Sekret (8 page)

I scream, but my voice is a shadow, and the darkness is filling in like a fresh grave.

Wee-oo-toot.

I wake up tangled in thin bed sheets, the harsh floodlights in the courtyard spraying blue across the dark room. I reach for Mama and Zhenya, expecting to find them by my side, but there’s emptiness, just too many unclaimed cots. Floorboards creak in the distance as a guard makes his rounds.

The dream has the fuzzy shape of a memory, although I can’t remember it actually occurring. What were my parents afraid of and what were they doing to me? And where did this strange vision come from? Cold sweat presses like a hand on my forehead.

I burrow back into the sheets, shivering, and squeeze my eyes closed again.

CHAPTER 10

WITHIN A WEEK
, our days at the mansion become routine as we prepare for our first real mission: in the mornings we hone our psychic abilities, learning to apply them to different scenarios, and in the afternoon we study spycraft—conducting surveillance, or luring out information from someone on their guard. I reintroduce food to my system carefully, like I’m building up a tolerance to poison; my socks still slink down my ankles, but at least my cheekbones no longer look like lethal weapons. Larissa keeps me sane in the evenings. Without her distracting me, chatting about her favorite radio show, my frustration would have swallowed me up already. Major Kruzenko plays our mother, our headmistress, and our warden, a softer presence to counter Colonel Rostov who makes thankfully rare appearances to check on our progress.

Only when Kruzenko departs one day with Ivan and Sergei do I have my chance. Everyone is gathered in the ballroom, reading or chatting or listening to Valentin practice his scales; even the pet spiders let their shoulders droop and bow their heads toward one another to gossip. I’m among them one moment, on the periphery of their conversation, and gone the next, wedging the knife between the door to Kruzenko’s office and the rotted-wood frame. It pops open easily. I’m inside with the door latched again behind me before I hear the ostinato of heavy boots resuming their well-trod patrol route.

The office is tinier than I expected, and disappointingly bare. The room is little more than an oversized closet, stuffed with a heavy oak desk, which must’ve been a nightmare to fit through the doorway, and a tiny window, grimy and fogged, that overlooks the shedding autumn trees. I was hoping for at least a file cabinet, but I settle into the creaky chair behind the desk and test the first drawer: empty. The second holds pencils rubber banded together and a hand-cranked sharpener. My nerves crackle, bracing for disappointment as I tug open the final drawer—

My heart slams against my ribs. Lying at the bottom of the drawer is a single folder stamped SEKRET.

I pry the folder out. Something rattles underneath it—a framed photo. It’s old—a harsh image of stark blacks and crisp, pleated whites, too sharply contrasted to show the image’s subtleties. A crowd of people are wedged into a narrow metal room, like the hold of a ship, all of them wearing soldier uniforms. I immediately recognize the gaunt, blazing stare of Colonel Rostov, though he’s almost smiling and has a flop of pale hair covering his forehead. The woman beside him, raising a glass toward the camera in salute—could that be Kruzenko? All her fat’s been trimmed away, revealing a strong, sturdy gymnast’s body. Her shoulder presses seamlessly against Rostov’s, as if they’re cut from the same block of stone. Another man, on Rostov’s other side, must be the twins’ father. I’d know that smug grin anywhere. A few others glance toward the camera, annoyed to have their card game disrupted, but I don’t recognize the rest. These must be the original psychic spies, the ones who fought in the Patriotic War like Sergei said.

I set the picture aside and reach for the folder. It’s too thin. My hope ebbs even before I open it. Sure enough, it’s only a few pages of handwritten notes with today’s date across the top.

MIKHAIL: attempts to increase distance of mind reading progressing slowly. No improvements from last week’s test at a 20-m range.

LARISSA: still lacking clarity on Veter 1 test results. Too far in future? Too uncertain? Reminded her there are lives at stake, but she remains frustratingly blasé. I quote: “Even if I saw someone’s death, the events that led to it would be so knotted together, who knows what one factor you’d need to change? You people have set these events into motion knowing what could happen. I’m just the wind vane.” Will consult with Rostov on re-education options to correct attitude.

