Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1989.

Alexander Molokov is always on time.

Tragically, punctuality is something this particular child never learned and the seat across him is still empty. He hears her people never used clocks, but forgive him for thinking time might’ve taught her…

The room is cold and secure and far too small for Alexander and the grown-up child who is now his superior. Management has grown sloppy; they see a scientific prodigy and promote her, as if technical intelligence could rival decades of devotion and demonstrated leadership.

Five minutes later, she inserts her badge and punches her code into the door handle. A commotion enters the room, nearly tripping. Like punctuality, her people have never valued civility. He wears a tailored, well-made, grey suit. She wears a sweater of ridiculous coloring.

On her best days, she’s insufferable.

On her worst…

“Good morning!” Svetlana greets with the energy of a thousand suns (and he has to assume she operates on a different reality). She carries a stack of classified files, but only she would cover national security secrets in stickers.

“I have a meeting after this,” he says, clipped, by way of greeting. “Nikolai gave you the photographs?”

“Oh, yes.” She plops down — yes, plops — across, dropping the files on the table between them. He sorts through: SERGIEVSKY, SERGIEVSKAYA, TRUMPER, and VASSY. “Did you see the cloud above the bridge this morning? I think one of them was shaped like Cheburashka. I hope it’s still there when the day is over… I’d like to capture a picture.”

“Let’s talk shop,” he advises, before she depletes what little patience for her antics remains. She hears his tone, remembers the way he would employ it during her formative years and, to both of their benefits, ceases discussions of a children’s television program.

“Yes, Mr. Molokov.” Even at her thirty-six years, he’s still Mr. Molokov to her, a testament to lingering childish tendencies. She glances at her notebook. To her word and to his relief, she talks shop. “I’m against your proposal.”

She doesn’t shy away. This, he appreciates, even as his heart sinks. Only years have taught him to maintain a pleasant expression in the face of unbalanced negotiation.

“Why?” He won’t shy away either. “List me your concerns, and I’ll counter each. There is no reason to doubt her.”

“Doubt her? Her?” Svetlana shakes her head fervently. “No, no, I could never!”

Damn her. “What do you doubt, then? Surely not the integrity of our mission?”

Her eyes widen in a betrayal of emotion. She makes for an awful negotiator.

Except it isn’t a negotiation, though he approaches it like one. It’s best she forgets the power of her position. It’s best she doesn’t see this as a decision under her direct authority, but rather as something they must agree to together.

And that’s why Alexander is among the Soviet Union’s best negotiators.

“The integrity of…? I don’t imagine where you’d get such an idea.” Her face falls. “Let me be clear: it’s you I doubt.”

She delivers her blows with plenty of hesitation, but she delivers them nonetheless. Kindness is important to her, but their organization demands truth and truth is frequently unkind. He deeply resents her words but appreciates that she makes no attempt at hiding her intentions behind flowery language as some of his agents do.

Svetlana is not an agent. Deceit is not her duty.

“Me.” He’s displeased, but far less than he’d be if it came from anybody else. Yes, she is his superior now, and she also lacks the maturity and sophistication that command respect. “You doubt me. Why is that?”

Svetlana reaches for the SERGIEVSKAYA file, decorated in smiling stickers, cat stickers, and glittering heart stickers. She removes the top document, a picture of the subject both are well-acquainted with: it is Svetlana Mikhailovna Sergievskaya’s headshot, the very same photograph her identification bears. In it, she’s expressionless. The scar among her jawline is visible and a smattering of freckles suggests the picture was taken mid-winter. Her dark eyes are empty and she is pale and her short hair slowly greys despite her young age. Time has not been kind to her because life has not been kind to her.

But she’s long due for her break, something Alexander will attest to without reservation. He recalls a terrified girl of fourteen. He sees her grow into an anxious young woman on her first long-term international mission. After that disaster, he turned her body into a constellation that would never forget failure. And devastated as he’d been for her indiscretion, Svetlana came out stronger. She is now thirty-two and a top performer.

She is potential. Svetlana Sergievskaya will know success. She’ll return from this mission a victor. Everyone will see the glory of a pearl he fashioned.

Svetlana’s fingers ghost over Svetlana Sergievskaya’s picture. Alexander wants to say, She should be in your position. No one’s worked harder than her. But he’s facing the wrong Svetlana, and the wrong Svetlana holds all the aces.

“You ask why I doubt you." Her eyes are lighter than his pearl’s Svetlana’s. “As her fellow child of the KGB—”

He stops her.

“She is not a child of the KGB. She was older when I brought her in. Fourteen.”

Svetlana looks at him curiously.

“You and I must not share definitions of the word ‘child’, then."

“I brought you here when you were eight years old,” he reminds her, but she can’t forget. Her remarkably young age and her loud mouth protected her from discipline. But Svetlana Sergievskaya — Sokolova, then — could not hide behind excuses of age and she could not speak up for herself. She was a quiet, desperate little thing in the way the wrong Svetlana never was.

This Svetlana is a true child of the KGB. Alexander pulled her out of that orphan hut and brought her to Russia. She’s had everything the KGB can offer. But Svetlana Sergievskaya worked for it. Nothing is free, and pearls, especially, must never come free.

“I sometimes have trouble understanding you, Mr. Molokov,” Svetlana admits. “You’ve placed Svetk — Agent Sergievskaya on a pedestal and you constantly belittle her. She is your perfect agent and trophy and a representation of all of your unfulfilled dreams and she’s simultaneously a failure you must beat to forge.”

What Svetlana doesn’t know and Alexander won’t explain is that if it isn’t him, it’ll be someone far worse. But Svetlana must always speak about things she does not understand. His lips want to curl. He doesn’t let them.

“She is not a failure,” he says and his voice only shakes on the last word.

“That is not what I hear when you… discipline her.”

“I tell her I do what I must to prevent her from becoming a failure. I am not saying she — with all due respect, Svetochka, please make your point. We’re discussing your doubts.”

Little girls. Little girls. This Svetlana is not a pearl. She isn’t worth his emotions or explanations.

“A doubt, small or large, could destroy any mission.” Thankfully, Svetlana only presses on the second topic. “Let’s speak rationally: we must minimize risk. Sending Agent Sergievskaya is maximizing, I think.”

He swallows. He’ll fight as necessary to ensure his Svetlana wins the bid for this assignment. She’s primed for it, for God’s sake.

“She’s exceeded expectations.” He does nothing to disguise the pride in his voice. For once, his emotion must show. “She’s no longer the misguided girl she used to be. She’s reliable, dependable, and she delivers the results we need. This mission—“ he stresses this “—will get her the recognition she deserves.”

“I understand the career-trajectory advantage,” Svetlana says, even as Alexander wishes he could tell her that she doesn’t. “I’m concerned about…” She trails off, seeing Svetlana’s medical records, and grimacing. “I’m concerned about her multiple suicide attempts. Three.”

He anticipated this. “She was young. That was years ago, and it’s not uncommon. At that age, I had my own.”

Who among us hasn’t?, he doesn’t ask.

But he realizes his miscalculation too late. The mistake earns him unexpected sympathy. It’s the last thing he wants.

“Well… her last attempt was five years ago,” she quietly says.

“Exactly.” He won’t lose momentum. “Five years ago. Much can change in five years.”

Where will their country be in five years?

Where will he be? Where will Svetlana and Svetlana and Anatoly and Trumper and Vassy be?

“You may know her better than anyone.” Svetlana searches his face. “You really think she’s well?”

“Yes.” Without a doubt. “I’ve taught her well, instilled in her our values. She’s our best.”

