ways at the platform. From what Gleb knew of him — and he knew a lot; the man's face had decorated wanted posters before — the boy followed where the wind blew, where the next greatest con was. But then something else struck him. The tone of her voice. It was light, airy, and she'd turned her face away from him, avoiding his eyes. It reminded him of the second time they'd met when she'd been dragged in front of him in his office. 

What are you hiding, he thought, but then shook his head. Who was he to ask? He was nothing, now. 

Anya had moved on already, thinking out loud. He’d never seen her speak so freely before. 'I need to get my things. They're at the hotel I was staying at. It's only about a half-hour walk from here, actually. The officers will be waiting for me but I can be quick. I'll go when it’s still daylight. The hotel should be checking the majority of people in, so I can get lost in the crowds.' 

Gleb didn't say anything; his mind was still catching up with everything she'd told him.

'You haven't touched your coffee,' she added, nodding to the abandoned cup on the table. 

'It’ll be stone cold by now.'

'I didn't think a good and loyal Russian was bothered by the cold.'

Gleb stared at her and an awkward silence spread out in front of him. It took him far too long to realise that she was teasing him — him. But he could still do nothing but stare. What was wrong with him? Had he forgotten how to laugh? 

'I have a little tea left,' he said, eventually. 'I can make a pot.' 

He stood then, still unsteady on his feet, but at least he wasn't trembling. It was then he realised, for the first time in months, what he was wearing; nothing but his old, thin vest. It was hardly attire for company. His suspenders dangled beside his trousers, limply. He quickly slipped his arms through them, pulling them up, ignoring the way his cheeks warmed. They felt tight and foreign over his shoulders. Anya suddenly became very interested in the window, her hands resting against her lap.

He came to realise that she must have seen all the empty vodka bottles, and he felt his face burn in shame. What did he look like to her? There was no food in the house, bar a few tins of beans and a loaf of bread. Had she turned up yesterday morning, there would have been nothing at all. There was nothing to drink either, except half a bottle of vodka. He remembered cradling it last night as he’d fallen asleep, but it had disappeared from the front room this morning, as well as the few bottles he’d left on the coffee table. 

She must have cleared them away, he realised with a wave of nausea. He hoped she hadn’t thrown what was left over; he’d need it to numb the shame.

He turned quickly away from her and stumbled towards the kitchen. The morning light was warm, sweeping through the window, illuminating the kitchen counter and bathing everything in an early glow. He wasn't used to being awake this early.

Right. What was he supposed to be doing?

Tea. That was it. He needed tea.

Now, where did he keep it again?

He opened one of the cupboards, to find it bare apart from a tin of beans. No tea, though. He frowned, deep lines cutting into his forehead.

He opened each cupboard in turn, revealing their empty insides, apart from the odd item — an old sardine can, a half-drunk bottle of gin he'd forgotten about (the supermarket must have been out of vodka), and yet another tin — this time, sweetcorn. It wasn't until he opened the last cupboard that he found another smaller, rounder tin and bit back a triumphant cry — tea! He knew he had some. It was only when he dragged the metal tin from the back of the cupboard, the metal scraping along the surface, only for it to slip out of his grasp and clatter ear-splittingly against the counter, that he realised his hands were shaking.

'Gleb?' came a tentative voice from behind him.

Gleb's heart gave a start. He turned to find her hovering in the doorway again, but he hadn’t heard the sound of her footsteps. She moved like a phantom. 

'When did you eat last?'

He couldn't remember, so he said nothing and turned back around. There was an aching pause.

'Gleb?'

'A tea will warm us both right up,' he said.

Nevermind that he was far too hot to function, his vest clinging uncomfortably to his body, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead. Nevermind that it was August. He closed his eyes, briefly, and thought of Russia. Then, he opened his eyes and reached for the small, metal teapot, which rested against the back wall.

'Actually—  I think I should go.'

The teapot fell to the counter with a metal clang, and Gleb turned, wincing against the noise. 'You're leaving?' He didn't know whether he felt panic or relief. She had changed her mind already? It had taken—  what, ten minutes? Of course she has , he thought, bitterly. Look at you. Pathetic. Of course.

'Just for an hour or so,' she said. 'Like I said, I need to get my things and I'd rather do that sooner than later.' 

'Oh.'

'I'll knock at the door when I come back. No window climbing.'

Gleb heard the unspoken words. So you better answer it. He nodded, but she kept her gaze on him and, this time, he found he couldn't look away. She stared at him unblinkingly, opening him with those eyes like she'd open the pages of a book. He moved his head to the side.

'I won't be long.' 

'Okay,' he said, wondering if she'd come back at all.

It was only then that the final and most puzzling thing struck him. How had she known he was still in Paris? How had she known that this was where she would find him? He opened his mouth to ask, but with a quick pattering of feet and a flash of golden hair, she was already making her way towards the door. He remained where he was until he heard the soft thud of the door, leaving him alone with that blasted teapot. 

It was only after she’d gone that it occurred to him that perhaps he should have gone with her — or even offered to go himself. It would be safer for her that way. Was that the right thing to do? He hardly knew anymore. What was right? He looked down at his trembling hands that had once been so steady. The world blurred in front of him as hot tears seared his palm.