she’s working with.” Tuttelbaum rubs his hands together, as though he’s ready to dive into a feast. “Work fast and we can still be home for dinner.”
“What about me?” I ask, glancing around the room. Did I miss my name?
“If they’ve got a grade-A scrubber working with them, then I don’t think you’re going to be of much use, tsarina. We’ll bring you in once we start pinpointing locations and collecting evidence.” He draws his shoulders to his ears—for a moment, the gesture reminds me of Sergei, and his Russian shrug of surrender and acceptance—then he storms back into his office and slams the door.
I stare at the thick whorls of wood on his office door, waiting for my heart to stop knocking against my ribs. Useless. No, I am worse than useless—I have a power, but it’s been neutralized, because they scrubbed away any possible memories that I could find. Even the items Cindy showed me this morning took all of my ability to glean anything useful from them.
“Are you all right?” Cindy Conrad sits down beside me, her face a convincing mask of pity: eyebrows drawn down, lips tiny and twisted. Like everything else about her, it feels deliberate. “I promise we’ll have work for you soon.”
But that scares me even more—objects full of that angry desert of white, stinging sand when I try to look past the scrubbers’ noise, eroding my thoughts as I fight to see through the storm. “What about you?” I ask. “Aren’t they sending you off somewhere?”
Her expression pinches. “My talents don’t always work on command.”
I laugh hoarsely. I thought the same about mine, another lifetime ago, when I was a scared little girl trading goods on the black market to feed my fugitive family. Back then, my power was a fluke, just a whisper and a glance of memories. I didn’t know about the danger and the power—the pain pushing from my fingertips like an electric shock.
Cindy’s gaze darts to Frank’s office door. “I’m sorry if the chief upset you. I know he’s curt, but he has a lot of experience working the Soviet mission. He was chief of station in Moscow for seven years—quite an honor. He helped bring your father over, too. They were great pals.”
I try and fail to imagine any situation in which Papa’s personality and the blustery man’s I just witnessed might possibly work together. “My father was a different man back then.”
“I’ll say.” Cindy grins wider. “You know, your father’s very proud of you.”
I tilt my head, catching a thread of her lilac perfume, as flawless as it smelled first thing this morning. I’m sure the day has caked itself onto me with sweat and Marylou’s cigarettes, but Cindy’s still ever fresh. “What makes you think that?”
“You’re all he could talk about when he first came to us. How quick you were in school, how you took care of your brother, your ‘science experiments’…” She makes little quotation marks in the air with her fingers, and laughs. “He may not show it, but he’s thrilled to have you back with him. I don’t think we ever would have taken the risk on pursuing the Veter 1 plans if he hadn’t insisted. All for a chance at finding you.”
Is she sure we’re talking about the same Andrei Chernin? Papa has barely even hugged me in weeks. He calls to me when he comes home from the bars—on the occasions when I’m still awake—like I’m a pet dog, but by the time I creep downstairs he’s passed out on the couch.
“He tells me you and Winnie have been translating a number of genetics research papers,” she continues. “He actually contacted the Georgetown genetics professor, who agreed to let you work in his lab for the rest of the spring and summer, and then you can enroll as a college freshman in the fall.” She tilts her head. “Of course, it’s your choice.”
I stare at her as if she’s just offered me a spot on the next Gemini flight. A deadly, rare, incredible opportunity. I hadn’t
“What about me?” I ask, glancing around the room. Did I miss my name?
“If they’ve got a grade-A scrubber working with them, then I don’t think you’re going to be of much use, tsarina. We’ll bring you in once we start pinpointing locations and collecting evidence.” He draws his shoulders to his ears—for a moment, the gesture reminds me of Sergei, and his Russian shrug of surrender and acceptance—then he storms back into his office and slams the door.
I stare at the thick whorls of wood on his office door, waiting for my heart to stop knocking against my ribs. Useless. No, I am worse than useless—I have a power, but it’s been neutralized, because they scrubbed away any possible memories that I could find. Even the items Cindy showed me this morning took all of my ability to glean anything useful from them.
“Are you all right?” Cindy Conrad sits down beside me, her face a convincing mask of pity: eyebrows drawn down, lips tiny and twisted. Like everything else about her, it feels deliberate. “I promise we’ll have work for you soon.”
But that scares me even more—objects full of that angry desert of white, stinging sand when I try to look past the scrubbers’ noise, eroding my thoughts as I fight to see through the storm. “What about you?” I ask. “Aren’t they sending you off somewhere?”
Her expression pinches. “My talents don’t always work on command.”
I laugh hoarsely. I thought the same about mine, another lifetime ago, when I was a scared little girl trading goods on the black market to feed my fugitive family. Back then, my power was a fluke, just a whisper and a glance of memories. I didn’t know about the danger and the power—the pain pushing from my fingertips like an electric shock.
Cindy’s gaze darts to Frank’s office door. “I’m sorry if the chief upset you. I know he’s curt, but he has a lot of experience working the Soviet mission. He was chief of station in Moscow for seven years—quite an honor. He helped bring your father over, too. They were great pals.”
I try and fail to imagine any situation in which Papa’s personality and the blustery man’s I just witnessed might possibly work together. “My father was a different man back then.”
“I’ll say.” Cindy grins wider. “You know, your father’s very proud of you.”
I tilt my head, catching a thread of her lilac perfume, as flawless as it smelled first thing this morning. I’m sure the day has caked itself onto me with sweat and Marylou’s cigarettes, but Cindy’s still ever fresh. “What makes you think that?”
“You’re all he could talk about when he first came to us. How quick you were in school, how you took care of your brother, your ‘science experiments’…” She makes little quotation marks in the air with her fingers, and laughs. “He may not show it, but he’s thrilled to have you back with him. I don’t think we ever would have taken the risk on pursuing the Veter 1 plans if he hadn’t insisted. All for a chance at finding you.”
Is she sure we’re talking about the same Andrei Chernin? Papa has barely even hugged me in weeks. He calls to me when he comes home from the bars—on the occasions when I’m still awake—like I’m a pet dog, but by the time I creep downstairs he’s passed out on the couch.
“He tells me you and Winnie have been translating a number of genetics research papers,” she continues. “He actually contacted the Georgetown genetics professor, who agreed to let you work in his lab for the rest of the spring and summer, and then you can enroll as a college freshman in the fall.” She tilts her head. “Of course, it’s your choice.”
I stare at her as if she’s just offered me a spot on the next Gemini flight. A deadly, rare, incredible opportunity. I hadn’t
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