Archive of Our Own

 

“Okay baby, he said so sweetly,

Okay, okay, okay.

Enamored, I was pressed

Drowsy

Against his clavicle,

And almost asked him if he loved me.”

Sue Zhao

II. now

Kaz is awoken from his shallow, dreamless slumber by the driver’s flat voice: We have reached the destination, Sir.

The driver then exits the car to get his suitcase from the trunk while Kaz tries to force his stiff body to cooperate. A dull headache nests in his left temple, and he has an almighty crick in his neck; all of that pales in comparison with the pain in his mangled leg that buckles underneath his weight when he opens the car door and stumbles outside.

Five hours, from Weddle to Shiftport. Then, an afternoon in Shiftport, spent mostly on a frantic commute between different parts of the city and trying to cram in as many meetings in his itinerary as possible. Followed by four lovely hours at the Shiftport Internationale Airport, hunched over his papers in between a group of drunk teenagers on route for a city break and a woman with a wailing infant in the departures hall, because the lounge was closed for some unexplainable reason. Finally, four hours again, from Shiftport to Ketterdam Van Eck Aeroport, with the storm tossing the plane up and down like a toy and the man sitting on his left side throwing up twice.

Kaz, as a general rule, doesn’t tend to coddle himself. But at this very moment, he thinks he might pay an obscene amount of money for someone to just give him a pillow on a vaguely horizontal surface and leave him the fuck alone to sleep. Except he does not plan on sleeping that night - he never does, in Ketterdam. There are better things to do with his time, and if he has to sacrifice some shut-eye for them, then so be it. He’s been waiting long enough, kept away from the city by various more and less important commitments. But now, he’s here.

We have reached the destination.

This sentence alone is enough to help him banish his tiredness into some dusty corner of his mind. He will sleep when he’s dead.

The hotel neon is gaudy and unpleasantly bright, casting a toxic emerald glow on the front entrance. It’s right by the canalside, so all the walls smell faintly of damp. Kaz has stayed there before, too many times to count, and he knows by now to expect nothing better. He doesn’t book rooms at The Spice Rack for the decor or the lounge. It is more expensive than it has any right to be because tourists like the view from the windows and, even though it’s relatively clean, he’s pretty sure he saw some suspicious stains on the sheets once or twice. Doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

He straightens up and takes his suitcase from the driver, waving off his offer of help. Leaves the man without a tip and pushes the door open.

And there it is, his reason.

There she is.

She’s taking a call with a phone wedged between her head and her shoulder, both of her hands occupied with a logbook spread on the counter in front of her. All buttoned up, head-to-toe in purple from her faux-suede ballet flats to the scrunchie in her hair. Her shirt meticulously tucked into her skirt, her collar neatly ironed. She has her hair up, in a high ponytail, and he briefly wonders if her scalp hurts. She has a lot of hair; it must weigh a lot. But he has seen her massage her feet and calves, cramped from standing up for hours with no end, but never her neck. She keeps herself straight, shoulder blades pulled tight. Chin up, smile on.

There is a plaque on her chest, polished to shine. Miss Inej Ghafa.

No matter how late his check-in is, he has never seen her disheveled. At least, not behind this counter.

There is no queue, so he walks right towards her, the sound of his cane muffled by the carpet and the handle of his suitcase biting into his palm. His headache dissolves with every step. The fog clouding his brain clears.

She doesn’t look up towards him, but he knows she must’ve spotted him already, because she is smiling, just a little; it’s a real smile, sweet and genuine, and he’s been dreaming of seeing it for months. She’s talking to someone on the other side of the line, in a patient, quiet voice, just a tinge of an accent in her Kerch. It was the first thing he noticed about her, the first time was here - this accent that he couldn’t immediately place. Soft. One word melting into another. His mother tongue, just made new, made different. Scratching his brain just right.

She speaks Suli in bed, sometimes. Breathless and far gone, shivering in his arms. He always wants to ask her - what does it mean, this word, that one? Wants to demand her to say it again, again and again. To speak to him in the language of her thoughts and dreams. But he always manages to stop himself just in time.

“I am terribly sorry - yes, yes, I understand.” There is a wrinkle between her brows. Irritation? Concern? Maybe she’s just tired. It is very late. “I understand it’s an inconvenience for you, Sir. May I offer you free breakfast, as a consolation?”

Kaz leans against the counter of plywood pretending to be oak, his elbow obnoxiously right by the open logbook. Her eyes trace a path up his arm, along his shoulder. Slowly. Thoroughly. Their eyes meet and her stare comes alive, bright like a firework in the night. She tries to hide it, but he can see it anyway. Can see the dark cherry blush blooming on her cheeks and the sweet hitch of her breath. And this tiny smile, just for him, for him only.

The man on the phone drones on. They both pay him no mind.

She reaches up and untucks the handset from the crook of her neck.

“My apologies, Sir,” she’s so very polite. So very polite, his girl, his little vice. “Something requires my urgent attention. I will make sure to give you a call back as soon as possible.”

She hangs up.

A stray piece of hair, freed from the ponytail, clings to the frame of her reading glasses. His fingers itch just to twirl it, just like she twirls the telephone cord sometimes.

“Mister Brekker,” she says, her voice all breath. “Good evening. Welcome back.”

*

Kaz is a creature of habit, and so is Inej. They are busy people and have their lives nearly organized, thank you very much.

So, obviously, they have their shared routine as well.

It goes like this: he takes the keys from her hand and takes the creaky elevator to the third floor. Always the same floor, same room, number six, at the very end of the corridor.

Inej’s shift ends at 1 am, and she usually takes a moment to debrief the person taking over after her. That’s 1:15. 1:20 sometimes. By that time, Kaz has his things hung up in a wardrobe and the shower on already, the mirror fogging up. He brushes his teeth to get rid of the airport taste. He checks the sheets for any stains or stray hairs and deems them acceptably clean.

At 1:30 am, the cameras on the fourth floor go dead and blind, because the hotel owner is a penny-pinching bitch and the building is on the West Stave, which is a historic Ketterdam district, so the break-ins and funny business of the gangs are not of particular concern.

At 1:45 am, he turns the shower off to hear a click at his door - the crisp, subtle sound of a universal key being inserted into a hole. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought it was someone in a neighboring room, stumbling in after the last round of whiskey at the bar. But it’s not. He knows better. He turns the water back on and closes his eyes, breathing in and out as the stream beats down on his shoulders, his back.

At 1:55 am, he gets out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips to find Inej Ghafa in his hotel bed.

*

The clock strikes 3:30 am when she slips out of his arms with a sigh, her hands in her hair, running her fingers through loose strands and sweaty fringe.

“What a mess,” she murmurs under her breath, reaching down to the floor for her shoes and slipping them on her feet. “It will take me hours to detangle that, shevrati.”

He doesn’t bother with a response. His body feels loose, liquid; he settles more firmly against the pillows, his hands clasped casually behind his head, watching her when she gets up and stretches, stark naked save for those awful ballet flats that she’s got on only because she refuses to touch the carpet with her bare feet. Her hair is a mess, curling around her shoulders and falling down her back in a dark, luscious spill. He wants to press his face into it again, breathe her in.

But he loves looking at her almost as much as he loves touching her, so he stays still, eyes on the round curve of her shoulder, the peaks of her breasts peeking through the curtain of her hair. The narrow dip of her spine when she turns around and walks towards the bathroom, the twin dimples above her ass. The insides of her knees. The bony sharpness of her elbows. He commits her to his memory; every single fragment of her.

The door closes behind her and he lets his eyes drop close as well. His exhaustion is back, nipping at his heels, rubbing against his ankles like a stray cat. It would be very easy to fall asleep now, sated and relaxed. But he knows she won’t be here when he wakes up and he’s not ready to let her go just yet.

He focuses on the sound of water from the bathroom. She’s taking a shower - she always does, right after. Takes a shower and cranks the heat up to the maximum, leaving the bathroom fogged and with little pools of water on the tile, some stray hair here and there. He can imagine it; her shoes abandoned in a corner and a tune she’s whistling under her breath as she’s rubbing a bar of soap in between her palms.

He doesn’t have to just imagine it. He gets up before he can start to second-guess it. The bathroom is already foggy when he steps in, just like he thought it would be. She has his back to him but turns around at the sound of the door opening and sends him a quizzical look.

“I thought you were tired?” she asks and she tries to sound playful, but he can see the surprise in her eyes. Why are you breaking the script, that’s what she really wants to ask.

He doesn’t know how to answer this unspoken question, so he pretends he doesn’t hear it.

“I am,” he murmurs. “I’m always tired.”

It’s a bit more honesty than either of them expected. He winces. Her eyes soften.

“Come here,” she scoots to the side of the shower and stretches one arm towards him, beckoning him closer. “There is plenty of space. You can help me wash my back.”

There is a little built-in shelf in the tub and he sits himself there, wincing when the water rains down on him. It’s scalding. He’s going to get out of this shower red like a lobster.

“Ghezen, woman, turn the temperature down.”

She makes a sound that is somewhat between a snort and a giggle. “No.”

The shower is big and they both fit in quite easily, but there is still no avoiding touching each other. She slides the plastic door closed and he can see nothing else but the fog, the water and her, her wet skin and hair plastered to the lines of her body, dark and slick like seaweed.

It is so hot. It burns. His thoughts swirl and cloud. She puts her hand on his shoulder, slides it up, up his neck, brushes the shell of his ear with her fingertips. Combs her fingers through his hair and pulls his head back, face tilted up and away from the stream of the water, so that she could look into his eyes. There is a lovely little wrinkle between her brows.

“You should go to sleep,” she says. “How long has it been since you last slept?”

He cannot help himself; he fits his hand into the curve of her waist. The air smells like cheap hotel soap and Inej, and it’s messing with his brain.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, because they tend not to lie to each other, Inej and him. “I napped some in the taxi.”

Her frown deepens.

“Kaz -”

He is not in the mood for sermons. He’ll be in Ketterdam for three nights only and then they will send him to Os Kervo for some merger bullshit. Sometimes, he humors her attempts to coax him into a healthier routine, but this time, they have no time for that.

“Inej,” he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her closer, right in between his knees. “Drop it.”

She wants to argue; it’s there, in the displeased curve of her mouth and the way she scrunches her nose. But the water streams down her shoulders and back in hot rivulets, falls into her eyes; she tries to blink it away but there is no use. He pulls her onto his lap and she lets him, warm and slippery, her body smooth like melted butter when he runs his hands across her back, her hips, her breasts. She’s so pretty.

