Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Sofia Vasilieva]

She wasn’t ignorant of where Colette went when they parted ways, and it prompted a small, pleased smile as she navigated her own way around the ballroom. Her path was waylaid naturally by those who sought her attention, and on this occasion Sofia gave it with the ease of a skilled hostess, warm and engaged as she used each opportunity to plant the seeds of conversation before moving on. For now she slipped playfully away from offers to return to the dancefloor (and after all, how could anyone compare with the Ascendancy?). By the time she made it to the bar, everyone knew where she was going and why: to check on poor injured Cyrena Marveet, who had been the victim of the most oafish Volthström gatecrasher.

“You do have a way of attracting the riff-raff, Cyrena.”

Sofia interceded without hesitation at what she interrupted, her arrival a swirl of scarlet that might as well have been the warning of blood yet to be spilled. She was a connoisseur of the most pleasant cutting remarks, and tolerant amusement laced the words and the fluttering laugh that accompanied her smile. But the brief glance she gave the other woman suggested the insult both intentional and to a purpose. Whatever Sofia said next, this was clearly about Carter Volthström and Cyrena’s poor choice of ally on Vasiliev turf. Colette Moreau was hers. Sofia practically presented her to Moscow’s society on a gilded pedestal. Any insult to Colette was an insult to Sofia on principle.

And Carter Volthström was a fucking insult.

In the small moment she paused to allow Cyrena to feel the cold fear of her mistake, Sofia glanced at Tarik as though he might be the riff-raff she meant. He was close with Dima, both of them work hard play hard, though Tarik was the only one of them who was little more than a junkie in an expensive suit. Then her gaze flicked pointedly up and down the stranger who had joined them – a man she did not recognise behind his mask, but had seen predate on Colette with familiarity in the wake of her audience with Nikolai Brandon. A perfect brow lifted in silent challenge. He’d have already seen what happened to his friend. Sofia was magnanimous. But she wasn’t to be crossed. His choice.

“Your father must be so pleased to finally make it into the Sphere,” she continued flawlessly. It was clear she only really addressed Cyrena – the others were just the set-dressing of an audience. “We all know how much he’s wanted it. Such a shame the Ascendancy allowed it to be undermined by the new Dominance – Jessika Thrice is all anyone is talking about. Well, that and your little slip on the dancefloor.” Her head inclined in sympathy. Sofia ensured the narrative she desired, of course. An escort out the door was the least of the character assassination Sofia would employ if Carter continued to make himself a problem, and those were the first seeds she nourished in her rounds tonight – ammunition for later use, should she need it. The second was more simple, and more vicious.

“Are you quite sure you’re okay, my dear?” She reached to touch the other woman’s arm in concern. It was a gesture full of sisterly affection – she was Maksim’s sister after all – but she only did it to make Cyrena uncomfortable. “You’re still looking quite pale. We all saw you limping when Zixin helped you away.”

And that, of course, was the other strike against her, and the reason this would not simply be a friendly reminder of dominance. How Cyrena imagined it would go uncontested Sofia couldn’t fathom, nor cared. Zixin took his own steps towards disappointment tonight – no one forced him to publicly fawn at Jessika’s side, unlike the way Cyrena launched herself onto him like the slut she was – but it didn’t lessen the claim. Cyrena was stupid to think Sofia would let it slide. Her touch receded, but the glitter in her eyes then was dangerous. She knew as well as Cyrena did that the injury had been theatrics, whatever rumours she had helped to speed tonight. Ultimately people remembered what you told them to, though. The power unspooled like the energy of the sun, filling her with righteous justification to her anger. Each thread was precise. Cyrena’s ankle did not move. But presently she would feel it.

“Don’t worry, Cyrena; the Volthström has been dealt with. He should be more careful about going where he is not invited.” Her gaze did not waver, though she knew the words carried – they were meant to. The entitlement of Volthström money and class meant nothing in Moscow, and if they wanted to play the game here, they should consider themselves more carefully before they decided who was friend or enemy. For now though, Sofia was entirely focused on Cyrena, poised with concern, ready to console. “It must be hurting, you know you don’t need to put on a brave face.”