“I’m just not confident I share your assessment,” Svetlana mutters as she rifles through the rest of the SERGIEVSKAYA file. Before Alexander can protest, she glances up. “I’m not disputing she’s our best. Believe me, I’m happy to sing Agent Sergievskaya’s praises on my own. I know what a fine agent she is. But given the history between Agent Sergievskaya and Miss Vassy, I worry that—”

“At no point did Agent Sergievskaya harbor legitimate feelings towards Miss Vassy. I won’t deny that mission was unsuccessful, but she learned a valuable lesson and she has grown from it.”

It’s automatic. It’s his rehearsed response and it’s the official story. Svetlana did not succeed on that assignment, but she did not jeopardize the organization’s integrity. She certainly did not fall in love with a western immigrant.

Svetlana opens the VASSY file, which is covered in heart stickers, and produces a photograph. This is a proper headshot; it’s no secret Vassy and the American are capitalizing on everything chess has offered them. He cannot escape their faces in commercials when he travels overseas. They disgrace chess by whoring themselves out to the media.

So Miss Vassy thinks she’s a model, does she? Her hair is long and thick and big. She wears red lipstick and hoop earrings and modern glasses and she looks incredibly youthful. Time has not touched her the way it has robbed his pearl.

Svetlana produces more photographs and some of these include the American.

In one, they wear matching denim jackets with American flag patches over their breast pockets, never mind that Vassy is not an American citizen. In another, they pose with expensive-looking shoes. THE OFFICIAL FOOTWEAR OF FREDDIE TRUMPER AND HIS TEAM — Alexander stops reading. He wonders how much money those two made from a mere photoshoot.

(And the irony of an athletic shoe company partnering with a chess player is not lost. The West never ceases to amuse him.)

Whatever the case, it seems Vassy and the American are the sweethearts of all African-American magazine covers. If Vassy is still broken up about her spat with Svetlana, you wouldn’t know it. Last he heard from their watchers stationed in New York, Vassy and the American live at a very upscale apartment and all of Vassy’s hoop earrings and all of the American’s chain necklaces and dreadlock beads are made of gold. The American has a personal driver and Vassy regularly purchases clean cocaine — not crack.

“Florence Vassy,” Svetlana murmurs, clearly taken by the many glamorous photos of that African-Czechoslovak-French-British-wannabe-American whatever. “Maybe Agent Sergievskaya never felt anything for her. But she must’ve been a pleasure to know…”

Alexander did not miss all of the heart stickers over the VASSY file.

“You’ve always been taken by curly hair, haven’t you?” he asks, and Svetlana’s eyes, in an instant and for an instant, fill with tears. The next, they’re gone and he wonders if he imagined them.

“Let’s recount the facts,” Svetlana says, and now she’s talking shop. “Nine years ago, Miss Vassy was poisoned during a dinner with Agent Sergievskaya, then Sokolova—“

“And just how did she survive that poison?” Alexander asks, but it’s pointless; Svetlana will never admit to saving a life.

“—and, in a hasty exit, Agent Sergievskaya wrote Miss Vassy a letter claiming she had never loved her and that it was Mr. Trumper’s chess skills she’d been interested in all along.”

Alexander grits his teeth.

Yes, he dealt with Svetlana after that. To have come so close to revealing the nature of her ‘studies’ in America was unforgivable. He made it unforgettable. She’ll never make a mistake again.

“That was years ago,” he repeats. “I addressed it. There is no doubt she made a grave error and exhibited poor judgment, but she’s redeemed herself. We need Agent Sergievskaya now more than ever. If anyone can destabilize the American, it’s Vassy.”

And the person who can most destabilize Vassy is…

“Miss Vassy won’t fall for it again.” Svetlana shakes her head. “A first love can’t be forgotten. Agent Sergievskaya can’t reuse a playbook.”

“Vassy,” Alexander counters, “won’t fall for any Soviet except for Agent Sergievskaya. You’re exactly right; Vassy cannot forget her first love. Agent Sergievskaya alone can rekindle it. The American won’t stand a chance if his second is losing her mind over a past flame.”

Svetlana sets the file down and rubs her temple. She closes her eyes and a long time passes. Finally, grappling, she asks, “Have you considered that Anatoly could simply win?”

“Naturally.” He clasps his hands together. “But we have to make certain.”

He notices, for the first time, the shadows under Svetlana’s eyes. He thinks of the energetic child he rescued from one of those -stans. He sees how far she’s come and how far she’s going. 

He produces a piece of candy. It’s a strawberry lollipop, wrapped tight with a yellow ribbon.

“Svetochka.” He softens his voice and this prompts her to open her eyes, daring to hope that he, savior, might show a little pride in place of exasperation. And he does. He smiles and pushes the lollipop towards her.

She takes it and looks just like that little girl of eight years, draped in an oversized yellow sweater and playing with robots.

“I took you both,” he reminds her, “and I gave you everything.”

“And look at us now,” Svetlana whispers. They didn’t matter until he made them matter.

He leans in.

“She’s our perfect weapon.”

And as soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows Svetlana will push back on the our. But she argues on the premise of weapon.

“She is your shield, Mr. Molokov, and she may not know it, but I do.” She dips her head and studies Svetlana’s headshot. Her hand rests over Svetlana’s pale cheek, trying to reach her, but she is unreachable and has been for years.

“I just don’t want to see her hurt again,” she finally admits with a quivering voice and Alexander finds a pinprick he can exploit and expand to the size of a well.

“I want to see her succeed,” he says, and he means it. “I know you want that too, Svetochka. Her success lies in your hands. Approve Agent Sergievskaya for this assignment. I’ll be with her the whole time, and I promise you I’ll let no harm come to her. I love her as much as you do.”

His voice is soft, gentle, pleading, urging. Svetlana puts her hands over her face and nods. “Friendship of people is a reliable stronghold,” she murmurs.

And with that, Alexander has made Svetlana’s decision for her. 

“Why don’t you share with her the good news, hmm?”

“Me?” Svetlana recoils, an uncharacteristic sign of meekness. “She loathes me. She loves you.”

“I have other matters to attend to.”

“Of course, Mr. Molokov.” She stands. It’s then that he catches a whiff of alcohol behind the minty freshness of toothpaste.

As she gathers her things, he considers asking if she’s still upset about Anatoly. She puts her files away and takes a newspaper; it’s one declaring that the next chess championship will be held in Merano, Italy, and it’ll be an affair between an American and a Russian.

“I hope you’re doing better,” he says instead, and Svetlana giggles that grating laugh of hers and skips away, newspaper in hand.

She skips to her favorite desk to visit, knowing she’s eternally unwelcome.

"Look!"

She holds the newspaper out for Svetlana. There, on the cover, is the announcement that Freddie Trumper will be facing Anatoly Sergievsky at the next championship.

Svetlana takes the newspaper and examines it, nothing perceptible passing through her face. Maybe Mr. Molokov is right; maybe she really is equipped to take on such a mission.

"Hmm," she merely says. "Thank you, dear."

She sets the paper down. Svetlana eyes her ring. She wishes she had one for herself.

“Ooh, very pretty!" For a moment she’s terrified she’s done the wrong thing. "Are you... ready?"

She sets a pawn on Svetlana's desk. It’s standard practice; when agents are issued a mission, they’re given their kill pill — but science has far advanced. In lieu of a pill, Svetlana’s innocent pawn is supposed to carry her to a comforting and easy death, should she need it.

She hopes Svetlana’s suicidal tendencies are truly behind her. But one can never be certain.