YULIA: works best with objects that have no emotional attachment. Still too easily overwhelmed with emotionally charged memories. I see no problem in keeping her in that state—if she cannot control the emotions entering her, then she remains easier to subdue.

Easier to subdue? I start to crumple the paper, then stop myself. So much for controlling my emotions. I shove the framed picture and the notes back in the desk drawer and slam it shut.

There has to be more here. Some clue, something that will lead me to Mama and Zhenya, some hint that’ll allow me to escape. I run my fingers along the walls, the desk, searching for hidden compartments and begging for memories to jump out at me. Nothing. There’s nothing. Like a criminal wiping away his fingerprints, Rostov must have scrubbed it clean, just like he did to Mama’s necklace, destroying the memories beyond anything he’d want me to see.

I sink my palms into the desktop. I
have
to break past the barrier. I have to know where they are! White light prickles against my skin like the pins and needles at the onset of numbness, but I keep pushing. “Where are they?” I sob. “Where is my family?”

The static wave bursts through me, knocking me back into the chair. My hands ache as if from a flash burn. His echo stings like an atom bomb under the wood grain. Embarrassment scalds my cheeks as the room around me slowly rights itself, the white flare of hatred receding. There’s nothing here for me.

I lean against the door, watching the other side through the wood. I’m still not good at this—I can catch only a murky glimpse of what lies on the other side—but it’s enough for me to tell when one of the guards strolls by. The door opens silently and I slip out.

I follow the strains of Valentin’s piano playing back to the ballroom. There’s a melody in my head, three notes buoying me from utter despair at making no progress in Kruzenko’s office. The notes that Zhenya whistled in my dream. I need to hear them again.

I hover beside the piano bench. Each note ebbs away a bit of my anger, erodes my barrier just a little more. Valentin glances up, his eyes holding mine for a few bars while the notes flutter on, then he tapers the melody into a graceful set of closing chords.

I study the black and white bars, then plink out the three-note melody in the high register of keys. Artlessly, I admit, but I manage to summon up an ancient music lesson to hit the right ones. The notes are the heart of one of Zhenya’s convoluted, unending symphonies that sprawl across multiple folios of sheet music. I can almost see him whistling the tune, but the image distorts in my mind when I look at it straight on. After all, it was just my dream, not a real memory that I can cling to.

Valentin flexes his fingers over the lower register, hesitating for a moment, then plays a shimmery, chorded version of the three notes. His chin tilts toward me in a tiny, questioning lift.

I plink out the notes again. Each one drains a little bit more of my frustration away, leaving a blissful emptiness behind. Space for me to breathe.

Valentin improvises with the three notes, turning them into a phrase, then variations on that phrase, hands dancing along the keys. He drums them out along the lower register, then reaches around me to twinkle in the high octaves with a red-cheeked smile. He pulls his hands back together and, diminuendo, the notes trip over each other, rising and falling, punctuated by a sharp chord here and there, growing and growing until I can almost hear the brass section exploding behind us in a Rachmaninov-style riot of luxurious noise.

Finally he reins it in, taming the chaos of Zhenya-inspired noise until it’s just a fragile, dimming light, and it subsides into the final chords that are so perfect that I can’t imagine anything happening in that moment except this ending, even though I desperately want the song to go on and on. Valentin is shaking. A droplet of sweat creeps down his temple toward his jaw, sneaking under the thick black earpiece of his glasses. His eyes are clamped shut like the piano itself scares him. His fingers slip off the keys of the final chord and drift down into his lap.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.
Thank you
. I mean to say it, but the words lodge in my throat; I can’t break the silence of the song’s afterglow. Valentin watches, stoic, as I back away from the piano—from Zhenya’s music. From the exposed wiring of my brother’s knotted-up brain. I have to see him again. I have to get to Moscow State or some sort of school, to the life I left behind, here or somewhere else, and break the Zhenya code.

Someone claps politely; Larissa is tucked onto a dining chair behind me, legs crossed beneath her and bare toes wiggling. A notebook lies open in her lap, covered in squiggles and swirls. “You were smiling for a minute there,” she says. “You should smile more often.”

Of course my reaction is to scowl.

