Chapter Text
Another important guest for dinner at the Boronovs', another full afternoon of Mrs. Boronov hovering over Genya in the kitchen to make sure she got everything just right — as if the woman would know just right if it hit her in the face. Their guest that evening was to be the up-and-coming Lieutenant Morozova; being a generous donor to Ravka’s military could apparently get you all manner of dinner guests, even if it seemed to Genya that a lieutenant’s time might be better spent, for instance, putting an end to the civil war.
Genya sprinkled parsley over the entree, a trick her mother had taught her to distract the eye from any surface imperfections. It was a lot of food for just three people; the Boronov teenagers had disappeared to their rooms, sulking or doing whatever it was they did in there. Genya would have loved to have a room to be a sulky teenager in, would have loved to have a room that wasn’t a closet off of the kitchen. Failing that, she would have settled for a lock on the closet door.
When Genya brought out the entree, Mr. and Mrs. Boronov were talking animatedly at the lieutenant, who listened silently, back straight but not stiff, nodding occasionally. She had known the lieutenant was young, but hadn’t been prepared for just how young he was — barely half a decade older than her. She heard he’d never lost a battle, and if he’d done even half the things he was rumored to have done to win them … well, perhaps he was the sort of guest a horrible couple like the Boronovs deserved.
Genya picked up the wine and refilled Mrs. Boronov’s glass as the woman explained to the lieutenant just how difficult it was to get hold of her favorite imported cosmetics these days, what with the civil war, and all. Genya had long ago learned to keep her thoughts off her face. When she moved to fill the lieutenant’s glass, he held out a hand to stop her. His long fingers were clean in a way that surprised her — had she really expected to see the blood of Ravka’s enemies beneath his nails? He looked up at her. “None for me.”
Genya supposed that made sense — if there was an ambush, the lieutenant could get called away at any time. She went to the other side of the table to refill Mr. Boronov’s glass. As she bent to fill it, a hand stroked the back of her thigh. A muscle in her arm twitched instinctively, but she relaxed it, smoothing her expression and ensuring that not a drop of the wine made it onto the tablecloth. When she straightened, the lieutenant was staring at her from across the table, gaze assessing, jaw clenched; she wondered how much of that he saw.
She excused herself and headed back to the kitchen to prepare dessert. She plated mousses, experimenting with the edible gold leaf that Mrs. Boronov had seen on a baking show and wanted to incorporate into their entertaining. Genya thought gold decorations served to a lieutenant during a civil war was tacky, but she knew better than to think Mrs. Boronov cared about her opinion.
She looked up from her work to see the lieutenant standing in the doorway.
“Oh!” She put her hand on her chest, her heart thumping quickly, body flooding with relief that it was the lieutenant and no one else. “You scared me. The washroom is that way, leytenant.”
“I’m not looking for the washroom.” He glanced over his shoulder towards the dining room before crossing his arms and ankles and leaning against the doorframe. “How old are you?”
Genya forced herself to hide her concern at the question under a smile. Any answer she gave was dangerous — in her situation, in a country at war. She settled on: “Eighteen, last month.”
The lieutenant looked over his shoulder again, then back at her. “How old are you really.”
She was an excellent liar, so either he was an even better reader of people or he knew more than he was letting on. She examined him, reassessing, before deciding the truth was the least bad response. “Sixteen.”
He nodded. “How long have you been working here?”
“A few years. My mother worked here, and when she died I took her place.”
“What do you do?”
She picked up a towel and started wiping up the bits of gold foil she’d gotten on the counters. “Cook, clean. Help the younger Boronovs with their homework.” The Boronovs sent their children to the city’s fancy international school, but the kids were either too lazy or too stupid to do the work on their own. At least it afforded Genya schooling she wouldn’t have gotten any other way. “Help Mrs. Boronov with her hair.”
“What do you do for Mr. Boronov?”
She looked up to find the lieutenant’s gaze even, expectant. Her heart shook but her voice was steady. “Whatever I have to.”
He nodded again, an expression she couldn’t quite read flitting across his face. After a few moments of silence, she exhaled in disbelief. “Are you judging me?”
“Not you, no. We do what we have to to survive.” He paused again, his stare as assessing and invasive as it had been at the dinner table. Eventually, he said: “Orphans can volunteer for the military at sixteen.”
“Orphans that don’t work at the pleasure of one of the military’s benefactors, perhaps.”
“If you tell me that you want to serve,” the lieutenant replied, “I will take you with me when I leave. Tonight.”
Genya shook her head. Nothing in her life was that easy. “Mr. Boronov won’t let you. You know he’s friends with —“
“I’ll handle him.” She twisted her lips and he tilted his head. “I’ll handle him. If you tell me that you wish to volunteer to fight.”
A rush of adrenaline flooded her body. She knew this wouldn’t give her freedom; it would only change the man she was indebted to. But she found she trusted the lieutenant — despite, or maybe because of, his reputation. Maybe because, for the first time in her life, he had given her a choice that was hers to make. “I want to volunteer,” she whispered.
He nodded once and straightened. “Pack your things. We leave in fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes. Genya looked around at the kitchen she would never set foot in again, at the gaudy, plated mousses sitting on the counter. Force of habit dying hard, she said: “All these desserts will go to waste.”
A corner of the lieutenant’s lip quirked up. “So eat them.”
When he returned fifteen minutes later, Genya was ready, a small bag clutched to her chest. She had heard every word of Mr. Boronov’s shouting in the dining room, Mrs. Boronov’s flustered protestations. The lieutenant had given measured responses, but she hadn’t been able to make out what he said — he hadn’t raised his voice once. A red-faced Mr. Boronov had followed him to the kitchen, still shouting.
“You abuse my hospitality, take my staff —“
The lieutenant didn’t acknowledge the man behind him. He stood in the doorway, a barrier between Mr. Boronov and Genya, and gestured for her to exit. She walked in front of him, her head down, endeavoring not to have to look her employer in the eye. The lieutenant followed her though the hallway, keeping just enough distance to make it clear he wouldn’t touch her. Her heart was pounding hard, but she was almost to safety, almost —
Mr. Boronov shoved past the lieutenant and grabbed Genya’s elbow, wrenching her arm in its socket. His face was flushed, furious. “You ungrateful wh—”
And then he let go of her, grunting. The lieutenant was between them, Mr. Boronov’s arm twisted painfully behind him. When the lieutenant pushed on the man’s shoulder joint, and he gave an undignified gasp.
“Touch her again,” the lieutenant said, his tone even but his knuckles white where they gripped Mr. Boronov’s wrist, “and I will break your arm.”
“You can’t do this,” Mr. Boronov wheezed. “I’ll call the general.”
“Be my guest. I’m happy to fill in the parts of the story that you leave out.” The lieutenant dropped the other man and gestured Genya through the front door. His car was idling in the driveway; he must have alerted his driver. It wasn’t until they were out of the city and on the highway that Genya felt herself begin to relax.
She looked at the man beside her, his head tipped back onto the seat, eyes closed. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied. “We may not survive this war.”
We do what we have to to survive. Genya examined the lieutenant, the exposed curve of his throat. She thought she read more than he’d intended to betray in his actions that night, the set of his jaw, the paper-thin lines across his face. She took a gamble, said: “We’ve survived worse.”
He turned his head to look at her, streetlights illuminating his features in flickering shadow. A few breaths later, he exhaled a laugh. “So we have,” he agreed. “So we have.”