“I’m sure it’ll be an interesting match and an interesting assignment, love," Svetlana calmly says, and Svetlana nods. She can tell when she’s not wanted.

"Good luck, Sveta! We're all counting on you." Before she skips away, she turns her head back. “Did you notice there was a Cheburashka cloud outside?”

Suddenly, she’s eighteen and waiting to greet the new Svetlana. The new Svetlana, future shield, is fourteen, terrified, pale and hurting. They’d watched Cheburashka together. That was a long time ago.

“No, I didn’t notice,” Svetlana says. She’s busy writing something, far too disengaged to spare Svetlana any further glances.

Svetlana swallows.

“A shame. Maybe it’ll be there on your way out.”

And this time, she skips away without hesitation, a blur of yellow sweater and long, curly brown hair bouncing everywhere as she descends into the depths of the KGB.

Her laboratory is dark. She has to make her own sunshine.

Chapter Text

ONE WEEK BEFORE MERANO.

“And so,” Svetochka says, “you put him on a flat surface — it has to be flat — and voila!”

A robotic grasshopper walks across the length of the table.

Sasha and Svetlana silently look at the robot. They look at each other.

They turn to Svetochka.

Met with twin expressionless faces, Svetochka’s smile fades. She swallows and pulls her robotic grasshopper back into her pocket.

“Well… I like it,” she mumbles, and Sasha presses his lips together.

“An excellent use of the state’s resources,” he dryly comments, and Svetochka shrugs.

“I know, right?”

...

Svetlana says nothing. She knows better than to speak unless spoken to.

With the table cleared, Sasha sets down two files covered in a curious amount of stickers: TRUMPER and VASSY. Though she was prepared for the briefing, her insides clench in the way grand mirrors long-shattered do: with shards cutting against her skin from the inside, threatening to tear through and reveal that she is nothing other than a reflection of what surrounds her.

Sasha turns to Svetochka.

“We have much to discuss."

“Yes!”

An uncomfortable silence passes.

“Alone,” he adds, and Svetochka blinks.

“Oh, I — yes, of course. I’ll just… I’ll just… okay.”

She doesn't know what to say. It’s awkward when you’re only called in to deliver files and the robotic grasshopper you made over a half-hour break that morning isn’t as impressive as you thought. With a lingering gaze on Svetlana (which goes unreturned), Svetochka steps outside. The massive steel door closes and a light glows green on the handle.

The room is secure.

Sasha relaxes. Svetlana does not.

She searches his face, her usual scan, to determine what sort of mood he is in. This will set the tone for the briefing. Seeing no indication, dread pools in her depths. This, she’s accustomed to. Her stomach lining is strong.

In a moment of daring, she speaks first.

“She offered to watch the cat while we’re away.”

Sasha’s lip twitches. Svetlana’s throat releases tension she hadn’t been aware of.

He isn’t angry today.

“I pity Matroska.”

“I declined her offer. Svetlana Ivanovna will watch her instead.”

“Excellent judgment.”

“Why is she…?”

She isn’t sure what she’s asking. Why is Svetochka here? Why is she always hovering? Why is she in the position she’s in?

Sasha shakes his head.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

So they don’t. She busies herself with the grey wall behind him and allows her vision to unfocus. Time passes easily.

A minute later, Sasha finishes readying his files. Svetlana squares her shoulders. She isn’t permitted to take notes — naturally — but it’s imperative she memorize every detail he feeds her.

“I will begin,” he says, “with a summary of the event and an explanation of our objective and yours. As usual, please ask any questions you have now. We will have limited opportunities to discuss classified information once we are in Italy. If you have any suggestions, I welcome them.”

This is standard language. She nods once to confirm her understanding.

He nods in turn.

“We are attending the World Chess Championship. Although this is far from your first chess-related mission, it is your first championship at this level. I needn’t tell you how high the stakes are. Your husband will be competing against Frederick Trumper, who has held the title for seven years. None of our challengers have come close to posing a serious threat to that American.” The deep distaste permeates his every word. “Until now. We have more hope than ever. Your husband will be the one to humiliate the American on an international stage. He is the talent we’ve been waiting for. Do you have any questions?”

She does not. Sasha continues.

“Our objective is extremely simple: the American loses and your husband wins. Our delegation will consist of our champion, Anatoly, you, his wife, I, his second, Nikolai, our photographer, Yuri, our chess assistant, and one medic, one psychologist, one chef — we are still finalizing our selections for these three roles — and Viigand.”

“Viigand?”

As a rising star in the chess circuit, he’s traveled with them before. But every person Sasha listed, save for Anatoly, is a direct employee of the KGB. She assumed, for a mission of this calibre, Leonid might not…

“He will be acting as a second.”

Ah. Not that she understands the intricacies, but Anatoly having a legitimate chess second, devoted to helping instead of overseeing a complex operation, will serve him well. And if Anatoly does well, she won’t be punished.

She relaxes. It’s a net positive that Leonid is coming along.

“As I mentioned,” Sasha continues, “every member of our delegation will have a role to play in the American’s downfall. For example, the American is epileptic. Nikolai has contacts in the arena’s lighting team and they’ll be making some adjustments in our favor. Yuri is the only member of our delegation staying in the same hotel as the American delegation, and he will be following the American around to intimidate him. However, you will be the key to our success.”

That floors her. She’s helpful and never key. In Sasha’s eyes, Svetlana cannot succeed. All she can do is not fail. It's the worst thing to wholeheartedly give yourself to someone and to know it will never be enough because you will never be enough. She finds she’s suddenly desperate, desperate, desperate for recognition.

Key. A lot of pressure to place on one person. But she is not a person. She is an agent belonging to the state. An agent does not buckle under fear; she unwaveringly embraces it, because she was forged from fear.

“As you know,” Sasha carefully says, “the American’s second will be in attendance. She is his closest and only friend. Now, I want to ask you something. Our watchers report that Vassy and the American share an apartment and frequently share hotel rooms. Since you are familiar with them: is there any possibility they could be sleeping together?”

“None.” Even in confirmation, her voice is dull. “Our university required boarding students to room with those of the same gender. If that weren’t the case, they would have roomed together.”

Then, doubt. She is hollow. Who is she to know anything about the American and Florence? But Sasha nods thoughtfully.

“That is useful. We have reports that Vassy regularly sleeps around. She’s had a few relationships with men, none lasting more than a few months. In town, she’s equally likely to sleep with men and women.”

That tracks. During their first few months as roommates, she’d been aware that Florence slept with other students and, occasionally, with professors. She denied sleeping with women, but Svetlana knew better. Obviously.

She leans forward. Just a centimeter. It means a great distance when reaching for Sasha.

“Is there anything about Florence that would be useful for me to know?”

Sasha flips through Florence’s file again.

This time, Svetlana catches glimpses of pictures. These, she’s accustomed to. It’s impossible to travel outside of the Soviet Union and not see her face. Freddie’s fame has, by extension, made Florence unforgettable. As if Florence could have ever been forgettable…

“Yes, we have some information about Trumper and Vassy here…” Sasha rifles through more papers and frowns. “Our watchers report that Vassy regularly purchases cocaine. She drinks less frequently, but when she does, she drinks heavily. We have no evidence that the American engages in either recreational drug use or drinking, even socially.” He stops, skims through a report, and snorts. “On a trip to Las Vegas three years ago, Vassy lost thirteen thousand dollars in one night. The American was furious… the tournament he was playing in only had a prize of ten thousand dollars. Security was called to their room, but no arrests were made.”

Svetlana blinks.

“Thirteen thousand dollars?”

