by Roxie Noir
I could probably just ask someone, but I have no idea what it means. I don’t think Kostya is calling me a stupid gorilla vagina or something, but I still prefer to find out from a book, not someone who can make a face at me.
Zloyushka is a challenge, and I fully fucking intend to at least show Kostya that this loud, awkward, déclassé American can at least use a dictionary.
Well, after I find the library.
I walk around for twenty minutes, and start to wish that this place had a directory, like a mall or something. I’ve always had a good sense of direction, and I could find my way back to almost anywhere in the palace, but these doors aren’t labeled, and I’m not about to be the idiot American girl who just walks about opening doors in a foreign ruler’s house.
At last, staring a big double door in a stonework arch, I hear someone clear his throat behind me, and I turn around.
It’s Nikolai, one of the king’s aides.
“Miss Sung, correct?” he asks very, very politely.
“Yes,” I say. I walk toward him and hold out my hand. “Please, call me Hazel.”
He doesn’t smile, but he does shake my hand.
“Are you lost, Miss Sung?” he asks.
Shit, I think. I’d been hoping he’s remind me of his full name, because it makes me feel like a dick that he knows mine and I don’t know his.
“I’m actually looking for the library,” I say. “I wanted to learn a little more about Sveloria’s fascinating history.”
And also find out what the prince keeps calling me, I think.
He raises both eyebrows so slightly that I could be imagining it.
“It’s on the ground floor,” he says, and points down a corridor. “Down the main stairs, to the hall on the right. Heavy wooden door with a stained glass inset.”
I nod once, very slightly, and remind myself not to smile.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods formally, and we walk in opposite directions.
The library is exactly where he said, and unlocked to boot. There are high, iron-wrought windows set in all the walls, and the place is beautiful and sunny. I’m practically humming as I grab a thick Russian dictionary, an English-to-Russian dictionary, A Guide To The Svelorian Dialect For English Speakers, and a pencil and scrap paper.
The first challenge is figuring out how to spell it in Cyrillic, the alphabet that Russian is written in. I’m not exactly sure what the difference is between some of the letters without someone here to guide me, but I give it a shot.
Then I crack open the dictionary to the end and scan the page, biting my lip.
Zloyushka isn’t in it, and I sigh dramatically, leaning my chin in my hand. I consult the English-to-Cyrillic guide again. I look back at the Russian dictionary, scanning my eyes down the page.
This time, my gaze falls on zloy, and I almost laugh out loud.
Duh, Hazel, I think. It’s a root with some stuff tacked onto the end. You know, the thing languages do?
Zloy (adj). Bad; wicked; naughty. See also ploho, neposlushnyy.
I stare at the word and think for a long second. There’s a suspicion bubbling up in my brain, and I flip to the front of the Russian dictionary where the section on nicknames and diminutives is.
I read it, frown, stare at the wall, and think for a long moment.
Then I grab A Guide To The Svelorian Dialect For English Speakers, and flip through it until I get to the nickname section.
I read it. Then I read it again, just to make sure I’ve got it right.
I look at the word I’ve written in terrible Cyrillic on the scrap paper, and despite myself, I start smiling. The -ushka ending is a diminutive, something that attaches to a name to make it into a nickname.
Russians in Russia don’t attach diminutives to adjectives to create nicknames, but Svelorians do. The most literal translation of zloyushka would be something like naughty little female person.
Bad girl. The crown prince is calling me bad girl.
That means I’ve got no choice but to meet him tonight, right? So I can tell him I figured out his stupid nickname?
It would be rude not to.
At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself.
The rest of the day seems endless. I play some badminton with my dad, go visit the horse stables, and walk along the beach for a spell. Even though I was enjoying the break at first, I can feel myself start to get a little itchy at the inactivity, like there something I ought to be doing, but instead I’m hanging out at a palace being absolutely useless.
At eleven, I head back to my own rooms, because I feel like my face is one giant billboard that says I’VE GOT A SECRET.
I tear through my closet, and finally pick out ankle boots with a low heel, dark skinny jeans, a green tank top and a black, long-sleeve shirt. The shirt zips diagonally up the front, so it’s at least a tiny bit stylish.
Not that I have any idea where we’re going. It could be a black tie event for all I fucking know, in which case I’m wildly underdressed, a feeling I’ve already gotten a pretty good grasp on during my short time here.
The minutes tick by. I pace back and forth, flipping through TV stations on the TV, but they’re mostly in Russian, though I think there’s one where they’re speaking Turkish. We’re not far from Turkey, after all.
At 11:40 I give up and tiptoe to my door, and then I stand there with one ear to it, listening.
It quickly occurs to me that I’m being ridiculous. I’m allowed to leave the room, after all.
For that matter, I’m allowed to walk to the garden, and I’m allowed to have a conversation with Kostya. Hell, I’m allowed to go wherever he’s taking me. I’m a guest, not a prisoner.
I just probably shouldn’t.
With that in mind, I walk through the palace as casually as I can manage, like I’ve never even heard the words clandestine meeting in my life. I see a few staff members, but they just nod at me.