He kisses her throat and she sighs; wraps her arms around his neck loosely, her thighs tightening around his hips.

The water rains down on them, punishingly hot. When she takes him inside her, he hardly registers it anymore. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters when he’s here, in this cheap hotel room with her. Nothing at all.

He presses his face into the crook of her neck, breathes her in. I love you, he thinks and swallows the words down. They burn.

then

“The Spice Rack? Are you fucking for real, Anika?” he barked into the telephone, only the flimsy roof of the phone booth shielding him from the pouring rain. All around him, tourists huddled under the cheap umbrellas and those brightly-coloured plastic raincovers that were sold all around the city.

“I’m sorry, Kaz,” she replied, and she did sound apologetic; he would give her that. “They send you in at the last minute and, with the Trade just starting, all the nicer spots are fully booked. Even the Geldrenner.”

“Haskell wouldn’t pay for the Geldrenner anyway.” He was itching for a smoke. He was trying to quit, but one wouldn’t hurt, would it? Especially if he had to spend the night in this shithole. “Have you checked the casino hotels? I can stay in the Barrel, that’s fine.”

There was a moment of silence on the line and then Anika cleared her throat.

“Apologies, Kaz. Not even there. Tourists. It is the -”

“Fucking Carnaval,” he sighed. “Well. That’s it then.”

He ended the call without saying goodbye and glanced through the booth’s window; he could see right through the glassed front doors of the hotel, into the crowded lobby. Not an especially inviting establishment, certainly not ideal, but he could just pick up his key and get to his room to leave his things. And then he would be out and about his whole stay. He could grit his teeth and brave through these few nights - it was certainly preferable to braving the cold rain and the Komedie Brute lunatics filling the streets, trying fruitlessly to find any other place to stay. The city was always a nightmare whenever the annual Trade Fair coincided with the Carnaval parade. And it seemed like it was always his rotten luck to be in Ketterdam whenever it happened.

Briskly shaking any thoughts of getting himself a pack of smokes out of his head, he popped his collar up to shield himself from the rain and walked outside the phone booth, through the street and through the hotel’s door.

Some Kaelish tourists - of course, there were Kaelish tourists in a place like that - tried to get his attention to ask about something. He pretended he didn’t speak the language. Some overexcited child bumped into him and the parents, sprawled onto the various little sofas, didn’t even bother raising their eyes from their magazines. There was some awful pseudo-exotic tune playing from the speakers and an intrusive, overwhelming smell in the air - incense, or something pretending to be incense, most likely a cinnamon air freshener.

Ghezen spare me.

He made his way to the reception desk, absent-mindedly thumping his fingers on the counter while the receptionist - some small, brown-skinned woman in thin-rimmed glasses- was dealing with a group of businessmen from Shu Han, apparently in need of directions for the hotel bar. Her voice washed over him, smooth, sweet. Measured. Kerch, very good Kerch, but -

He raised his gaze up and their eyes met. The Shu were gone; it was only the two of them, standing on the opposite side of the counter. She had been looking at him before he turned towards her.

Small face. Bright brown eyes. Magnificent hair. Hair like in songs.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” she said, her hands now neatly laced in front of her, her face carefully controlled in a mask of the hospitality worker. “How can I help you?”

“I have a reservation,” he eyed her name tag. Miss Inej Ghafa. What kind of name was it even? How do you even pronounce that? “Kaz Brekker. Three nights.”

“Please bear with me for a second,” she flipped through the logbook, her index finger sliding down the list of names until it stopped on the very bottom of the page. “My apologies; it seems that your assistant tried to book a canal-view room for you, but they are all fully occupied. Would a street-view one suffice?”

“Sure.” He actually preferred street-facing rooms; it was easier to fall asleep with the sound of traffic outside. He didn’t particularly like how dark the canals got at night. But he supposed Anika had been trying to sweeten the situation for him and get him something more fancy. Or anything that could be considered fancy in this particular place.

The woman bent slightly and made some note beside his name; when she turned around and walked towards the key rack mounted on the wall, he was briefly transfixed by the way she moved; all elegant, economical movements, elbows tucked in, small steps. A dancer, he thought. She must be a dancer. Ketterdam is always full of them - dancers and singers, all this lot, hoping to make it. With a face like that - hair like that. Her chances are not too bad. The name might be a problem, but a name can always be changed, can’t it?

I should know.

“Here you are, Sir,” she turns back and hands him a small brass key with a plaque reading 6 attached. “We serve breakfast from 6 am till 9 am and the restaurant opens at 1 pm for lunch service and, once again, at 6 pm for dinner. Please do not hesitate to give the reception a call if you need anything. Are you in the city for business or pleasure?”

“Take an educated guess,” he said, gesturing to his suitcase. “I think you can figure it out.”

She paused the well-trained chatter for a moment and raised her chin, just a bit; their eyes met. There was something in her stare that took him aback - because her smile was fake, anyone could see, but her eyes… her eyes were genuine.

“Indeed,” she said, her voice flat like a table. “I am pretty sure I can.”

She’s tired, crossed his mind unwelcome, unwanted. She’s just as tired as I am.

“We have a smoker’s lounge, right through those doors.” She gestured to the left. “Please excuse me for bringing it up, if you are not a smoker, Sir.”

“I am not,” he shook his head. “Well, not anymore. Trying not to be.”

A corner of her mouth twitched.

“Very valiant of you to try to quit during the Trade, when every businessmen and their mother is going through three packs per hour. ”

He could feel his eyebrow climbing up. She had said it so dryly. Not quite rude, but - skirting the line probably. A chuckle tickled his throat.

“You might be right. The timing is not perfect, certainly.” He eyed her, unabashedly this time. She was very pretty. Too pretty for a cheap hotel like this one. “But I like to challenge myself.”

She tilted her head, just slightly. “Who doesn’t, in Ketterdam?”

He might have imagined it - but to him, she sounded a bit bitter.

An aspiring starlet, he thought again. A dancer-to-be for the revia. A cabaret showgirl. An actress, trying out for one of the minor roles, hoping to get noticed. Trying and failing. Such nice brown eyes you have, Miss. And the glasses are definitely not a turn-off. But you don’t seem very happy here.

Late at night, under the thin covers, he still thought about those eyes.

How to pronounce your name? Would you tell me, if I asked you?

*

He checked out three days later and pretty much successfully forgot the small receptionist until the conference in Os Alta, when he was seated next to a somber gentleman named Rizwan Ghafa. When everyone flocked to the bar in the evening, Kaz bought him one round, then another and then wrote her name on a napkin and said read it out loud for me and from this moment on, he knew. Inej Ghafa. It fit her, this name. Like a glove. Not hard to pronounce at all. Except then, it kept on coming back to him at most random moments. Her name and her eyes, the dry humor in her voice.

So he kept on coming back. Anika gave him oh-so-quizzical looks about it, and he ignored them. Did not offer any of the explanations, any of the excuses that he had prepared beforehand - good location, good coffee, some other bullshit - just kept his mouth shut and his stare heavy, and she learned well enough to leave the topic alone. She would book him a room at The Spice Rack, always the street-facing one, and Kaz would march through the lobby with the same undefined desire to see the receptionist behind the desk and to see her see him. He knew she remembered him. Even the second time when he was there, she already remembered him. They might have made some small joke about it, returning so soon, Mister Brekker? Ah, it’s the excellent service. Shit like that. They always shared a few words anyway, besides the basics. She kept on offering him the smokers’ lounge, something playful in her voice. He kept on refusing in a similar manner.

On his fourth visit, he dared to test the waters a bit. “Hello Inej,” he said and her eyes got round like coins, her mouth parting. He assumed he got it right but before he let his ego inflate too much, she shook her head slightly and cleared her throat. “Good morning, Mister Brekker,” she said, her voice back to this flat professionalism and he swallowed his disappointment quietly, collecting his keys with a minimal amount of small talk involved.

It wasn’t until he was in his room, spreading his files on the table and eyeing the water stains on the glass, that it dawned on him that she was always on shift whenever he checked in. He hadn’t even as much as seen another receptionist and he would come at all times of day and night. But it had always been Inej, behind that desk. And Anika would always book him in advance.

He absent-mindedly flipped through the pages. Would it be that unreasonable to assume that she sees the guest logs and makes sure to be here to greet him? It would be. Pure nonsense. Fucking insanity. He was coming down with something. He worked too much and slept too little and finally fucking lost it.

He remembered Jesper saying something about a friend of his being single and wanting to set up a date for them. He had refused, of course. Multiple times. With an emphasis. But maybe he should give it a try. It had been way too long since he had let out some steam and it was apparently starting to affect his logical thinking.

He was going to call Anika the next day to re-book some other hotel for him. Somewhere nicer. He brought enough money to his fucking company to deserve the first floor at Geldrenner at least, even if Haskell would never admit that.

*

His headache was a pounding, vicious beast nesting in his brain, thrashing in between his ears. He took a sip of his drink, then another, trying to narrow his senses down to the burn of alcohol. The bar was a nice place, subdued and quiet; there was a jazz band in a corner doing some inoffensive elevator music number and the patrons were a scattered bunch of mostly solitary figures nursing their own drinks and minding their own business. Which was more than fine for Kaz. It was practically perfect. It was, in fact, exactly what he needed.

He rattled ice cubes in his empty glasses and gestured to the bartender for another. Mellow yellow lights cast a warm glow on everything; it was like swimming in a honeypot. He let his mind drift away, all his thoughts softened by the gin.

Just like Jesper had promised, the woman that he had met earlier that night was beautiful, all green eyes, brown curls, the sort of smooth gait of someone with all the confidence in the world. She had also been very intelligent, which had been nice, and very loud, which had been less so.

She had stormed into the restaurant, fifteen minutes late (yellow card), flashing him a wide smile full of teeth. Nina Zenikova, she said, her Kerch crisp and perfect. At your service. She had had red lipstick on and a red dress, and she had worn them very well and had seemed to be very well aware of that.

It had taken them approximately another fifteen minutes until they had started arguing, but that hadn’t necessarily been a dealbreaker, in Kaz’s eyes. He enjoyed some bite. The real red card, so to say, came when she had casually insulted his hair and then had reached out above their plates to mess up his fringe with her hair. She had been expecting him to lean into her touch. He could see it, clear as day. And maybe he would’ve, but he caught a whiff of her perfume - something musky, woody, almost masculine. His mother had used to wear the same perfume. He even remembered what the bottle had looked like; its square shape, yellow glass on the little shelf under the bathroom mirror in his family house.