“You know how Westerners are,” Sasha dismisses, and Svetlana slowly nods. It isn’t the Florence she used to know. If she ever knew Florence. Then again, Florence’s world has never been hers.

On a whim, she asks, “Does she still dance?” But it’s the wrong question to ask. Her interest in Florence should not stray outside of the professional.

Sasha stiffens. His dark, narrowed eyes trap hers. No matter how much she wants to chew her lip, Svetlana becomes a statue, a thing, nothing. And after several harrowing seconds, Sasha returns to his files, a testament to her uninterested tone and expression.

“No. Health issues.” And with that, he takes the conversation elsewhere. “Having disclosed our delegation, let me show you the American's.”

He lifts a photograph. She recognizes the American and Florence, laughing and sporting matching jackets. There is one other man in the picture. He laughs with them and wears a cream-colored suit. She patiently waits for Sasha to show her additional photographs.

He doesn't.

...

“That’s… it? That’s their delegation?” she asks, and Sasha grimaces.

“That’s their delegation. The man is Walter Anderson. He’s the American’s agent.”

“His agent?”

Sasha shakes his head.

“His marketing agent. He is the reason Vassy and the American’s faces are plastered on every billboard. We’ve thoroughly checked him out. No affiliation to any organization. Works for himself. Profits from the American’s commercial success and pockets large percentages. Reports to no one.”

But… “The CIA won’t be there?” she asks more softly still, and Sasha unexpectedly slams his fist on the table with a sickening sound that reverberates across the small room.

Svetlana doesn’t jump. Instead she hunches, slightly, barely, into herself. Her shoulders creep forward, her forehead tends down. She shows no fear. She braces for punishment, her breath held and her muscles tensed in anticipation of pain. (It’s okay. It’s meaningless. She’s meaningless. She’s spent her whole life a clenched fist.)

Pain doesn’t come.

“No, the Americans don’t need the CIA, because the American, because that lunatic, is too good at what he does. He needs no oversight.” Sasha’s voice booms with anger, but it isn’t directed towards her. Svetlana keeps her head lowered. The last thing she wants is to redirect Sasha’s rage. His frustration, his exasperation, and hurt bleed into his voice. She wishes she could take his pain from him. She wishes she could take his pain for him.

“That is why the Americans scrapped their plan to build robotic chess players.” His voice softens. Not by much. “They wanted a robotic chess player to beat our Boris, but then that filthy American came along. They don’t need robots. They don’t need the CIA. Freddie Trumper is enough.”

Freddie Trumper is enough.

Freddie Trumper is enough...

Imagine being enough.

If Sasha thought you were enough, maybe you’d be a person.

She loathes the American. She loathes Svetochka. She might even loathe her husband. She loathes everyone who’s ever been enough in Sasha’s eyes and a minute of sitting in that loathing makes her realize it’s only self-loathing. How can she loathe anything but herself?

“The CIA tried recruiting Florence years ago,” she dully says. “We're certain they haven’t attempted to recruit her again?”

“Excellent point,” he says. “Our watchers deny it, but we can’t be sure. You can collect this information for us.” He sets Florence’s file down and turns towards the American’s. “As for the American… Let’s see. Diagnosed schizophrenic, epileptic, manages both with medication. Several other health issues. Doing better but easily bothered by noises and lights.”

“He believes I poisoned Florence." 

“That’s fine. Luckily for us, he’s accused his last—” he flips a page and snorts again “—seven opponents of attempted poisonings. He keeps crying poison. He’s depleted all credibility.”

Unsurprising. She can almost hear Florence: Oh, my God, Freddie. Take your fucking pills! She wonders if that’s changed.

Before she can dwell, Sasha pushes all files aside and sets his hands, clasped, on the table. Svetlana sits straight: no more hunching shoulders, no dipped chin.

The agent is ready to receive her mission.

“Your objective: target Florence Vassy.” He’s expressionless now. “It’s the same target as last time, but I trust you’ll handle yourself maturely. Let us deal with the buzzing noises and flickering lights. You will focus exclusively on the second. Now, we don’t know how she’ll react. She won’t know about you until she sees you. Same goes for the American. They know your husband is married. They don't know to whom.”

After all, Svetlana isn’t a secret. She’s simply hidden. 

Sasha raises an eyebrow.

“We’ve always been very discreet about you. Until now, your primary objective has been gathering intelligence. You’ve done a fine job: the information you extracted from the Ethiopian foreign minister’s wife, that British deputy’s daughter, and the Peruvian senator’s mistress are among your top achievements. You’re unforgettable to these women and no one else. You’re excellent at collection. But this mission is different. We are not necessarily seeking any information from Vassy. Anything she reveals about the American’s play will, of course, be very helpful to us, but this is not key.” His lips curls back. “She is key. She fell in love with you once. She will fall in love again.”

Svetlana offers no reaction. She listens. 

“As I said, we don’t know how she’ll respond,” Sasha repeats. “You’ll have to base your actions on her reactions. If she reacts positively to you, then pursue her as you did before. Tell her you married Anatoly for money and security. We’ll give you a top allowance. Take her on dates, encourage her to drink with you, shower her with flowers. Better yet, keep her in your hotel room as much as possible. You do — what you do best in bed. Make yourself irresistible. Tell her you never stopped loving her. Make her think you want to run away with her. Keep her from communicating with the American. Sow distrust between he and Vassy. Remind her that he is a lunatic. Point out how he uses her intelligence to profit on his stage. Mention that he publicly embarrasses her every time he throws a tantrum.

“That is the ideal scenario. It is possible she’ll be paranoid and distrustful of you given how your last meeting went. This should not stop you from pursuing her; a woman like that will not be able to resist you. Or maybe she’ll be angry with you for leaving. Let her rage at you. Let her become hysterical. Her anger will distract her and that, in turn, will distract the American.”

Sasha smells victory.

“No matter her reaction, your presence will affect her — and the American — greatly. And remember, regardless of what she believes, we know for a fact he sees you as a dangerous KGB operative who once poisoned his second.”

Svetlana nods. She has nothing to say.

Not for herself and not to the American and not to…

She has plenty to say to Florence. Sasha has written a script. Svetlana is a mouthpiece. She is a tool. She is a puppet repeating memorized lines from a cruel playbook.

Sasha looks away in contemplation. Svetlana notices how the lines on his face have grown deeper.

He looks exhausted. She must blame herself. If only she were enough…

...

This is the crux.

After all, what is she and who is she if Sasha isn’t looking?

He softens. He can be so kind. And when he is kind, everything is worth everything and she can breathe easy and she feels there is a place for her on the planet and that she could approach something resembling a person.

She feels, for a heartbeat, the Earth welcoming her. She feels a fantasy. But it’s a nice fantasy to feel.

He reaches for her hands. She meets him in the middle of the table, a minuscule vessel of hope. He grips her. She swallows a plea. He dangles a prize — his hope bared for her to see.

“Listen to me,” he says, as if she could ever stop. “There are some who don't believe you should partake in this assignment. Do you understand me?”

And the flicker of hope is destroyed. 

“I am his wife." Her voice is hardly a whisper. “If I should not partake, who could?”

Maybe she wants to believe marrying Anatoly was worth it, wants to believe she has not thrown her name away for nothing. If she is not Anatoly Sergievsky’s wife, then what is she?

“That is what I said,” Sasha says, squeezing her hands, “but there were concerns about your performance.”

Oh.

...

“Is something wrong with my performance?” she asks, preemptively flinching.

Sasha declines to answer directly. Instead, he says something to stop her world. He alone can stop and start it. 

“I said I could think of no better person for this assignment than you. I fought for you.”

