The Concubine's Secret by Kate Furnivall

and jammed her hair up under it with sharp little jabs that scraped her ears.
    ‘Alexei,’ she said and found him observing her with that cool scrutiny he was so adept at, ‘if you keep Popkov at your side this evening, I promise I’ll stay shut in my room and not put a foot outside the door until you’re back.’
    Would he thank her? Would he appreciate that for once she was offering him peace of mind?
    His slow infuriating smile crept up one side of his mouth and for a split second she was foolish enough to think he was going to laugh and accept her offer. Instead the green of his eyes turned a chilly mistrustful greyish shade that reminded her of the Peiho River in Junchow, which could catch you out in the blink of an eye just when you thought it was looking warm and inviting.
    ‘Lydia,’ he said, so softly no one else would have been able to detect the carefully controlled anger, ‘you’re lying to me.’
    She spun on her heel and stalked off down the stubby brown corridor that led to the stairs, her boots clicking on the floorboards. He made her so mad she wanted to spit.

9
    Lydia stayed in her room just as she’d promised. She didn’t want to but she did. It wasn’t because she’d given her word – yes, Alexei was right about that: in the past she’d never let something as trivial as a promise cramp her activities – but because Alexei didn’t believe she would. She was determined to prove him wrong.
    The room was lugubrious and chilly, but clean. Two narrow single beds were squashed into the small space, but so far no one else had come to claim the second one. With luck it would remain empty. A mirror in an ornate metal frame hung on one wall but Lydia was careful to avoid it this time. Still wearing her hat and coat she paced up and down, fretting at her thoughts the way she’d fretted at the hat earlier.
    She tried to concentrate on Alexei, to picture him donning his coat ready for the evening sortie , staring into his own ornate mirror with that look of eagerness, almost wantonness, that sprang into his eyes whenever there was some action in prospect. He always tried to hide it, of course, and she’d seen him disguise it with a yawn or an indifferent flick of his hand through his thick brown hair, as if bored by the world around him. But she knew. She recognised it for what it was.
    She paced faster and kicked her foot against the bed frame to drive a jolt of pain up her leg. Anything to keep her thoughts away from Jens Friis. Instead she crammed images of the Commandant’s wife into her brain, of her slender mistreated arms and the graceful swing of the fur coat as she turned her back and walked away along the railway platform.
    Walked away. How can you do that? How can you walk away?
    A rush of rage swept through Lydia. She wasn’t sure where it came from but it had nothing to do with Antonina. She felt it burn her cheeks and scour her stomach, her fingers seizing one of her coat buttons and twisting so hard it came off. That felt better. She clung to it, trying to sweep away the misery that had driven a spike right through her from the moment she had laid eyes on the prisoners in the Work Zone. The men hauling the wagon over icy boulder-strewn ground, no better than animals. No, worse than animals because animals don’t die of shame. Even from so far away she’d felt it, that shame, and tasted the acid of it in her mouth. And then one of the men had fallen and not risen.
    Papa, I need to find you. Please, please, Papa, don’t let it be you crumpled inside that heap of rags.
    And suddenly the rage was gone and all she had left were the tears on her cold cheeks.
     
    A knock on the door made Lydia look up. She’d removed her coat and hat and was kneeling beside her bed, engrossed in removing every single item from her canvas bag.
    ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘ Vkhodite.’
    The door opened and she expected it to be another overnight resident come to claim the spare bed, but she was wrong. It