At the end of her life, she had smelled mostly like bile and chemicals. But the perfume notes had still lingered underneath the stench, somehow making it even more unbearable.

Kaz had swallowed the appetizer rising in his throat and had thrown a few bills on the table before leaving promptly with no explanation whatsoever. After all, why should he explain himself? It was just a set-up date, for fuck’s sake. And the girl looking like Nina could find a replacement for him in a heartbeat. Probably the waiter had taken his vacated seat immediately.

He didn’t regret leaving; he didn’t have patience with handsy people anyway. But he regretted, so bitterly that no alcohol could erase it, losing any prospect of company for the night. He didn’t crave it often but, when he did, it was a burning need impossible to ignore.

He swirled the gin in his glass and imagined putting his coat on and walking outside. Waiting for a taxi under the freezing sleet and getting drenched well before the damned car stopped, splashing dirty water all over his shoes and pants. And then getting to the hotel and seeing Inej bent over the logbook in that awful plum jacket that somehow looked good on her. Climbing up the stairs. Going to bed alone. Again and again.

Quit fucking wallowing. You’re pathetic, Brekker.

He downed his drink so fast that a shudder ran through him. For the first time in months, he thought about taking a vacation. He could go somewhere nice. The Seashell Coast in SC. Ahmrat Jen, this one time for pleasure and not for business. Lij.

Something thick rose in his throat. He could come back to Lij. See his father again for Nachtspel.

It had been five years since he had last been home. Right after he had been promoted for the first time. His father had looked so old and brittle, his hand trembling whenever he was reaching for a new log to throw into the fireplace.

Ah, fuck it.

He turned towards the bartender.

“Do you have a smokers' lounge?” he rasped and then awkwardly maneuvered down from his stool, following the man’s directions to the left side of the bar. Behind a thick velvet curtain was a narrow passage into a second room, smaller and even more dimly-lit. Thick tendrils of grey smoke were enveloping a few guests sitting scattered here and there, talking in low voices or sipping their drinks in between drags of their cigarettes. Men in somber blacks and greys, a murder of crows. Women, all young and pretty, in sequins and glittery eyeshadow, a school of fish.

Preening businessmen and the ladies escorting them. A common enough sight in a place like that. Paid smiles, all of it. Jewels traded for some company.

He didn’t have any cigarettes of his own and was not in the mood to ask for hand-outs. He was intending to find a free seat and slump himself there, breathe in the nicotine. But before he got to that, a familiar voice rang just on his right side, from the darkest corner of the room, startling him like a bucket of ice water.

“So you have finally given in,” the voice was light, full of humor. Not a trace of bland, professional politeness. “You got rid of yours not to tempt yourself, didn’t you? I can help you.”

Like a jinn from a lamp in nursery stories, Inej Ghafa rose from a low sofa and extended a pack of some long, narrow cigarettes towards him. For a moment, he could only stand and gape at her; she looked entirely different out of her little purple set. Loose. Relaxed. She had a long-sleeved dress on, from some black material that reflected the light like an oil spill. A set of gleaming gold earrings and a matching narrow chain, clasped close around her throat. No glasses.

And her hair was down. Thick and dark, falling down to the small of her back, impossible to turn his eyes away from.

She was sitting on a sofa all alone - no date, no group of friends in sight. Just as if she was waiting for him to appear.

He reached out and took a single cigarette from the pack.

“I was beginning to think you live in that fucking hotel,” he murmured and she laughed slightly.

“I sometimes feel like that as well, yes,” she eyed him for a moment with her head tilted to the side. It made her look like an intrigued bird of sorts; her gaze was so sharp. When she spoke again, she spoke carefully. Slowly. Each word carrying a weight. “Are you looking for some company?”

He looked into her eyes, so dark brown that they almost seemed black. All this darkness; her eyes and her hair, her dress, the shade of her skin. And yet she was shimmering. Glowing from the inside out.

She was no one to him. Little more than a complete stranger, really. But she was haunting his mind for so long now, like a puzzle demanding to be solved or like a ghost demanding to finish their business before they can be banished. Maybe there was some business between them in truth. Maybe it needed to be finished before he could be free from her.

Businessmen and their escorts, all around them in this room. And the two of them, whoever they were in this particular moment.

He took a few steps and sat down beside her on the small sofa, their thighs pressing together. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers in contemplation.

“Will you join me?” he asked her instead of answering her question and the corner of her mouth rose slightly.

“Yes,” her fingers dove inside the package as well and fished out another cigarette. “I suppose you don’t have a light?”

He shook his head and she reached towards a small bag lying by her hip on the sofa; her lighter was a little silver thing with some engraving that he could not decipher in the dimmed light of the lounge. He put the cigarette between his lips and leaned a bit closer to her as she flicked the lighter on; their eyes met above its flickering flame.

The first drag almost made him choke.

“What the fuck is it?” he asked, gasping for breath, and she smiled a bit wider.

“Just some herbal mix,” she said and she handed him the closed-again lighter. “Ravkan. Would you?”

She raised her own cigarette to her mouth; he followed the motion and just realized that she had lipstick on. Dark red, like ripe cherries.

Mimicking her movements, he flicked the lighter back on and offered it to her. She leaned in - one hand holding a cigarette, another tucking her hair behind her ear, away from the flame. The fans of her eyelashes cast twin shadows across her cheekbones.

She breathed the smoke in, deeply and with a practiced ease, when he struggled not to cough. The cigarette was vile; strong and sharp, the taste bitter on his tongue, coating his mouth and irritating his throat. She watched his struggle with some wicked humor sparkling in her eyes and the same half-smile tugging on her mouth.

“Why’d you have Ravkan smokes?” he asked her at last, when he managed to get his body under control and breathe somewhat normally again. “Are you from Ravka?”

Something wistful flashed across her face.

“I am Suli,” she said. “But yes, I was born in Ravka. My family lives there.”

His money was on Zemeni, but he could see it, now that she’d said it. Her skin and her hair, her features. Suli. He did not know a single thing about the Suli besides what everyone knew about the Suli, or at least presumed to know. And neither of what he had ever heard was kind. Or fitting to mention in a conversation with a woman he was hoping to fuck.

Before he could scramble to answer anything, her mouth twisted into an ugly grin.

“Don’t worry,” she deadpanned. “Your wallet is safe for now. We offer to tell people their fortune first and then steal from them.”

She breathed in a perfect ring of smoke and he could do nothing but chuckle.

“Should I pat my pockets to make it easier for you to find it?”

“Oh, I know where it is,” she raised her eyebrow mockingly. “The way to a man’s wallet is always the same, regardless of where he keeps it.”

He leaned back slightly and their shoulders brushed. He was still on guard after his date with Nina, almost waiting for the revulsion to turn his stomach sideways. But all he felt at this moment was warmth, some hazy, caramel warmth, each point of contact between them - their arms nearly touching, their legs pressed together - a burning spot. The air between them syrupy.

“I think there is a saying about that,” he said. “But it might have been about the heart and the stomach. Not wallets and - well.”

“Both of these sentiments can be true,” she planted her elbow on her knee and leaned her chin on her hand, each movement like water. The line of her back remained uncompromisingly straight. “There are always ways to get what you want from people. Your methods just depend on what you’re after.”

He let her eyes roam all over her. Her neck and the golden chain around it. Her hair tucked behind the shell of her ear. Her black dress, so modest with its high neckline and long sleeves and made so indecent by the way she wore it. By the way it stuck to her body, clinged to her breasts.

The purse of her lips and the way she sucked in her cheeks, inhaling the smoke.

“And what are you after, Inej?” he asked her; made this question heavy. Let it hang between them.

She let out a small huff. She was fighting a smile; he could see it on her face, on the way she carefully restrained her expression into some schooled indifference before it could bloom on her lips.

“In Ketterdam?” she asked. “At the hotel? Or here, tonight? You have to be more specific, Mister Brekker.”

“Call me Kaz,” he said. “It’s only fair if I am using your first name.”

She nodded, just slightly, some humor still sparkling in the little wrinkles around her eyes. “I am but a mere receptionist, though. Not a big, important businessman, like yourself.”

He watched how she twirled the cigarette in between her thumb and forefinger, trying to weed through the light mockery in her voice before speaking again.

“A receptionist, you say,” he said slowly. “But I don’t think you came to this city to be a receptionist. What did you aim to do, Inej? Act? Dance?”

Her dark brow furrowed.

“A good intuition on your part not to suggest singing,” she let out a small laugh but it sounded hollow. “I am a terrible singer.”

“Not the best actress either, I’d wager,” he carefully draped his arm along the back of their sofa, the sleeve of his shirt almost brushing her shoulder. “So. You came here to Ketterdam to dance, didn’t you? At the cabaret? The showgirls revia in the Barrel?”

For a moment, he wondered if she was about to just stand up without a word and leave him, much like he had done with Nina. Humor vacated her eyes; her stare hardened like two dark river pebbles. She took another drag of her cigarette and lowered her gaze to her lap.

“At the Nationaal Operahaus,” she said. “I wanted to be a ballerina.”

He should’ve made this guess. He didn’t know shit about ballet, but he had some assumptions about how ballerinas looked - thin and graceful, swan-like - and she checked all the boxes, from her lean calves to her sharp collarbones. He could imagine her in one of those fluffy skirts, her hair in a smooth bun. Twirling under the spotlight.

I wanted to. He didn’t comment on the past tense.

But another thought appeared on the forefront of his mind, loud and ugly. And now that you failed in your chosen career, how do you earn your rent, Inej? I don’t think they pay you all that much to answer the phones and smile politely. Who pays for your real smiles?

It was not his business. Not in the slightest. But he couldn’t quite shake it off, in this room full of men like him and older, women like her and younger, conducting business out in the open - all preening and taking their pick of the litter on both sides of the business. A marketplace like any other. He could even recognize some; the CFO of the Karstoff Bank, his arm around a blonde who couldn’t be a day over seventeen. The dean of the University of Ketterdam feeding his date cocktail cherries. Are you on clock now, Inej, in this lounge? With me?

“So,” he continued, casually, as if he hadn’t just pried her for more information than she was clearly willing to give. “I know what you are after in the city and in the hotel. That only leaves - here. Tonight. What are you after here and now?”