Her lips part. This is the closest she will come to a gasp.

“I trust you,” he tells her, and she is struck by the urge to cry. But she may have forgotten how to.

“Sveta,” he says, with more tenderness than she ever imagined. “I’ve seen what you do. You do your job, and you do it well. I know you won’t disappoint me this time.”

“I won’t.” And now she’s shaking her head vigorously, tripping over herself to reassure that she knows better than to repeat childish mistakes. “I learned my lesson. You taught me. You taught me everything.”

“You made a grave mistake last time."

Fresh rancor pours over her, disgust towards herself. It would permeate her soul if she had one.

“I made an error. It was my fault completely. I accept all responsibility.” She’d deserved her punishment. She'd deserved worse. Even then, he had been kind. He had disciplined her and made her better. 

“I’ll do well,” she insists. She wants him to look on with pride. Every day that passes without a raised hand is a blessing she has learned to count.

"I know you will," he says and concludes their briefing.

His word is scripture. 

The day slips by. She floats through every hour, barely inhabiting her body.

She repeats to herself: my target is Florence Vassy. My target is Florence Vassy. Like last time, my target is Florence Vassy.

She won’t grow distracted. She knows better than to harbor childish fantasies of love and freedom. What love does she need that isn’t Sasha’s? What freedom does she need beyond what Sasha offers? She is free.

This is freedom.

...

She’s trembling.

She only realizes when Anatoly tries to speak to her. She locks herself in the bathroom over his half-hearted attempts at connection.

Sasha hasn’t hurt her because she has done well. But if she fails again…

...

...

Every breath hurts.

...

...

If she can breathe at all.

... 

...

It all hurts.

...

...

But when has she ever not hurt...?

...

...

She has to wonder how Florence is feeling.

FLASH!

Freddie hates photoshoots. He hates them.

But he likes money. Is materialism a sin? Ha! That’s what them commies would have you believe.

He and Florence wear matching tracksuits. They’ll be sold at staggering prices.

“Smile!” Florence orders under her breath. Easy for her to say. Smiling comes easily; her smile hasn’t slipped since they started. “They only have us for fifteen more minutes. And Walter negotiated us up to fifty grand.”

That changes things.

“Oh, shit, for real?” Fifty grand? He really does smile.

Then he remembers who the fuck he is. No one wants to see Freddie Trumper smiling. He scowls.

The people want an all-American bad boy. It’s what he’ll give them.

The photographer approaches them.

“Florence! Sweetheart, can you give me a grand jeté with your arms in fourth?”

Florence grins. “You bet!”

She crosses the studio and studies the size of the room and lighting. Then, in sneakers and a tracksuit, she launches herself into a perfect leap.

The photographers cheer. One of them shows Freddie and Florence the shot. There’s Florence, mid-air, mid-splits, her arms in what Freddie can only guess is ‘fourth’ — whatever the fuck that is. Her hair flies out behind her. She makes it look effortless.

“We’ll plaster that all over Times Square,” one of the other photographers excitedly says and Florence beams.

Freddie rolls his eyes.

“Show-off,” he mutters.

“Freddie, can you do that?” the first photographer hopefully asks, and Freddie groans. Not every chess player is a freaky gravity-defying acrobat. His second is just weird.

“I can’t even touch my toes, man!”

Oh, well. Only fifteen — fourteen — more minutes of this nonsense and he and Florence will be fifty grand richer.

Chapter Text

ONE DAY BEFORE MERANO.

Picture packing your life away.

Except you can’t, because it isn’t possible. A life cannot fit inside a suitcase. Items, maybe. The floral sweater your mother used to wear that you claimed for yourself. A book about marine animals, complete with vivid, page-length photographs. Items, maybe! But what about the life around him? Immaterial. He can’t pack the sensation of afternoon sun through the blinds as he sits on the sofa he and his wife share. He can’t bring with him the feeling of his wife's hand in his, false as all affection may be.

That beautiful afternoon sun now casts a warm glow on his beloved violin perched against a yellowing wall.

It won’t make the journey.

He takes a step back, lest the emotion swallow him in a wave, but every spot in their apartment threatens to overtake him. Here, a teacup he gifted his wife. There, a chess set he’d played with as a child. On the wall, a music sheet, a newspaper cut-out of a new species of jellyfish located off the coast of Australia…

A rap at the door is his anchor. Anatoly closes his eyes, rejecting his solitude, and carefully makes his way to the entrance.

He isn’t expecting anyone, because no one expects him. And his wife won’t be home for at least three more hours…

He opens the door.

“Hello!”

Oh. In a mustard jumpsuit, she’s the afternoon sun. He’s blinded.

Svetlana.

“Svetlana isn’t home,” he pointedly says. He expects her to negotiate a later return, but she shakes her head. 

“I wouldn’t have come if she were. May I enter?”

She is always direct and he is always without choice. Wordlessly, he steps aside.

Svetlana unties her boots and expertly makes her way to the living room. Matroska, roused from her nap, lifts her head. She drowsily crawls onto Svetlana's lap as she sits.

He hovers, detached, ghostlike, alien in his own home. His throat is dry. His lips are dry. His eyes can’t decide between wetness and dryness.

Then the corners of Svetlana's eyes crinkle as she smiles at him in a way his wife doesn’t. He’s reminded of the year he’d let himself believe.

He clears his throat. Dry, see? “Svetlana Ivanovna will watch her. Matroska.”

Who knows what compels him to say it? Maybe, for once, he can’t sit in his own silence. Matroska nuzzles her face into Svetlana’s chest and she lovingly pets the kitty’s head.

“How very kind of her.”

He takes the armchair opposite the couch and he never knows quite what to do with his hands. For now, they rest on his lap.

“How is work?” He knows exactly who her employer is. “Remind me of your position? At the school?”

There is an intensity to her gaze he’s only ever seen in his wife. And in Molokov — he can’t forget. Everyone who works at the… school.

“Management,” she warmly says and a box jellyfish wraps its tentacles around his every intestine. He blanches.

“Is this about my wife?” he asks again.

“I told you I wouldn’t have come if she were home.”

“I notice that isn’t an answer.”

She laughs lightly and sets Matroska down. She seems far too kind to work at a place like that. Then again, a year with his wife and never did he suspect…

“This is about you, Anatoly,” Svetlana advises and he feels a jolt. An Irukandji jellyfish.

Anatoly Sergievsky. It’s exceptionally difficult being Anatoly Sergievsky. It’s never about him, yet he holds all the responsibility. He was displaced in his own marriage. He is condemned to love someone who won’t — can’t — love him back. He thought years might have granted him freedom. But every time his wife walks through the door, he still longs to hold her and to be held. Every time he sees her shudder and retreat, every time he sees a bruise or a limp, he wishes he could be her sanctuary.

So, no, it’s never about him. He harbors no hope that life will center him. He is a chess player and nothing more.

“Are you nervous?” she softly asks, and he looks away. His eyes are again torn between wetness and dryness. He can’t seem to make up his mind.

“Incredibly,” he says, and her sympathy shines through her face. If they were closer, he suspects she’d put a hand on his for comfort. He wishes they were closer. He doesn’t wish that at all. “If you’re here to tell me to win…”

She shakes her head. “I don’t need to do that. Everybody is already telling you to win. You are telling yourself to win.”

Like a game of chess, he weighs his options.

“Can I ask you something?” He stops himself. It isn’t an ask if he knows the answer. “No. Can I say something? You don’t think I will win.”

He trusts her to be honest. Why, he doesn’t know. His wife lied to him for a year.

She evades his question entirely.