Finally, I’m there. At the bench, by the arch, the heavily sweet smell of roses trickling through the air. My stomach is tied in a million knots, or maybe it’s one giant knot. Maybe it’s a million knots that have formed themselves into one big knot, like some kind of anxiety Voltron. It doesn’t fucking matter.
At exactly 12:00am, a dark form steps through the stone arch and looks around. I stand, adjusting my shirt, and step forward.
“Kostya?” I murmur.
The other person steps forward, and the second he moves, I know something’s wrong — he’s a little shorter than Kostya, and he’s got a very, very slight limp. I stop short and hold my breath, but it’s way, way too late.
Run! I think wildly. He’s got a limp, he won’t catch you!
I force myself to stand there. If I run, someone’s going to think there was an assassin in the garden, the whole palace will go on alert, and I don’t need to cause any more trouble.
“Miss Sung,” a familiar voice says.
I exhale.
“Nikolai...” I say, trying desperately to remember his formal patronymic. “Sergovich?”
I’m almost positive that’s not it.
He inclines his head very slightly.
Oh, my god, just tell me what your fucking name is, I think. I already feel like an asshole.
“It’s a lovely night,” he says, very formally.
“Yes,” I say. “I couldn’t sleep so I was taking a stroll through the gardens. They’re very beautiful, and also relaxing and mesmerizing.”
Mesmerizing? I think. Moron.
He just nods again.
“I frequently walk through them when seeking calm,” he says. “Pleasure to see you again, Miss Sung.”
“The pleasure was mine,” I say.
He walks on, disappearing as he rounds a bend in the path.
Shit fuck shit fuck shit cock damn hellfire, I think.
I wonder if I should give up and just go back to my rooms, because now Nikolai knows I was expecting to see Kostya in the garden at midnight,
and if that’s not suspicious as shit, I don’t know what is.
You haven’t even done anything, I remind myself. Besides get high on the roof, but there’s nothing between you to keep secret.
It just feels like there is.
More footsteps. I take a deep breath and turn to see another figure standing in the stone archway. This time I keep my mouth shut as the figure walks toward me, approaching until he’s towering over me, so close I think I can feel the body heat radiating off him. I swallow hard.
“I was right,” Kostya says, his voice low.
12
Kostya
“I figured out your nickname,” Hazel says, looking up at me.
She’s always got this expression in her eyes like she’s laughing, and I don’t know whether she’s laughing at me or at the world or whether I’m misreading, but there’s something enticing about it. Like she and I share some joke, some secret from the outside world.
No one’s ever looked at me that way before. I don’t know what it means, but I know I like it.
“And?” I ask.
“It just means bad girl,” she says. “I’m disappointed. I thought maybe you were more creative.”
“Is that a request?” I ask. “I can send you to the dictionary every day if that’s what you want.”
“There’s already enough here I don’t know,” she says. “I like at least knowing you’re not calling me a squirrel scrotum or something.”
“Squirrels are revered animals in Svelorian folklore,” I say, keeping my face perfectly straight. “Their scrotums have a long, storied history in alchemy and magic here.”
Hazel looks up at me and pauses, narrowing her eyes.
“That’s a joke,” she says, but she sounds uncertain.
I stare at her for another moment before I crack, letting myself smile.
“It’s a joke,” I say, and offer her my arm. “Would you care to stroll the gardens with me?”
She wraps her fingers around my forearm, and even through my leather jacket, I can feel her warmth sinking into my skin, sending jolts of electricity through me. We walk on between the rose bushes, the mostly-dark windows of the palace above.
“You still haven’t told me where you’re taking me,” she says, keeping her voice low.
“We’re going to the ugly part of Velinsk,” I say.
“There’s an ugly part?” Hazel says, then frowns. “Wait, the Shadow Quarter?”
God, what a ridiculous name.
“Do the English maps still call it that?” I ask.
“Don’t tell me it’s really called something else,” she says. “Shadow Quarter sounds romantic and exotic, like it’s where the brothels and opium dens are.”
“Brothels and opium dens are romantic?”
She laughs softly.
“Wrong word,” she says. “I just mean interesting and dangerous.”
“You won’t be disappointed, then,” I say. “The gray district doesn’t have brothels or opium dens, but it’s both of those things.”
Her hand adjusts on my arm, and we stroll under another arch, entering another section of the gardens, this one filled with willow trees.
“And yet I’m letting you take me there, no questions asked,” she murmurs.
“You’ve asked quite a few questions,” I point out.
“Sounds like I haven’t asked enough,” she says.
“We’re meeting some friends of mine at a bar,” I say, and glance over at her.
“That’s it?” she says.
Then she frowns.
“Wait, I thought there were no bars in Velinsk,” she says, her voice suddenly hushing.
“There are no legal bars in Velinsk,” I say, dropping my tone to match hers. “My father shut them down when he re-opened the summer palace here. There can be no hint of immorality in a ruler’s surroundings,” I say, imitating my father’s stern voice.