Inej breathed out. He could almost feel the tension rushing out of her. Slowly, she raised her chin back up and let their eyes meet. Her gaze was already melting into warm caramel. He turned his hand on the top of the backrest of the sofa, and his fingertips grazed her shoulder.

She twitched. Her eyes grew larger.

“Hmm,” she hummed low. “I suppose the same as you. Just a smoke.”

Her hand rose from her lap up, up, his stare transfixed on it when she tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear again. And then down, down, light as a butterfly on top of his good knee.

“And I can tell you your fortune. If you want me to.”

*

He was kissing her before the taxi even arrived.

Kissing her, open-mouthed and a little clumsy, both of his hands buried in her hair, fingers tangled in the strands. Pulling her close, tasting the bitterness of her strange Ravkan cigarettes on her lips as she gasped against him, raising on the tips of her toes to reach his mouth. She was warm like a furnace and she smelled only of smoke and soap.

They were both covered head-to-toe, long sleeves and long winter coats, and yet he was half-hard just making out with her like a handsy teenager in a narrow alleyway where any keen-eyed passerby could see them perfectly well from the main street.

They slid onto the back seat, still entwined, and she gave the address of The Spice Rack to the driver before he could figure out what to say. It surprised him enough to back away slightly.

“You really want to come back there?” he asked her, a bit out of breath and she nodded her head, a wicked little smile on her lips.

“It’s almost 2 am,” she raised her hands to smooth out her messy hair, to straighten the collar of her coat that he crumpled. “The cameras are off.”

She didn’t offer any explanation on why they wouldn’t just go to her place. He didn’t ask. Maybe that’s how she usually did it.

The drive was quick; they stumbled out of the taxi and back into the dark night, cold wind bringing in the stench of canal water. It has just started to rain, a wicked freezing drizzle that soaked through his hair when he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her under the green neon light of the hotel.

“Wait for me in your room,” she panted against his mouth. “I’ll take the back door.”

And then she was off, out of his arms, her steps nearly silent on the pavement.

Kaz stood still and unmoving for a moment, some low hum of blood ringing in his ears. He took a step towards the foyer, then another, his feet unsteady. He hadn’t been drunk when he had wandered into the driver’s lounge, but he felt drunk at that moment, drunk and a bit high. The taste of Inej’s vile smokes still lingered on the roof of her mouth. He was pretty sure he had her lipstick smeared all over his lips.

There was a new receptionist behind the desk - he glanced there, out of force of habit, and almost collided with a wall out of shock. Of course, it couldn’t be Inej. Of course. Inej was - at the back door? Somewhere else. It’s not like he expected her here. But it was still so weird, so out of sorts to see someone else standing in her place, wearing her uniform.

The girl had a Kaelish look, pale and freckled, although he suspected her red hair was most likely dyed, as it looked significantly darker near the roots. She was flipping through some magazine and yawning - Inej would never - and barely spared him a glance, let alone a greeting. Beside her, the foyer was completely empty.

He walked towards the elevator, trying to shake off this feeling of wrongness. His blood was still hot, his head still cloudy. Inej. He thought about her oil-spill dress, her dark eyes and the way she gasped when he kissed her for the first time, right when they stepped out of the bar. This sweet little gasp, half-surprise, half-laughter.

And how strangely earnest her kisses were. A little messy. If that was all fake, he should have given her acting skills more credit, because he was almost fooled.

The numbers on the elevator changed slowly. Too slow. Too fast. One. Two. Three. The door opened with a bing that sounded deafening on the deserted corridor. His door was closed and, when he paused in front of a minute, he could hear nothing inside. Not a single noise.

He pushed the key into the hole and turned it before he could get a chance to overthink it.

It was pretty dark in the room, with the ceiling lights off and only a small bedside lamp flickering, its yellow light weak. But he could make out Inej, her slender figure perched on the edge of his bed, shoes off. The strong arch of her bare foot, legs crossed. The way she breathed in when he walked inside, deep, something hesitant in her eyes that he could recognize in himself as well - a sudden shyness piercing through the red haze, making their movements sluggish.

But still he walked towards her, slowly but surely, each step growing surer, and soon enough - too soon, not soon enough - he was standing right in front of her, and she had to raise her chin so their eyes would meet. And her withdrawn gaze sparked alive again. Fierce and unblinking.

I wanted to be a ballerina, she had said. He could imagine her on a stage, triumphant under the hot spotlight, chin up, shoulder blades tucked. Taking a bow.

He put his hand on her throat, gently, just to run his thumb down her throat and up again, fiddling with the golden chain around it. She swallowed, her eyes dark.

I should ask her, crossed his mind. I should ask her her price.

But something gave him pause. Because what if there is no price? What if he asked and her face shattered in humiliation and she would storm out and -

Whatever her price is, he would pay it.

He leaned down and kissed her. Slowly. Slowly. And then not slowly at all.

*

When he woke up, later than usual and with a low, pounding headache in his temples, she was gone. She left no signs of her presence in the room at all, not even a single hair.

A relief washed over him. We were on the same page, then. Good. Perfect.

But then he recalled a flash of her smile in scant moonlight and the pretty melody of her laughter. Something stung him, deep in his chest. Some strange melancholia.

She didn’t demand any money. I didn’t even buy her a drink.

She was not a blushing virgin, but she was sweet in bed, lovely. A bit unsure and gentle, like it has been a while for her, at least. There was some innocence in her big brown eyes that he didn’t think could be faked.

He walked over to the window and opened the curtains, staring down at the bustling streets.

Grappling, inside his own mind, with the possibility that whatever it had been, last night, it had been something real.

*

Ravka was miserable, as it always was. Then came Eames Chin, equally miserable and with some truly awful food on top of that. And then he was back at The Spice Rack and Inej greeted him when he checked in. Same slicked-back straight hair, unflinching politeness.

He brushed the back of her hand with his index finger; an insignificant gesture, easy to miss. But he trusted her not to miss it.

At 1:45, a key turned in the lock of his door, and she walked inside, the same pack of damned smokes in her hand. She was still wearing her uniform - he peeled it off her, layer by layer, like he was opening a present.

When he woke up in the middle of the night, he could feel her hand in his hair, fingers combing through the strands with measured, slow strokes. But it disappeared soon enough and she walked out on silent feet before he could fall back asleep. The nightmares descended on him in an exhausting, never-ending montage then, filled with the smell of burning rubber, the sound of tires squeaking on wet concrete, a shrill Watch out! repeated over and over again.

It took two more times, two more nights, before he broke.

“Stay,” he rasped into the darkness, his hand reaching out to grab her narrow wrist as she was getting up. “Stay. Don’t go.”

She hesitated, shaking her head.

“My next shift starts in a few hours,” she said. “I need to go back to my place, take a shower.”

He swallowed thickly. It was humiliating to beg. But he wanted to beg. He wanted to beg just for an odd chance he could change her mind.

It was so soothing, to fall asleep beside her, to listen to her measured, soft inhales and exhales. To reach out and touch something warm and alive beside him. He could nudge her foot with hers, under the covers, and she let out a huff of sleepy laughter. Her hair smelled like cigarette smoke and soap. No nightmares could get him when Inej was in the room.

And maybe she could see some desperation on his face, hear it in his voice, because her brow softened. She sat back on the bed and gently put her hand on top of his, her thumb swiping across his knuckles.

“I’ll stay for a few more hours,” she whispered. “I’ll take a shower here and then I will go, change my clothes. Alright?”

He nodded and pulled her towards him, back under the covers. She let herself be pulled.

*

It was a strange thing, whatever he and Inej shared. A strange thing that could not be explained and that eluded defining.

They saw each other every few weeks, every few months, sometimes, whenever he was held up with something abroad. In uncontrollable bouts of sentimentalism, he would buy her gifts from the cities he visited - small, nice trinkets, jeweled brooches, silk scarves, good tea, a painted fan - and then he would get rid of them at the airports, toss them away with disgust. He showed up with his hands empty and she greeted him anyway, same smile, same fond stare.

And seeing her felt like coming home.

They never talked about his past, her past. She had never brought in the ballerina thing again, and he had never forced her to. He didn’t even know where she lived. They only existed to each other in this one liminal space of The Spice Rack, its foyer, its hallways, the sixth room on the third floor. They kept their unspoken agreement religiously.

But he knew how her laughter sounded in the middle of the night and how the muscles of her back danced when she flexed them; how her lips parted when she was moaning, sighing, whispering, her voice low, low, soft like a kitten’s fur, his name like a song. Kaz, Kaz, Kaz, sweet and breathy and he could hear under the sound of his name the unspoken sentiment I missed you, I missed you.

And then he would press his lips to her throat and kiss her. Because he missed her too.

It was impossible to avoid, no matter how hard he struggled against it, and struggled he did. Had stern talks with himself: That’s the last time, you are not coming back here. It’s just sex. And the next evening, alone in his hotel room in Amhrat Jem or Os Alta, his foolish heart would remind him of how it felt to smoke with her at 3 am on the hotel rooftop, the two of them huddled closer for warmth and laughing about some silly thing. Where is the harm, he would think. And he was back with her again, her mouth on his, tasting her smile.

Welcome home, welcome home, welcome home.

When he was away, he thought about her hair and her eyes, the perfect curves of her breasts, the way she moved underneath him, cheeks all blushed. He thought about her snarky remarks, always delivered off-handedly, blink-and-you-miss-it, catching him off guard. About arguing religion with her, mocking the faith of Saints she clinged to so tightly till the little wrinkle between her brows became a valley and she started to pout. About kissing this pout away,

She had a fine mind and a dry, dark sort of humor that he enjoyed perhaps even more than sex. He liked talking to her. He liked hearing her voice formulating her thoughts, her opinions, clashing them against his. He liked how her pragmatism somehow worked so seamlessly with some idealism she clearly harbored deep inside her heart. She was so bright and so impossible.

They talked about the price of groceries, which Kaz had no idea about. How rating agencies and the stock market worked, which Inej had no idea about. The sensational crime stories. People they meet in elevators and waiting rooms. Books. Films. Anything. Everything. They would lay naked together in those quiet night hours and talk like they were the only people left in the world.

The flurry of airports and people, strangers’ faces, late nights, long talks - cities and countries, moving all around him in a kaleidoscope and slowly, surely, she became the only fixture of his life. The only thing he could count on, like the sky and the sea, the ever-growing balance on his account. And Inej. Waiting for him unflinchingly, behind that plywood desk.