“I don’t know who will win,” she politely says. “I’ve heard you are both excellent chess players and I certainly don’t know enough about the gameplay to offer any educated opinion. I’d embarrass myself if I tried.”

Fine. He revises his position.

“The state doesn’t think I can win, then.”

The resulting quiet answers him.

His heart sinks into the depths. There, no light reaches. If a sea creature seeks illumination, she must make her own light and expend her own energy and rely wholly on herself. He’s an Atolla jellyfish, sinking and begging…

“I won’t make the mistake of taking the American’s abilities for granted.” He won’t. Molokov is dismissive of the American. Anatoly knows better. “I know he’s brilliant. I won’t walk into that match with undue arrogance.”

Svetlana nods.

“I have full faith in your assessment of the American’s game and in your abilities, Mr. Sergievsky. You didn’t get this far through luck. Chess doesn't bless the lucky.” She smiles again. He’s comforted this time. “That being said, I offer you my very best. I truly mean it.”

But the comfort only erodes with the ensuing silence. He wishes she’d look away. 

“So many people are focused on performance! And I’ve said all I have to offer: I repeat, my very best to you.” He’s back to sinking into unknown trenches. Even his self-light can’t save him. He's never glowed. “I’m here to remind you that you’ll have an international audience. We have a great many friends around the world. In the United States… in Switzerland… in the United Kingdom… in Italy, even. We. Have. Friends!”

...

She knows.

She has to.

She smiles too sweetly as his world crumbles.

Like his wife, he’s never been one to display emotion on his face. He’s caught a glimpse here and there, once in a blue moon, from his wife. She is not incapable of demonstrating emotions. She’s simply terrified, he thinks. Of what, he couldn’t say. But he? Emotions are not tied to his face. There are days he thinks he should have been born a jellyfish. Maybe there was some terrible mix-up when he was assigned a species. He was meant to swim and glow.

He wasn’t made for this world. Now he’s trapped in it.

“Schoolteachers all over the world,” he mutters, ill. The box jellyfish must stop torturing his intestines.

“All. Over.” She doesn’t hold back. “Everywhere. Watching. But I want you to remember that you will always have a home in the Soviet Union. No matter where you may travel to, we will never leave you. We’ll be waiting for you. With open arms.”

She seals it by brightening her smile. She’s blinding. Cowed, he looks away. Which is probably her intention and, damn it, she’s won. Who was he to ever think he could stand his ground against the KGB? His wife showed him his place years ago.

“Why did you come speak to me? Why didn’t Comrade Molokov?”

Svetlana laughs. It doesn’t sound threatening. He isn’t any less terrified.

“He’s traveling with you! He’s very preoccupied about you winning the championship. As is everyone else.”

“And you’re not.”

“A game is a game, Mr. Sergievsky. It would greatly benefit us if you won, but everybody else has already instilled this in you. What I want to convey is that we’d be devastated to lose you. I can’t imagine how distraught Svetka would be. Do you understand?”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She stands and pets Matroska once more. A quick glance with a half-smile tells him he needs not respond. He wouldn’t know how to.

With that closure, he, too, stands. Numbly, he follows her to the door.

“Oh, before I forget—“

As she steps out, she reaches into her jumpsuit's pocket and produces an envelope. He takes it.

Two tickets to the grand aquarium in Merano.

“Just… for you and Svetka to enjoy yourselves.”

He traces the turtle and the catshark stamped on the front.

“Where did you get these?”

“I bought them! As soon as I heard about Merano… I… for myself and… I don’t know, a friend. I imagined I might convince someone, anyone, to come with me if I paid. But I'm far too busy to travel. You know how schools are. Someone has to remain behind.” She shrugs and lowers her gaze. Uncharacteristic. “Well, enjoy them for me, please. I don’t want them to go to waste.”

The top left of a ticket design features a box jellyfish. It provides the comfort he begs for. Its tentacles are beautiful.

“It’s a box jellyfish.” He doesn’t know why he tells her. “Here. On the top left, that’s an Australian box jelly. This specific kind can grow up to three meters, but some are much smaller. They chase bright hues. They avoid dark colors. They prefer warm waters.” He delivers fact after fact as if rehearsed, but it’s only affection. Her eyes widen with every fact he spouts and embarrassment catches up.

“I’m sorry.” His cheeks sting. Something like a moon jellyfish. “I don’t mean to bore you.”

“You could never.” She bites her lip. He’s reminded of his wife and of the way she chews her lips raw. She never cries, but her lips do.

This Svetlana extends a hand to his forearm. Her touch is warm, but it feels cold. “The poison of an Australian box jelly is potent enough to kill multiple adults. It targets the heart. It's difficult to trace. It kills in minutes. It makes for an extremely effective weapon.”

He knew that already. What he didn’t know was that she knew a thing or two about jellyfish. He should’ve taken the tickets and closed the door.

Unexpectedly, she hugs him. He stands stiff, a statue, as she embraces him wholeheartedly. For a moment, he gets the impression that an Australian box jelly has wrapped its tentacles around him, but he can't scream.

As she pulls away, he has to ask, “Is my wife going to be okay?” It should’ve been his first question.

Svetlana’s gaze lingers for an uncomfortably long time.

“You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

With that, she skips away with his hopes and his dreams.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. He didn’t have many left.

Svetlanas have always broken his heart.

Chapter Text

He takes one look at Florence as she enters the living room and he swears loudly.

“Jesus Christ, Flor.”

“What?”

“Why are you a crackhead?” She’s going to deny it. She always does. Her eyes widen innocently.

“Excuse me?”

“There’s still powder on your nose.”

“What!? No, I got it all off—"

She whips her compact mirror out and checks. No powder. She walked right into Freddie’s trap.

“It helps me stay awake,” she defensively says, even as her cheeks flush. “And, for the record, it's not crack. I’m not like that.”

He rolls his eyes. Who knows what like that means.

“It doesn’t keep you awake, though. Whatever, grab your shit. Driver’s waiting.”

He’s a nervous flyer. Always has been. Everyone said it would become easier with time, but that’s because everyone he knows is a liar.

A look out the window informs him they're over water. The only substantial body of water they’ll cross will be the Adriatic, but it’s far too early. They must be over a freezing lake, but he lets himself imagine they’re flying over a warm ocean instead, flush with life. Below, jellyfish playfully catch currents. Moon jellies, their tentacles spread peacefully…

If only.

Uneasy, he pulls away from the window and his fantasies. His wife sits in the aisle across. To any onlooker, she’s perfectly relaxed, browsing the emergency procedures pamphlet with mild interest. When she catches him watching, she smiles comfortingly, as any adoring wife would. Harder to detect is a haunting glassiness to her expression. Anybody but he, husband, would miss it.

Later, an onlooker might wonder why his wife doesn’t sit beside him. A state official is in her place. Molokov places the flight’s menu in the seatback pocket.

“The American doesn’t stand a chance.”

It’s what he’s been saying and forgive Anatoly for dreaming improbably and foolishly. Now he knows better; he was idiotic to have believed someone was on his side. The other delegation consists of the American, his second, and his manager. If Molokov believed in Anatoly, his delegation wouldn’t include— a glance forward — a schoolteacher and medic; backward, a schoolteacher and chef; sideways, a schoolteacher and wife. He’s surrounded by them, and he’d thought marrying a schoolteacher was cruel enough.

He's cornered, stiff, and downright impossible. Molokov doesn’t believe in Anatoly. He never did.

“If the American doesn’t stand a chance,” he quietly says, “then why is the state putting so many resources into sabotaging him?”