She shrugs. “Or not. But it wouldn’t kill you to be happy every now and then.” She pats the chair beside her. “You’ll be here longer than you like, you know. But not so long that you’ll lose yourself. I’m confident you’ll find your way.”

My heart beats faster, but there’s no malice in her smile like I’d expect from someone like Masha. “I don’t know what you mean.” I sink into the chair beside her.

“It’s funny,” she says, her eyes becoming unfocused from mine as if she’s looking at something beyond me. “You can see backward, and I can see forward.”

I don’t find it very funny at all, not after my failure in Kruzenko’s office. “Doesn’t it overwhelm you? Seeing everything before it comes.”

“I don’t see everything,” she says. “I see all the
possible
everythings.”

“That sounds even worse.” I muster a weak laugh.

“You should ask Kruzenko to help you with your power sometime. I think you’d be surprised how much she can help.”

I shudder before I can stop myself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“Trust me,” Larissa says, with a tap to her temple. “I think you’ll feel better if you do.”

*   *   *

I find Kruzenko in the parlor the next day after lessons, writing out more of her notes. The fireplace is dark, and the radio off; the only light comes from a brassy sconce on the wall. It edges Kruzenko in a sinister glow.

Her eyes dart toward me for a moment, acknowledging my presence, but she keeps writing until I speak. “I want to control it,” I say, my voice too frail. I clear my throat and try again. “The emotions and memories. You’re not challenging me, but I want to be stronger.”

She sets aside her notes with a satisfied grin. “Very well. I think I know just the thing.” She throws open grungy cabinets, rummaging through them as she talks. “Tell me more about how you used your powers before you came to us.”

Before my abduction, she means. I will not call it anything else, lest I grow too comfortable. But I do want to control my powers: I will need every last tool at my disposal to find Mama and Zhenya and escape. If we are rewarded for good behavior, like Sergei claims, then I will swallow the KGB’s propaganda and lay golden eggs of psychic brilliance until Kruzenko has no choice but to lead me to them.

“This children’s toy. How might a person use it, if it was their dearest possession?” She holds up a stuffed teddy bear with dingy, matted fur and awkward lumps where the stuffing has shifted from years of use. “A happy child might play with it, walk around with it tucked loosely in his arms, yes?”

“Sure,” I say. The black glass eyes staring at me are scratched and worn down. A lighter-colored band of fur around its neck marks where a ribbon might once have been tied.

“But what would a sad child do, when burdened with sad thoughts? She might curl up in bed and squeeze it fiercely while she cries.” She smiles, though it’s fake—her muscles have forgotten how to handle a real grin. I can’t reconcile her with the radiant woman frozen in that photograph. “We have all done this, have we not?”

I shrug. I never had stuffed animals. I had a little brother who needed my love and care, and two parents whose words salved whatever wounds couldn’t be cleaned with soap and ointment. But Kruzenko and Rostov have taken that from me.

“Please, sit.” She beckons me to the couch. “I must warn you there are strong memories attached to this toy. Push too hard, and it will punish you. You must learn control if you don’t wish to be overwhelmed.”

“I can handle it.” I hold out my hand, but she drops the bear into my lap. One of its black glass eyes looks up at me, while the other gazes off into the middle distance somewhere past my shoulder. I can do this. I won’t let it overwhelm me like the desk in her office. I snatch the bear by his cylindrical arm.

skeletal girl screaming

there are gravestones in her hair, her blond hair, and fingernails

eyes watching from behind glass

wood between her teeth as she slices their souls away

I drop the bear like I’ve been scalded, and my knees jerk up under my chin. The guard chuckles until Kruzenko shoots him a nasty look.

“A pity, Yulia. You hear me, but you do not listen.” She nudges the bear toward me with her shoe. “Start delicately before you plunge in.”

I’m shaking with cast-off memories. This terror, this unfocused panic—I’ve sensed it before. The bed in our dormitory. “Anastasia,” I say. “What did you do to her?”

“Me? I can’t be blamed for what happened. But why not see for yourself?”

I lower my legs and pick up the bear between my thumb and index finger, gingerly, like the diseased, disgusting rag it is. Surface memories skitter off its fur and onto my skin—childhood tea parties and make-believe ballet recitals in a cramped communal home.