Always there.

now

*

Kaz is in Weddle on the twentieth anniversary of his brother’s death.

It is a day like any other; he wakes up and orders himself breakfast, then heads out for the meeting at the local branch of L&B Incorporated, the company at which he has been employed for a better part of the last decade. He takes lunch with a representative of a local steel tycoon to set up an evaluation for the following day. He finds an odd hour to get a haircut and calls Anika to place an order at his tailor's for a new winter jacket - he found threads unraveling down on the hem earlier today.

He devotes some time to reviewing meeting minutes and his notes for tomorrow. He doesn’t think about Jordie at all. He doesn’t think about his father, alone in his old farmhouse in Lij, probably heading for the evening service or picking up two bouquets to take with him to the cemetery. Lilies for his mom. White tulips for Jordie. He re-reads the minutes. He makes more notes.

At 8 pm, he picks up the phone in his room - the room that is much nicer than his room at The Spice Rack - and orders himself room service.

At 8:30 pm, he opens the mini-bar at his room and pulls out several bottles. Lines them up on the edge of the little coffee table, one by one.

By 11 pm, he is drunk enough that the numbers on the dial pad of his phone mix up. He presses them through sheer muscle memory; he has done it so many times now, pressed the numbers and ended the call before Inej could pick up. She is not going to pick up now, he knows it. She isn’t. She is at work, one way or another. She only gave him this number of emergencies.

She is not going to pick up.

“Kaz?” Her voice echoes in his ear when he presses the handset against it. “Kaz, what’s wrong?”

She sounds worried. Something inside him rolls over and basks in this thought. She’s worried about me. She misses me.

“Kaz, are you alright? Why are you calling so late?”

“Inej,” he says. Just her name.

She falls quiet on the other side of the line for a moment and, when she speaks again, her voice is softer. Quieter.

“Kaz. What is it?”

He must - he must ask her. That’s why he called. But now, hearing her, the words escape him. He presses the receiver harder against his temple.

“My brother died. My brother died - a while ago.” He says, and there is some sharp, deep inhale in response.

“I am so sorry,” she says after a few seconds. “I’m so sorry Kaz. What was his name?”

She doesn’t say you’ve never told me about him. But he can still hear it.

“He died - twenty years ago today,” he was leaning against a wall; he slides down now, onto the floor. Sits with his bad leg crooked painfully and his head pressed against the side of the minibar. “He was thirteen then. He is longer dead than he was ever alive. I - his name was Jordan. Jordie, Jordie Rietveld.”

“Rietveld?”

“Rietveld. Like I was Rietveld. Kazimir Rietveld,” he laughs. It is very funny, in a way, all of it. To tell her about it. The room skews off center, just a bit. “But I didn’t want the name. I didn’t want to carry. That’s what my dad said - At least I have you left, to carry the name, son. I was so mad at him for that. I don’t give a shit about the name. I chose Brekker. Kaz Brekker. It is mine only.”

“I see.”

On the other side of the receiver, he hears some soft shuffle like Inej is sitting down as well, getting comfortable. She must be at home if she answered her phone. He has imagined her flat a thousand times. Imagined her domestic, in a warm, fluffy robe and long socks, a cream on her face.

“Are you in a robe?” he asks her dumbly and she huffs a single huff of dry laughter.

“Kaz. How drunk are you?”

“Very,” with bleary eyes, he looks up to the empty bottles on the coffee table. There are many, multiplying when he tries to focus his gaze on them. “Very drunk. Are you in a robe?”

“Yes,” she says, but her voice sounds sad. He didn’t mean to make her sad. “Yes, I am in pajamas and a robe. You should go to sleep, Kaz. You should rest.”

He doesn’t want to go to sleep. He will dream of Jordie - he always dreams of Jordie, unless Inej sleeps with him. He will dream of his mom, eaten alive into a husk and then buried in the cold, damp ground. He will dream of Jordie, his shit-eating grin, his eyes bright and alive and then dull. Dead.

We will go to Ketterdam, Kaz. We will visit Ma - she will be so happy to see us. If Da doesn’t want to bring us, we need to go ourselves. Let’s go, Kaz. Let’s go.

And then. The tires on wet concrete. The car horn. The screaming. Again and again.

He lets his mouth run. “Are you alone?”

“Some of my flatmates are home,” she sounds confused. “So no. Kaz, you should really -”

“No, no,” he shakes his head. Bangs his temple against the mini-bar. “No, Inej. When I am away - are you alone? Are there any others?”

Are you sleeping alone? Is anyone paying for your smiles, Inej?

He’s been thinking about it. He never gathered enough courage to ask. He’s not even sure if he really wants to know.

She falls quiet. He cannot even hear her breathing.

“Inej?”

The fog of alcohol thins a little and it knocks into him, at full force, what he has just done. He broke the rules. Crossed the line.

“I don’t think - “ she says at least. “I don’t think you have any right to ask me that.”

The blood rushes into his head. He closes his eyes.

“So there are others.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. “There aren’t, for me. It’s only you, Inej.”

She makes some small sound, high and shrill, like a bird’s call. It might be laughter or it might be a sob. But before she can say anything else, his mouth runs, keeps on running, digging his own grave.

“You should charge them,” he says. “You should charge me. A pretty girl like you - you should not live like this. You deserve better, Inej. If you can’t have your stage, you deserve better. I hope you are charging them. You should charge me. Inej -”

She puts down her phone. The line rings hollow with a dial tone.

II. then

*

Don’t you want to make it, girl? Don’t you want to be a ballerina? I’ll make you a star. Relax, relax. Everybody does it.

Inej woke up screaming, her sheets drenched in sweat. One of her flatmates - a sweet Ravkan girl named Alina who was squatting in another room with her boyfriend - was standing above her, her face all concerned.

“Are you alright?” she asked. “I’m sorry I woke you up - I think you had a nightmare?”

Inej let her body flop down on the mattress again. Her nightgown was sticking to her skin, her hair was plastered to her neck. Her whole body hurt. She carefully avoided Alina’s eyes and shook his head.

“Yes,” she croaked out. “Yes, just a nightmare.”

*

Her parents called her early morning from their neighbors’ phone; she could hear Mrs. Daniluvchok’s child weeping in the background and some angry Ravkan. She imagined her Mama clutching the handset in her hands, trying to speak loudly enough for Inej to hear her but quiet enough not to remind anyone in the flat about her presence.

“Inej, how do you do?” she asked her warmly, so much care in her voice that Inej’s insides twisted painfully. “My bird, are you eating well? Are you wearing a hat? The weather forecast says it’s rainy and cold in Ketterdam. I know that you know how to take care of yourself, but I will always worry about you.”

It was easy enough to talk about the weather and the food, ask about news from home, who had gotten married, who had had a new baby. But then her father took over the phone and started asking about the auditions, about the company, how are the other girls treating you, do you need extra money for the shoes? Inej, send us the programme! We want to see your name printed. Corps de ballet, Saints in heaven, how proud I am of you, my sweet girl.

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and lied through her teeth.

And then she ended the call and dressed herself in her work uniform, slowly, piece by piece - tights and a skirt, a shirt tucked in. An ugly plum jacket. A pair of suede flats that she inherited from a girl who had worked before her and had a similar foot size - they always smelt faintly of sweat, no matter how often she sprayed them with a peppermint aerosol.

She took a water tram and then a bus, and then her shift started, same boring bullshit as always. Unruly, bored children and overexcited tourists; some couples, probably meeting for a rendezvous. A rare businessman. She methodically checked the names, accepted the payments, explained the meal hours and handed out keys. Again and again. She amused herself with people-watching sometimes, trying to match the names to the faces, inventing little stories about the guests in her head, but it was no use that day. Every few minutes, her thoughts would wander back into pondering on her parents and the fact that, one day, inevitably, they were going to find out she’s been lying to them for the past two years. Lying hard and thick, and more shamelessly than she had ever thought herself capable of being.

She imagined their disappointed eyes and the first question they would ask her. Why, Inej? Why?

Why oh why. Because she couldn’t tell them the truth. She had tried so many times and the words had always stuck in her throat, suffocating her. Because there were no words that she could use to tell this story to them and not hurt them right to the bone.

Because it was easier to lie. It was the only way she knew how to live with herself.

She was giving a pair of Shu tourists directions on how to get to the Church of Barter when a man caught her eye. He looked swankier than the usual sort of businessman frequenting the hotel; nice suit, nice shoes. A very nice watch, the sort that always gave her a pause at the bars. A bit of an unfortunate haircut that could be forgiven because he had a bone structure to die for, a sharp jaw, sharp cheekbones, deep-set eyes with full brows. Skin so pale it almost looked translucent, and long, black lashes.

It was his eyes that really made her stop and stare. Their dark, deathless dullness. Shark’s eyes.

When he turned towards her, they came alive a bit; but there was still something in him that she couldn’t quite pin down. Some anger. Some tiredness. Some wound.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” she said, trying to keep her voice as flat and as professional as possible. “How can I help you?”

Kaz Brekker, he said then.

She would never forget how he looked, that rainy afternoon when the Carnival and the Fair coincided. Tall and dark, haggard and hungry. Standing by her desk at The Spice Rack reception. Casually waiting to change her life.

now

*

His name is in the logbook.

Irene cannot help herself but announce it to her the second Inej shows up at the staff room, breathless and drenched to the bone because she forgot her umbrella and she had to run not to miss her bus.

“Brekker’s back on the 6th,” she says, something gleaming wickedly in her green eyes. “I suppose you want the twilight shift then?”

Inej nods curtly. She doesn’t want the shift. But at this point, everyone would notice if she didn’t take it and would ask her about it, so she has no other choice but to carry on.

Irene takes a sip of her coffee obnoxiously loudly, her stare still set on Inej as she’s taking off her coat and changing her shoes.

“You know, you really should be milking him for all he’s worth,” she remarks, all faux-casually. “He keeps on coming back here like a love-sick puppy. We all thought you would have enough by now saved up on the side to quit. Heleen would let you go; you know she would.”

Inej grits her teeth very hard.

“Mind your fucking business,” she lets out at last, which is a weak enough retort that Irene doesn’t even bother mocking her; she just raises one eyebrow and shakes her head with a huff.

“No need to be so aggressive,” she raises her hands placatingly. “Nothing bad with a little side job. Especially if it can be a pleasurable job. We all need to pay rent and he’s handsome enough, as far as wallets go.”