Imagine playing for a country with a shred of faith in your abilities. What must it feel like to be the American, so confident and so effortless and so sure? He wishes he knew.

Molokov responds diplomatically and Anatoly doesn’t bother listening. He looks at the row behind his wife’s. Viigand sleeps fretfully. He twitches every so often, a little orange teddy bear tucked underneath his cheek serving as a pillow. Viigand is the only cannonball jelly among a plane full of box jelly schoolteachers.

Molokov senses he is not listening. He leaves and sits beside Anatoly’s wife. Her posture changes. He is the center of gravity she is anchored to; she simultaneously sits straighter while hunching into herself. It’s not a natural motion and certainly not one Anatoly can describe. Molokov whispers something into her ear and she gazes directly ahead. When he finishes speaking, she nods.

Molokov then moves on to wake and bother Viigand, but Anatoly has eyes for only one person. His wife traps his gaze again. Her smile is glassier than before. He dreams she would look on him with anything but a smile so long as it was real.

He leans back, closes his eyes, and takes refuge in his imagination, where thousands of untouchable jellies celebrate and a gentle stringed song can inexplicably penetrate warm saltwater. Here, there is no pressure, no Russian, no American, no hollowed wife, no established convention…

Imagine a world of jellies and only jellies.

As he flows with the jellies in his mind, time also flows. Upon leaving the aircraft in Italy, Molokov grips his shoulder. Anatoly feels stung and paralyzed.

“Just be careful. The American? An utter lunatic. You already know that. But his second?” He reaches for his carry-on, shaking his head. “She’s even worse.”

And Anatoly is left to wonder what the hell that could possibly mean. He stands rather numbly until his wife, already having retrieved her carry-on and his, takes his hand. With that same empty smile, she leads the way and he obediently starts walking, because his heart wants what it wants. If she delivers him to evil, that is where he’ll go, so long as she holds his hand along the way. 

He’d still follow her anywhere. He's afraid that'll never change and he's more afraid that it will. 

A crowd of teenage girls wearing shirts with the American’s face await them at Bolzano's airport. Some decorate posters, some read books, some play chess with each other, and one girl braids another’s hair with chess-themed barrettes. The crowd will only grow as the American’s flight draws nearer.

Seeing Anatoly, a few girls rush over for autographs. He isn't expecting this. 

“I mean, I’m Team Freddie, but it’s still super cool to see you in person!” one says in accented English, and another nods enthusiastically.

“Honestly, you seem a lot nicer than Freddie. I hope he doesn’t beat you right away!”

“Exactly, second best in the world is still, like, really good.”

“You have super nice hair, by the way. Have you ever considered growing it out?”

He has to accept the truth: nobody believes in him. Not a soul. To the world, his victory is unthinkable.

Words evade him entirely. He signs pictures and posters and poses for a photograph. Two minutes later, Molokov indicates their taxi is waiting and they must go. His wife squeezes his hand. Tenderly, so so so tenderly, she tucks a curl behind his ear. He always leans into her touch, craving it and craving more and craving her.

“You’ll do well,” she murmurs. Whether she’s playing the role of his wife or whether she genuinely believes in him is anybody’s guess. He can’t know.

“Thank you,” he says, as empty as the hotel room he’ll sleep in. He has half a mind to toss his dignity aside and ask if she’ll spend the night with him — he’ll sleep on the couch, so long as he isn’t alone — but he suspects she’ll be entertaining a beautiful woman. This mission is important to the KGB. Why else would they send a fleet of schoolteachers to accompany him?

Sasha straightens her bowtie for her. A memory: she, seventeen, fumbling with her first bowtie for her boarding school's winter dance. It was a secondhand, ripped, worn bowtie, but it was hers and she didn't even know how to wear it.

He'd fixed it for her, just as he's fixing it now. “You’re ready?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

The Soviet delegation is given a lounge on the second floor of the arena. She and Sasha plant themselves by the tinted glass wall overseeing the main entrance. The rest of their delegation waits. Nikolai eats a sandwich; the medic reads the day’s Alto Adige and munches on pretzels; Viigand uncomfortably sits in a comfortable armchair, arms wrapped around himself and rocking back and forth; their champion stands unnervingly still in the far corner, fists clenched with nerves. It’s a positive he’s not taken any breakfast or lunch. It looks like it’d make an unpleasant reappearance at the board.

They wait and wait and wait and, finally, the American delegation arrives. Svetlana’s heart stutters, but she feels nothing.

“What are they wearing?” Sasha disparagingly asks as Florence and the American exit their showy limousine. In matching denim jackets, they look like they've stepped out of a street clothing fashion magazine. Underneath, Florence wears a skirt and blouse, but the American wears sagging jeans. Beside her, Sasha’s lips curl in distaste. Every member of the Soviet delegation — even Viigand — is in a pressed suit.

The American and Florence talk amongst themselves. He's trying to explain something with his hands and Florence laughs at his attempts. Then he laughs and she playfully shoves him and he shoves her back, and the man who Svetlana recognizes as Walter Anderson emerges. He cuts between the two and throws his arms around them. The American rolls his eyes, pointing at Florence and probably saying something to the effect of, she started it!, while Florence giggles.

They look so happy and carefree, a stark contrast from the tension in the lounge. Svetlana doesn’t know why she expected Florence’s world would stop spinning when she left. Maybe it’s because hers did. As she watches them joke and laugh, she wonders — just for a second — where she might have fit had she stayed. Would she be holding Florence’s hand and giggling with her? Would she and the American have come around on each other? Would Florence be the champion? And what would Svetlana be? She tries to imagine a life outside of her current one and can conjure nothing in mind. She cannot imagine a different life. It's dangerous to even consider. Nine years ago, Sasha taught her that.

Sasha carefully gauges her reaction; she assumes he is always watching. She has none. She really doesn’t, and he seems satisfied with the response (or the lack thereof).

“It’s time to head downstairs,” Sasha announces to the room, and the rest of the delegation follow. She notices the distinct pallor of her husband and does nothing to reassure him. How could she?

They descend about a minute before the American enters the arena. Funny, as soon as he’s in, his demeanor changes. He shoves his hands in his pockets and scowls, his shoulders tending forward. The lights seem to bother him, which means Nikolai’s done his job. But it’s Florence Svetlana is watching. She scans the room briefly, but she hasn’t seen Svetlana.

She leads the way and enthusiastically greets FIDE officials while the American skulks behind her. She exudes excitement; she has to make up for the American’s foul manners. In seconds, Florence has won FIDE over with her intrinsic charm.

She’s always been easy to like.

Then the American and Florence step forward.

Florence gets her first proper look at the Soviet delegation. She’s holding what appears to be a box of chocolates — probably a gift to their delegation. Her eyes sparkle and her smile shines and then her eyes settle on Svetlana's.

Svetlana draws a little breath in but gives no other indication. Florence’s expression doesn’t change at all; she still has her lovely smile. There is no hint of recognition, distrust, or alarm. But despite the unwavering smile, Svetlana sees the blood drain from her face — it's visible even through her makeup. She pales too rapidly.

Svetlana steps forward. Not that she could do anything; she’s on the opposite side of the room. Get Florence, she wants to tell the American, but he’s too busy being useless and glaring at the ground to notice. She remembers when she returned from Moscow, once, one of her welts having reopened and bled through her jacket during her flight… Florence waiting for her at the airport. Florence seeing her. Florence fainting. But this time, no one is there to catch her when she falls. She hits the ground unceremoniously, the illusion of grace and elegance shattered.

The chatter stops immediately. Then, it begins again, agitated, interested, louder.