“I watched him down at least six shots of vodka the other night,” she says.
“It’s not the drinking,” I say, wondering how the hell I can explain this to an American, the iportant difference between bar-drinking and home-drinking. “It’s the rowdiness in a public place. The congregation of too many people all under the influence.”
She looks at me very, very skeptically, even as her hand tightens on my arm.
“My father sees every opportunity for people to gather as a threat to his reign,” I say softly.
“I thought Sveloria was stable,” she says, her voice just above a whisper.
“It is now,” I say. “But twenty years ago my father made it that way by blood and fire, and he knows that twenty years isn’t very long. To him, every face he doesn’t know will always be a threat. Soviet loyalists around every corner, communists, anarchists, all just waiting to put an end to everything he’s worked for. So he still rules with a metal fist.”
“Iron fist,” Hazel says.
“A fist is a fist,” I say.
I’ve been trying to get him to loosen his grip ever since I got back from the Royal Guard. Other countries have bars where people get drunk together and don’t overthrow their governments. Other countries have a free media that reports on anything and everything, and power still transitions in an orderly fashion from one ruler to another.
But I know he’s never going to change. There are lessons you just can’t unlearn.
“So we’re going to an explicitly illegal speakeasy in a dangerous part of town,” she says.
“There’s still time for you to feel chickens,” I say.
“The phrase is chicken—”
“I know,” I say.
“Sorry,” Hazel says, laughing.
I stop. We’re in the middle of a grove of willow trees, their long green branches waving around us in the same breeze that just barely moves Hazel’s long black hair.
Skip the bar and stay here, something inside me whispers, something that doesn’t give a shit about the stern talk my father gave me.
The ground is soft enough. No one would hear you. It’s late, no one else is out.
Just once.
I nearly snort out loud. I can already tell that once would never be enough. I’m already being stupid and reckless, out here, alone, with the first girl who’s ever made me feel like I can’t help myself.
I’m playing with fire. I know it.
I also don’t care.
13
Hazel
Kostya stops short, right in the middle of the willow grove. I press my lips together, wondering if I’ve said something, or whether he’s changing his mind about taking some dumb American to his secret hangout.
Then he looks down at me, and I swear his serious, smoldering gaze burns a hole right through me, even as I’m half-convinced that I’m reading all his signals wrong. Every time that I’m sure that this tension between us is real, a moment later he’s Prince Serious again, and I’m wondering if I’m imagining things.
Right now, for instance. I almost can’t tell if he’s about to kiss me or reprimand me. Maybe both at once. It seems like something a Svelorian could do.
My insides start to twist anyway. I don’t break his gaze.
Just kiss me or say something or do something, I think.
I’m gonna lose my mind if this keeps up for a whole month.
Kostya slips his arm from my grasp, then slides his hand into mine, warm and rough. He half smiles.
I swallow.
Then he pulls me between the curtain made by two willow trees, their long green branches dragging over my hair as I duck. Behind them is a tall, dense green hedge. Kostya hesitates for a moment, scanning it, and then pushes into the small gap between two plants, still pulling me behind him.
Four feet of shrubbery later, we’re on a paved asphalt road, a green field on the other side of the black ribbon. I look left and right, trying to figure out where exactly we are, because this part of the palace’s grounds doesn’t look familiar at all.
“The back route to the gar
age,” he says, and we start walking down the road. He doesn’t take his hand away and I don’t either, even though we’re right out in the open now.
You haven’t done anything yet, I remind myself, over and over again. Not yet. Not really.
“I thought you didn’t have to sneak,” I say.
“I don’t have to sneak to the ramparts,” he says. “If my father caught me out in the gray district, it would be a different story.”
He looks down at me, and we come around a curve, the big stone building coming into view.
“Particularly with the Ambassador’s daughter,” he says.
I swallow and pretend very hard that we’re not holding hands, even though I don’t let his hand go.
“You’re just showing me some Svelorian hospitality,” I say.
That’s why you told me about your nightmares, and why you dared me to burn my shirt, why you gave me a nickname.
And why you still haven’t let go of my hand.
He looks over at me, his eyes dancing, his face serious.
“Yes,” he says.
He unlocks the garage, and once inside, he punches a code into a panel just inside the door.
The inside of the garage is huge, and it smells like grease and brakes, like rubber and new leather. We walk down the center of it, between rows of low-slung cars that gleam even in the dark, their headlights like the eyes of panthers, tracking us in the night. I wonder how fast they go.
Kostya hasn’t let go of my hand yet.
“Do we get to take one of these?” I ask, looking around. The massive space swallows my voice.
I know as much about cars as anyone, which is to say I know about Fords and Hondas, and I drove my friend’s Mercedes once when she got too drunk to drive herself home. But I think these are Porsches and Maseratis and Ferraris and I-don’t-even-know-whats. Cars so nice I’m a little afraid to even touch them.
Kostya laughs, a deep-throated chuckle.
“Not tonight,” he says. “I can’t imagine what would happen to one of those if I took it to the gray district.”