That, indeed, is all true. Kaz is handsome, her rent is coming very soon and Inej knows that her landlord will, inevitably, make sure to charge her for a certain drunk, intercontinental night call that she recently picked up.

She slams her locker shut and smooths down her skirt. Breathe in and out, Inej. In and out.

The rent. They all have to pay their rent, all of Heleen’s girls. Not a single one of them Kerch. Not a single one of them with a valid right to work.

Inej knows Irene has a little spot she likes to frequent whenever Heleen is late with payment, which is more and more frequent now. A casino on East Stave that caters to homesick Kaelish immigrants who want to drink Kaelish beer and speak in their mother tongue, and have a pretty Kael girl on their knee while doing so. Ilva, who works at the hotel restaurant, was the one who told Inej about the cameras shutting down, and she is certainly taking advantage of it as well. Yelena, a cheery Ravkan girl who sometimes still goes to auditions in between her cleaning shifts, poses nude for the Arts students to earn a quick kruge.

Students rarely have a lot to spare, she explained to Inej once, over lunch. But the professors always do.

Inej - well.

Inej works double twelves and triple twelves until her eyes bleed and she can barely keep herself upright. Inej shares her little sixth-floor attic flat with five other people. Inej, well-honed into Ravkan-style ballet ever since she was five years old, still skips dinner more often than not.

Inej, when she closes her eyes at night, still finds herself in that dressing room corner, crammed between hangers full of tutus, the ballet master’s hand in her thin cotton underwear, his fingers pushing inside her. His palm pressed against her mouth.

Don’t you want to make it, girl? He panted. Don’t you want to be a ballerina?

She wanted to be a ballerina. She wanted it more than anything else. But not enough to stay there and see him every day. She cried about it and prayed about it, and then she tried to report it and, when all else failed, she had packed her bags and forsaken her dream. There were other companies in Ketterdam, and she made sure to audition to each and every one of them, but they would take one look at her resume, squint their eyes and ask, You resigned from KO? Why?

She would answer truthfully, at first. They showed her the door.

Then she would just mumble something about the working conditions. They showed her the door even faster.

It took her three months after leaving the company to realize that the ballet master was right.

Nearly everyone really does it. Other ballerinas. Her colleagues at the hotel. Her flatmates.

And she is no different from anyone else. She is not special. She is not exceptional. She is just another failed dancer in a city full of failed dancers, failed actresses and failed singers, mopping the floors, waiting the tables, smiling at the reception desk and whoring themselves on the side from time to time just to make rent and continue living in this hell of a city because they can’t bear to come back home and face the truth. And Kaz has seen it in her. He saw it in her right away, right from the start, when she was naive enough to think that what they had, whatever crooked, crippled thing it was, was genuine.

There is no other for me, he said. And then, so blindingly cruel in his drunkenness and the loneliness that he wears so openly. You should charge me.

Now, taking her place beside the counter and looking down at his name in the logbook, she cannot help but agree with him. She really should’ve charged him.

At least then she could’ve just forgotten him, the way she did with all others.

*

She gets ready carefully for the day of his arrival. Meticulously. Does her breathing exercises, like when she was still a dancer; inhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Exhale, one, two, three, four. Hold. One, two, three, four, her hand on her ribs, feeling how they rise and fall. She empties her mind. She goes to the little chapel in Little Ravka, for the first time in months, and lights a candle.

It is so bitter. She was always looking forward to Kaz coming back to the city; she would see his name in the logbook and her heart would race, fast, insistent, a glorious staccato inside her chest. She wouldn’t do any fucking breathing, any self-reflection - she would wash her hair and maybe buy some new underwear if she had some kruge to spare. But now she doesn’t even know what she can expect of him. Maybe he won’t want to speak to her at all. Maybe he will want to pay her.

She doesn’t know how she will react to either.

On the evening when Kaz Brekker, late check-in is written down in reservations, time passes so slowly that she is beginning to think she’s losing her mind. Minutes are fat pearls of syrup, hanging from a teaspoon for hours on end before they finally drop and melt into one another. There are no distractions; no one else checks in. It’s just her and her thoughts, the muffled sound of conversations from the smoke room, some faint laughter from the bar. Heleen is on a two-week-long vacation on the Seashell Coast, so there isn’t even any fear to keep Inej on guard. She places her elbows on the counter and stares dumbly right ahead, her brain wheezing in between her ears.

She’s thinking about Kaz. Of course, she’s thinking about Kaz. He occupies her thoughts so often now - they run to him the second she leaves them unchecked.

She’s thinking about his hands. Nails neatly trimmed, strong knuckles, long fingers - he showed her a card trick once, in a fit of some uncharacteristic frivolity, and she was transfixed by the way those fingers moved, strong and sure, without a single tremor. He had magician's hands. She told him just that, and he smiled, with this grin that she loved, right in the corner of his mouth.

Oh really? He said, all boyish all of a sudden. Come here, Inej. I will show you some magic.

She’s thinking about the harsh line of his shoulders, one a bit lower than the other, on account of the limp taking its toll on his body. About the shiny pink scar tissue on his knee, so sensitive that he would hiss whenever she brushed it with her hands, his lips.

She’s thinking about the upturned slope of his nose and the mole he has by his right ear. About the strong bones of his brow that she has traced with her fingertips too many times to count. About the exact and so very peculiar shade of his eyes, that could be dark like black coffee or shimmery brown like a perfectly-brewed tea, depending on the light.

She knows him so well. She has learned him so thoroughly. She would’ve never thought that this knowledge would be so painful now that she is about to lose him.

It is 10:30 pm when the door slides open and he walks in, much like he has walked in dozens of times before. He doesn’t have a suitcase in his hand. He is not dressed for the weather, in his suit jacket alone and with no hat on.

He crosses the foyer with a single-minded determination in his stare that makes her whole body tense, her hands curl into fists.

“Inej,” he says, even before he reaches her desk. She can feel how her eyes widen in shock. “Inej. You’re here.”

It takes her a moment to remember her Kerch.

“Of course, I’m here,” she stammers out eventually. “I work here.”

He clenches his jaw. He does it when he sleeps sometimes; clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth. She told him to see a doctor, and he just scoffed in response. He always scoffs when she suggests things like that.

Because who does she think she is to say them?

Stay. Don’t go, Inej.

There is no one else for me. Just you.

“You know what I mean,” his brow furrows. “Are you working tomorrow as well?”

Slowly, she shakes her head. “Not in the evening. I finish at 5 pm. Kaz. Mr. Brekker. What -”

“Don’t Mr. Brekker me,” he very nearly slams his fist onto the desk; she can see how he catches himself at the very last moment. “Can you meet me? Tomorrow? Say you will.”

She doesn’t have the faintest fucking idea what is going on. Out of all the scripts she has prepared for, in the safety of her own head, she did not account for him storming in with this wild gleam in his eyes and using her name out loud. Speaking it like that. Here, in this lobby, where they always made sure to play strangers.

Demanding she - what? Goes on a date with him?

“I - where? When?” She can hear her accent sneaking into her words. All the times Heleen scolded her for tainting Kerch, and no matter what she does, no matter how hard she tries to get rid of it, it always makes its appearance when she’s nervous. “You have a reservation. Don’t you want to see me - as we always do?”

The last part is whispered. Her cheeks are so hot that her skin almost stings.

“No,” Kaz shakes his head. “No. Cancel the reservation. I am staying at the Geldrenner. Come to see me tomorrow at 7. We will have dinner and we’ll - talk.”

“Talk?” She adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose and repeats his words dumbly. He doesn’t seem to mind; his eyes still look mad, moving from her hands to her face, from the golden bell on the counter to the mirror behind her.

“Yes,” he breathes heavily, in and out. His voice is low and rough, a stone on stone. “Yes. We’ll talk. Will you come?”

She can feel herself nodding before she can even think about it.

“Good,” he exhales in a rush. “Good.”

He opens his mouth as if to say more and then closes it. She searches his face; he’s nervous, she’s just realizing it now. Frantic and nervous, just as nervous as she is.

It makes her feel - she doesn’t even know what. Hopeful. In the strangest of ways.

“I’ll cancel your reservation,” she adds at last. “I’ll send the fee to be paid to your secretary. Is that alright?”

He waves his hand dismissively.

“Whatever,” his voice is curt now, more bark than words. “Yes, send it to Anika.”

“Okay,” she licks her lips. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Their eyes meet and stay locked for a moment. She barely dares to breathe. Barely dares to hope. Her heart is beating so fast that she’s sure he can hear it.

“Yes. See you tomorrow.”

*

She doesn’t have a lot of fancy dresses, let alone dresses that could impress in a place of such caliber as the Geldrenner rooftop restaurant, which is famous across the city for both its crystal chandelier and the quality of drugs making their discreet rounds through the Ketterdam elite.

But she asks Alina if she can borrow something, and Alina has a friend of a friend who is working in an upscale boutique where things sometimes lose their way back to the hangers after they’re returned. The dress Inej receives, carefully folded and wrapped in a silky garment bag, is a work of art; it’s made entirely from shimmery, honey-yellow sequins that gleam like fish scales when she puts it on. The neckline plunges deeper than she would normally choose, and the hem is a bit too long - it pools on the floor around her feet, and she has to step carefully not to tear it with the heels of her pumps.

These are both very minor faults, all things considered.

Because, when she gathers her hair up in a sleek bun for the first time in forever and wears her little golden choker, the only genuine piece of jewelry she has, she doesn’t feel like something cheap for once.

It’s an illusion. She knows it’s just an illusion. The dress needs to be returned, as quickly as possible, tomorrow morning. Her shoes don’t match the rest of her outfit at all so it’s good that the dress covers them. She should have earrings, something shiny next to her face. She is who she is still, even in all the glitter.

But still. She looks at her own reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror in her shitty, cramped apartment and feels as if she swallowed a little sun. It is a beautiful dress. It makes her feel beautiful. It makes her feel worth something. It gives her, perhaps, just enough bravery to go and face Kaz on his turf for once.

She takes a tram, clutching the hem in her hands to keep it off the floor and then a taxi, just for the few streets. The driver gets out of the car to help her out, and she sends him a little smile. A valet opens the door for her and leads her to the elevator when she gives him Kaz’s surname.

She walks inside the bar, pretty like a jewelry box, all glass and metal, rich materials of dresses and suits, champagne bubbling. Someone offers her a flute; she takes it automatically, overwhelmed and wide-eyed.

