Friends in High Places

[Sofia Vasilieva]

Sofia didn’t answer the question, only watched Maksim reason it out for himself. She was beginning to feel impatient, but it was well concealed given they were presently in the company of strangers; especially ones with such lofty connections. That he sought Pasha’s permission filled her with irritation for his dismissal of the gift she offered. Why did he think she’d pulled these strings? It was hardly because she’d felt sorry for him. It wasn’t even for her sister. She imagined Pavel would vastly approve of his deference, though. Her eyes cut to him held back in the shadows of the doorway, raising her brows with the imperial command that they get the fuck on with it. Darkness swathed Pasha’s expression, hard as stone. Meanwhile Sofia retreated to the bedside chair, and sat as though it were a throne. She watched Iásōn’s white mask and wondered what expressions hid beneath the obscuring mesh. What he made of Maksim’s hesitation.

“You can accept,” Pasha said. Firm and assuring. He did not come closer. Nor unfolded his arms.

“Pavel’s hands too,” she said to Iásōn. Her chin tilted but she did not look at her brother. He would not stoop to protest now she’d voiced it, but he’d hate that she had.

Fuck Zixin Kao and his promised gift-basket of salve.