And then she can see him, sitting alone by the small table in the very corner, his eyes sharply combing through the other people in the room. She spots him first and thus allows herself a second of consideration. Those eyes. This mouth. Her heart squeezes so painfully in her chest that she can barely breathe. It will cost her, to lose him. She knew that already. She just hasn’t considered how high this cost will be.

Not as high as losing ballet, possibly. But close. Close enough.

She can see the exact moment when his gaze falls on her from across the room - his forehead smoothes out and his lips part, just slightly. He stands up; her legs carry her, step by step, closer and closer to him.

Inhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four.

She’s mindful of the hem. Her hands are sweaty and she cannot even wipe them on the dress.

Exhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four.

“I’m sorry for being late,” she stammers out when she reaches him.

He stays quiet for a moment, his stare on her so heavy that she feels like squirming out of her own skin.

“You’re stunning.” he says at last, in a quiet, raspy voice that she can recall, can recognize. She has heard it before.

Goodnight, sweetheart. Hello, sweetheart. Inej. Come closer, Inej.

She doesn’t know what to say so she mumbles something that could pass for a thank you while he pulls her chair out for her.

They are given their menus. Inej takes one look at the prices and wants to die on the spot. When the waiter comes, she orders the first thing that catches her eye. She’s embarrassingly grateful to Kaz for just asking if she prefers red or white wine and then picking the specific one himself. Around them, the restaurant glimmers like a kaleidoscope, and it crosses her mind, not of the first time, why exactly he picked this very spot to invite her for dinner. To talk.

Surely, it would be more intimate, much easier to talk in their room. Or anywhere else but here, really. But maybe he is trying to manifest something to her. Impress her. Some other bullshit. She doesn’t know how to speak with him when he’s sitting in front of her, all buttoned up, all the lights on. He looks like a stranger. Acts like a stranger.

But then again, she thinks. Who are we even if not strangers? Just a string of one-night-stands between us and some feeling that we are not brave enough to name.

They both stare down at their respective plates when they are brought in; she apparently ordered some pork. She hates pork. Kaz has a little pyramid of shellfish in front of him, which is even more absurd as she knows for a fact that he is allergic to it.

“Do you, uh - “ she clears her throat. “Do you want to switch?”

Without a word, Kaz hands her his plate and accepts hers, but he makes no move to start eating. He keeps on shifting his eyes again, back and forth - from her to the room, from the room to her.

“Inej,” he says at least. “I’m sorry.”

She inhales deeply, as deeply as she can, and squares her shoulders. So they are doing it.

“What are you sorry for?” she replies, trying to keep her voice flat and failing. “It’s not like you were wrong.”

He puts his elbows on the table and leans closer to her.

“I still shouldn't have said it like this. Inej - it’s not like it matters anyway.”

She cannot help herself. She huffs, all mockery. Shakes her head.

“How gracious of you.”

“No,” his eyes bore into her now, dark, insistent. “It doesn’t matter. What you do and with whom, and whether or not you charge for it. Because you were right; it wasn’t my business to ask. All I want to know is… do you want it to be my business, Inej?

Her throat is so dry that she can’t speak; her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. She grabs a hold of her champagne flute and downs it, so inelegantly that she half expects to be thrown away.

“I hate Kerch,” falls out of her mouth in a rush, before she can keep it in. “My business, your business. Everything is a fucking business here. Career. Success. Even - love. No Kaz, I don’t want it to be your business to worry about what I am doing when you’re not here. Because who am I to you? Who are we to each other if not just something to kill our loneliness. It’s all fake. All of it. I am a fake.”

One of his eyebrows rises. He opens his mouth but she raises her hand, silencing him before he could interrupt her. Now that she’s started speaking, she doesn’t know how to stop.

“I wasn’t good enough to make it, and now I am stuck here in this fucking city because I can’t go back home and face my parents. I couldn’t suck it up and endure a few minutes of humiliation when it could make me someone, and now I have to humiliate myself on the side anyway because Heleen pays piss-poor when she pays at all and no one else will employ me now, with my visa expired.” She pauses just to take a big, gulping gasp of breath. She can feel tears stinging her eyes, threatening to spill, and she hates herself for it. “And you - you. You have never told me what happened to your leg. You have never told me you had a brother. We’ve been sleeping together for months and I didn’t even know your name. Who are we to each other if not fucking business?”

It is all so stupid. This place where she doesn’t belong, the dress she can’t afford and him, luring her in her for whatever damn reason. She should’ve never agreed. She makes a move to stand up but he has his hand on her shoulder in a heartbeat, pushing her down onto her chair, this frantic look in his eyes again.

“Inej,” she hates how he says her name. “Don’t go.”

“Why?” she manages to let out through clenched teeth.

His jaw clenches. He shakes his head.

“Because - because. You are literally the only part of my fucking life that’s not a business. All the rest is gone. It’s just the business left. And you.”

She gapes at him outright, speechless, when he clears his throat nervously and pushes his hair back from his forehead. His ears are a bit red.

“If you are a fake,” he starts again, halting, jagged words, voice rough. “I am a fake as well, because we are both getting screwed for money.”

“I believe there is a little difference between our positions, Kaz,” she says sharply, her blood rising. “Given that you are a fucking agent at the rating agency and I am a whore.”

She’s pretty sure the guests sitting by the neighbouring table are looking at them now; she can feel their stare, heavy and shocked. She doesn’t care. If Kaz wants her to sit here and rehash it all in front of the audience, so be it.

He doesn’t seem to mind either.

“And what about that?” he scoffs. “Inej. The only difference between us is that you have some dignity left and they pay you less than me. Besides, you are not a whore. You are - well. A receptionist.”

It’s absurd. This whole conversation is absurd. The fact that they are having it in the first place. Despite her anger, she can feel laughter bubbling inside her, threatening to spill out.

“A receptionist.” she deadpans.

He nods solemnly. The scarlet blush spills to his face now, down his neck. He blushes all the way down to his chest sometimes; she has seen it. Made fun of him about it.

“Yes. I have never paid you. You are a receptionist at my hotel.” He pauses just for a second. “You are the girl I come back to. Over and over again. You are my friend. Aren’t you?”

Something hard and painful raises in her throat, choking her. She clutches the cloth napkin in her hands, twisting the material tighter and tighter.

Kaz’s eyes, heated and sparkling, are set on her unflinchingly. His face is alight with some desperate hope that she can feel in herself as well; this thorny thing in her heart, impossible to squash, impossible to ignore.

This hope that it isn’t over till it’s over. And it’s not over yet.

She inhales deeply and reaches her trembling hand towards his, her fingers brushing his knuckles.

“We don’t even know each other. Not really,” she says, her lips stiff, her voice foreign. “How can we be friends?”

It’s not the entire truth because she does know him. And he does know her. All the little, intimate things that they have shown each other - all the things they like and dislike, small oddities, quirks. Things that only lovers know. Secret crumbs of knowledge.

But it is also truth because he doesn’t know her parents’ names and she has just learned his.

“What do you want to know?” he asks, desperation barely, barely concealed in his voice now. “I will tell you all of it.”

“Will you really?” She doesn’t know if he can promise her that. She doesn’t think he thought it through at all. “I don’t want to carry on like we did. I want you without your armor, Kaz. Or not at all.”

Her words hang between them, an executioner's sword. She holds his gaze and he holds hers, in silence, in contemplation.

She made a demand of him, in the spur of the moment, but she is not sure if she can match it herself. If she can trust him with the quiet devastation of her life, the entire ruin of it; all the dreams she worked so hard for and then abandoned so quickly, because every spin and every stretch felt like that moment in the dressing room. And she still needs to earn. There will be months when Heleen won’t pay her, rent increases, health emergencies - can she ask Kaz to cover those for her? Can they even build anything when he is half a world away for the majority of the year and she is stuck behind that plywood desk like a fly in amber?

And would it be even worth it to try to build something? And what that something could be?

All those nights they spent together, lost in their own little world. It crosses her mind, blinding like lightning, I would like to see him in sunlight.

His hand, warm and dry, lands on top of hers, pinning it in place.

“Without armour, Inej,” he repeats, solemnly like it's an oath. She has always loved how her name sounded, spoken by him. “Or not at all.”

then

*

The metronome in the corner of the rehearsal room counted down the tempo, measured, merciless. Again and again, Inej rose en pointe, her muscles shivering from exhaustion, her obedient body in a fight mode, attack, attack, spin and spin and up and spin.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, arm in a smooth arch, her legs locked in position. She was a snow-globe figurine, suspended in time. Nothing could touch her.

“Beautiful,” she heard the voice of the artistic director and her heart stuttered in quiet elation. “She is perfect.”

*

“I’m tired, Jordie.”

“Just a moment, Kaz. Someone will stop by soon.”

“It is dark. Da is probably worried about us - we should come back home -”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Da needs help to earn money, so that we could pay for Ma’s treatment. He’s at his second job and probably won’t notice we are gone till morning. Don’t you want to see Ma? We will catch a right and then a bus to her.”

“I want to see Ma. But Da said we cannot see her yet - she’s had a procedure -”

“So she needs us even more! She will be so happy to see you, you were always her favorite. You can show her your drawing. Let’s just walk to that bend of the road, come on.”

now

*

It doesn’t come easy, any of it.

They tell each other their stories in fragments, in unprompted bursts and abrupt pauses. They piece them together, one collected puzzle piece after another. A ballerina in an unfamiliar city, with no friends and no one to turn to, her family’s entire life savings spent to send her across the ocean to the greatest theater in the world. A small boy led into the night by just a slightly bigger one, two naive kids who wanted to surprise their sick mother.

Ten minutes of degradation in a dressing room. A car tires’ squeak on the concrete when a driver saw the boys too late. Two points of no return.

He tells her about his brother’s stupid pranks, stories they told each other when they couldn’t sleep at night. She tells him about the recitals and plays and about her parents in front rows, always, her mother touching a handkerchief to the corner of her eyes. He tells her about his father all alone in an empty home in a sleepy Kerch countryside. She tells him about her parents, one of many in a cramped flat in a crumbling concrete block in Western Ravka.

I never call him, Kaz says.

When they call me, I just lie to them, Inej says.

I send money home, they both say. Isn’t money love?

From April to November, he is in Ketterdam monthly. He never stays in The Spice Rack and they never so much as kiss. But every night, after her shift ends, he is there, under the green neon, and walks her home.

She sleeps on her pull out couch and he sleeps on the mattress beside her. They talk the nights away. They fall asleep fully clothed and holding hands.

*

It is Kaz’s idea and, the first time he proposes it to her, she says no.

It’s been too long. She is out of practice. Even if she can try again, she doesn’t know if she should.

But the seed of this idea stays in her mind, stealing her sleep away from her, poisoning her waking moments. She still has two pairs of ballet shoes, leftover from what she ordered when she made it in the Operahaaus company. And her body remembers the movements, the pain, the iron-clad discipline of it all.

And she has more time now, to think about it and possibly to do something about it even, if she wants to. She doesn’t have to take quite as many shifts at the hotel and doesn’t have to go out in the evenings and try to snatch clients.

She’s glad Kaz had reason enough not to just try to give her the money; she would’ve had to refuse and it would make everything ugly again. She’s stupidly, embarrassingly grateful though that he got her another job, for a friend of a friend, that mostly consists of translating some Kerch articles into Ravkan or, alternatively, translating Ravkan telenovelas into Kerch. The work pays nice - she supposes that Kaz chatted his friend up about giving her a better wage than she could hope for, normally. But she lets him off the hook for that.

She starts stretching again, like she used to every morning for over a decade of her life. She starts running, to get back in shape. She tries eating better.

There are other ballet companies in the world, right? Kaz tells her and she turns his words in her head, over and over again. Ketterdam is just one city.

Ketterdam feels like the whole world to her, at this point. She can’t imagine ever being free of it.

But, when she sits down on the floor once and does her pointe shoes just the way she liked to do them and then ties them on her feet, she realizes that it feels sweet again, not bitter. A swell rises within her, high and powerful, washing her clean off fear. She was born to do it; she knows it in her soul. She might’ve lost her way for some time, but it doesn’t mean she has to stay lost forever.

The world is wide, she says to herself like a mantra, like a prayer. Ketterdam is just one city. Just one of many, Inej.

You still have time, Inej, Kaz tells her late at night and she corrects him in a hushed, soft whisper. We still have time.

*

When he’s not in Ketterdam, he sends her postcards and calls her from all over, always unflinchingly sober as if he was afraid of a do-over of the first time. She sits down on her couch, with feet tucked underneath her and a handset between her ear and her shoulder, listening to the sound of his voice and pretending he is right beside her.

They tread lightly, during these talks. It is not easy to figure out what questions are allowed when they cannot see each other’s faces. But one time, when she is sleepy enough to be a bit careless, she cannot stop herself from interrupting his talk about this or that immigration policy in Ravka with:

“You should call your dad.”

There is a silence on the other end of the line and then a heavy sigh.

“And what do you propose I say to him?”

“Anything,” she lays down, curled like a child with her knees up, one side of her face pressed to a pillow. “At this point, I’m good dad, how are you, would suffice I think.”

“Will you call yours? Tell them something true for once?” he snaps at her and she tries not to flinch. Before she can say anything, he sighs again. “I’m - sorry.”

“It’s not like you are wrong,” she pauses for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. “Kaz. If you call your dad, I will call my parents. And I will tell them about you. You can tell your dad about me. If you want to.”

She hates that she can’t see his face. But she can almost hear, even through the telephone lines connecting them across a continent, how the clockwork of his brain works. She lets him stew; her eyelids drop heavy and she presses her face into the pillow harder, a handset still against her ear as the sleep creeps closer and closer.

She misses him so much that it’s like a physical ache, deep underneath her ribs. She misses sleeping beside him.

It takes him so long to speak that, by the time he does, she thinks she must be dreaming when she hears him.

“Please tell them about me, Inej. I think my dad would like to know about you.”

*

November 3rd, they both hand in their resignations, which are met with quite varied levels of outrage.

“No one else will hire you without papers,” Heleen says, her voice more surprised than mean. “If you don’t want a desk job, there is an opening at the club. I could use a girl like you there. Don’t tell me you think you will make it freelance?”

Inej knows about the club - the gentleman’s club, two streets away from the hotel. Some girls worked both, some switched from one to another, depending on Heleen’s mood or their own level of desperation. Inej wonders if Heleen remembers that she made her this offer before, back when she first hired her. You will earn more as a dancer, she reasoned. Think about it.

She thought, back then, that she would rather do anything but dance like that. She thinks so still.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Thank you. I have something else lined up.”

*

“What the fuck do you mean you’re leaving?” Haskell nearly swallows his tongue. “You cannot just leave.”

Kaz, half-smiling, barely resists the temptation to snort with laughter.

“My contract very much says so.”

“Who is trying to steal you? Is it Rollins?” Haskell’s brow draws, his gaze suspicious. “How much did he offer you? I can match him. I can outbid him, Brekker. Just say the sum.”

“No one is trying to steal me,” he gets a pen from his inner pocket and offers it to his soon-to-be-former boss, still trying not to laugh. “I have something else lined up. Will you sign it or do we have to make it unpleasant? Do you want to talk about this public tender for the Bank of Ghezen, Haskell? Do yourself a favor. Sign it.”

*

Kaz rents a car in Ketterdam and circles the neighbourhood three times, trying to find a spot to park it, when Alina and her boyfriend help Inej carry out a few meager boxes of her belongings. They give her a hug goodbye, the boxes are deposited in the car’s trunk and Kaz moves to the passenger’s seat.

And off they go.

It is a strange feeling; she ponders on it when they drive in silence through the outskirts of Ketterdam and then down the highway, towards the centre of the island of Kerch. Kaz sits beside her, drumming his fingers on his mangled knee from time to time, his face all wistful. She keeps her eyes on the road and thinks about her mom and dad, about the conversation they will have, soon, when she flies to see them for the first time in years. She thinks about those years in Ketterdam - what they took from her and what they gave her. Who they gave her.

When she turns her face towards Kaz, his eyes are already on her. He sends her that little smile she loves, barely there, in the corner of his mouth. His eyes are like a strong tea in the morning, so deep and lovely that she could drown in them.

The view behind the car’s windows starts to change, from the neat rows of Ketterdam’s new suburbs to small towns and smooth flats of farmlands, cut through with canals and rivers now and then. The sun drifts lower and lower, casting a halo of golden light on the fields, now empty and deserted so late in the year. It paints the sky in oranges and pinks, shines right in their eyes.

She wants to ask Kaz about his idea for his own company. About the apartment he has found for them in Os Kervo. She wants to know more about his dad. But he doesn’t seem keen to talk and she doesn’t dare to disturb the silence.

When the dark falls, she slows down to a sluggish, unhurried pace. At some point, Kaz put his hand on her knee and it stays there, warm and heavy. She can feel how clammy his palm is, even through the material of her jeans.

She takes the exit for Vaaland Sud/Lij.

It takes them another thirty minutes of driving before Kaz clears his throat and says her name, very quietly. She takes her foot off the gas pedal; they are alone on the road now and the November night is fully upon them. The car barely snails forward, wheels turning so very slowly.

She can see how sharp the turn is. How easy it would be to miss two little boys walking beside it in the dark. There isn’t even any pavement; they must’ve been marching through the long grasses growing along the edge of concrete. Kaz told her that driver didn’t notice them till the very last minute. Jordie was closer to the road, Kaz on the side of the fields, that’s why he only shattered his leg.

Some stupid, stupid idea of a confused kid who took his baby brother along. A tragic misfortune with no one to blame. What an awful pill to swallow.

Kaz is breathing very hard now - short, little gasps of air, as if he was drowning.

She lets go of the steering wheel with one hand and puts it on top of his, lacing their fingers together. They take the turn gently, smoothly; she doesn’t try to speed up until it is long behind them.

The country road is bumpy and narrow, and there are still no other cars. Kaz, his voice still quite rough, gives her directions now.

“How do you still remember the way?” she asks him and he scoffs as if it was a stupid question.

“You didn’t have to go to any classes before making this audition tape of yours, did you?” He says and she is forced to nod. Fair enough.

She didn’t take any classes. She rented a rehearsal room at the dance studio in the Lid just for thirty minutes. Set up the camera, recorded herself and made copies of the recording without watching it. And then send them out without watching.

And then she waited, and waited, and waited. Until she got the letter.

We would like to offer you -

It was just an apprenticeship and just for one season. But she still cried, long and hard, like she hasn’t cried in years. Os Kervo. Ravka again.

When she told Kaz, he put his hands on her neck like he did, that first night in his room at the Spice Rack, and pressed his forehead to hers. Kissed her so sweetly that she started weeping again. Through tears, she asked will you go with me and he said yes.

Yes, he said, over and over again, his mouth on hers when they tumbled onto her shitty pull-out. Yes, wherever you go, I will go.

They made love to each other that night like they have never done before - slowly, like they had all the time in the world. Patiently. In the morning, they woke up in each other’s arms and made plans, all the plans. The wildest plans she has ever made.

Kaz tells her to turn left and they are driving through the fields now, down the gravel road. The world outside looks like a dark sea of low grasses swaying on the wind; they lower the windows a bit and breathe in the air, so cold and clean that it hurts to inhale. In the distance, there is an old farmhouse, a single window alight.

Inej turns her head towards Kaz again.

“We can still turn back,” she says, squeezing his hand tightly. “We can find a hotel somewhere. Stay for the night and make a decision in the morning.”

His mouth twitches.

“A hotel? Here? For whom?” he shakes his head. “Besides. Inej, don’t you think we’ve had enough hotels to last us a lifetime?”

She cannot but smile at that.

“Fair enough.”

She thinks about the apartment in Os Kervo again. His things, her things, all together. A wardrobe. A bed that will be only ever theirs. No one else in sight, just the two of them and maybe a cat. How nice it will be.

At the end of the road there is a driveway where she carefully parks right to a worn-out tractor with its red paint peeling off. There is a small barn next to the house and Inej can hear some sleepy bleating. Kaz told her his father keeps sheep; promised her she would be able to feed them from her hand, like a real city girl visiting the countryside.

You are more city than I have ever been, she said to that and he laughed before his eyes turned sad, hard like two lumps of coal.

I wasn’t always, though.

He gets out of the car slowly now, stiffly - she rushes to help him, but he gestures her away. Takes her hand instead of her arm and they walk, hand in hand, towards the door that opens slowly, revealing a silhouette of an older man, hunched from age and grief, and hard work.

He has the same eyes as Kaz’s - bitter coffee, strong tea. Full of desperate hope.

“Da,” Kaz says. He sounds decades younger than he is. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”