“Oh, God, Flo.” The American removes his hands from his pockets and sinks to her side. “Flor? Florence? Flo, can you hear me?”

It seems her delegation doesn’t know what to do without her direction. Walter is stunned and he gingerly picks up the box of chocolates Florence dropped. The American frantically shakes Florence’s shoulder to no avail.

He desperately looks up and around, seeking help. Then his gaze follows the same path Florence’s did and he sees her. His reaction isn’t one of hatred, though she knows he hates her; it’s pure fear. He recoils sharply and instinctively turns towards Florence for reassurance, but she’s yet to wake.

“We have a medic.” Sasha appears perfectly concerned. He turns to their medic and says, in English, “Can you help Miss Vassy?”

“Don’t you — no.” The American scrambles to his feet, his eyes wild with panic. “Stay the fuck away from us. You gotta be stupid if you think I’m letting any of you freaks near her after last time.”

“A medic should see her,” the arbiter says, at the same time that Walter says, “Be reasonable, Freddie, if the Soviets brought a medic who can help Florence—”

“You think that’s a real fucking medic?” (He is, in fact, a real medic. He also happens to work for the KGB.) The American looks around in disbelief. “Are you all stupid? You think they want to help Florence? They’re here to finish her off. And get me while they’re at it!”

“Freddie, please don’t start right now,” Florence weakly says. In the commotion, no one saw her wake. Her hands visibly shake, but she makes an effort to sit.

“Don’t stand yet, Miss Vassy.” Their medic holds out a hand, gesturing for her to wait, and he approaches. But the American blocks. 

“Get away from her, didn’t you hear? What, did you shoot her with a poison dart on the way in?” His eyes widen as the possibility sinks in. “Oh, God, Florence, did they—?”

“No, no,” Svetlana hears Florence say. She speaks very softly. “I’m okay. It’s just a bit warm in here.”

“You think they could have poisoned your food? You had an apple this morning, didn’t you? You think the apple was—?”

“This isn’t Snow White,” Yuri mutters, not audibly enough for anyone outside of their delegation to hear. Nikolai cracks a smile, but Sasha silences them.

“No, there’s no poison.” Florence looks towards the medic. Her eyes are filled only with embarrassment and pain. “Please, could you…?”

“Of course. Do you consent to a quick examination, Miss Vassy?” their medic asks. Walter Anderson acts quickly — he puts a hand on the American’s shoulder and pulls him back over panicked protests.

“I consent. Thank you so much,” Florence whispers, and the medic kneels beside her and carefully touches her neck; both wrists; places a hand on her cheeks and her forehead; quietly asks a few questions Svetlana can’t hear. Florence responds breathlessly, gesturing at something on her chest.

The American turns his pleas to the arbiter now.

“They’re evil. All of them. Starting with her.” He points a finger in Svetlana’s direction, and her stomach flips over unpleasantly. “She tried to murder my second. She works for the KGB. All of them do. For my safety and my second’s, I demand the title be awarded to me. We’ll leave immediately.”

“Freddie, be reasonable,” Walter says with a grimace, before the arbiter can respond. “Come on. They’re here to play chess, just like you.”

“Shut up, Walter.” The American whirls around. “They’re not here to play! They’re here to kill. You don’t believe me?” He turns back to Florence. “Tell them, Florence. Tell everyone how she poisoned you.”

Svetlana stops breathing. Beside her, Sasha tenses, though his face remains one of complete diplomatic concern. But Florence winces in pain, clutching at her head and her shoulder. The medic uneasily puts a supportive hand on her back, and she shakes her head.

“Freddie, darling, I’m so worried about you.” Her gaze is on the American only and her voice is soft and frustrated. “Not this again. You know I had a medical procedure a few days ago. I’m still recovering. Please, you aren’t well and you’re imagining things—“

“Oh, don’t.” The American glowers at her, suddenly furious. “Don’t make excuses for them. You’re making this easy — you’re doing their job for them.” Without looking over, he jabs an accusing finger in their general direction again. “Remember how that fucking devil left you to fucking die—?”

She did, didn't she?

Several things happen at once: the arbiter steps forward with a booming, “Mr. Trumper!” and Walter says, “Freddie, that’s enough,” and Florence puts a trembling hand over her face and starts to quietly cry. Sasha bristles; Svetlana wonders if he’s waiting to intervene, but the arbiter has regained control. Walter attempts to drag the American out of the arena, but he pulls free and storms out of his own accord, spitting a vicious “Fucking murderers,” on his way out.

Something compels Svetlana, in that moment, to look her husband's way. He’s nearly as pale as Florence, evidently uncomfortable with everything surrounding him — the noises, the commotion, his stiff suit, the unpredictable turn of events, the realization once again sinking in that he knows nothing about his wife. She knows what runs through his mind because she knows him. You’d gather nothing from his expression. There's a world of difference between her husband's quiet, cold stillness and the American’s explosive, boiling temper.

She sees a question in his eyes: Is any of it true? And past the flat effect, there is a bud of betrayal. Incredible: every day she finds a new way to break his heart without trying. She would have thought he’d stopped believing in her years ago.

Svetlana breaks their brief connection and turns back.

“I was up very late last night, I only had an apple for breakfast, I’m still a little weak from a medical procedure I had a few days ago, I haven’t drank any water, the room is a bit warm…” Florence rattles off excuse after excuse to their medic, who nods.

“Exhaustion. Completely understandable. You should go back to your hotel room and rest. Drink some water and eat something and sleep.”

He helps Florence stand. She pales again and he’s ready to catch her, but she only needs to be steadied. The medic looks towards Walter, who immediately steps forward.

“I’ll walk her back,” he says. “Thank you for your assistance. Walter Anderson.”

He and the medic shake hands.

Florence, meanwhile, approaches the Soviet delegation. Her gaze is clearly fixated on Sasha.

“You are feeling better?” he asks, the perfect picture of concern.

Florence nods. “Much. Thank you for your delegation’s support…”

“It was no problem. We are happy to help.” He shakes her hand. “Alexander Molokov. Mr. Sergievsky’s second. It is wonderful to meet you.”

“And you, Mr. Molokov.” Florence dips her head. “Florence Vassy. Truly a pleasure.” She looks at the rest of their delegation briefly, her gaze lingering on Svetlana no longer than on anyone else. She acknowledges Svetlana's husband rather bashfully, extending a hand towards him. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Sergievsky, despite the circumstances. I would like to apologize to you personally. I am so very sorry about the commotion I’ve caused.”

Her husband takes too long to respond and Svetlana suspects he’s surprised she’s acknowledged him at all. Though he’s the champion, he’s never been the focal point. He's easy to forget.

“Oh. Hello.”

He’s not one for words; there is a disconnect between his brain and his mouth and Svetlana knows this. But Florence nods at him, then looks between him and Sasha.

“I’ll be returning to my room, but please have an excellent game today. I am excited to see you all again tomorrow. I'm certain I'll feel better after resting a bit.” She lowers her voice. “I am truly sorry about my player's words. He — I shouldn’t say this, but he hasn’t taken his medication and he’s quite stressed and... you know, he’s accused his last six—” (Seven, Svetlana thinks) “—opponents of attempted poisonings and he simply refuses to let me take him to a hospital, and I… I don’t know what to do… I know he isn’t well, but there’s only so much I can do." A tear slips down her cheek and she wipes it, ashamed. "I can't apologize enough. I am so sorry and I ask the Soviet delegation for forgiveness.”

“Thank you for the apology. We accept it on your player’s behalf,” Sasha assures her, and she nods gratefully, her chin quivering. “You, however, have nothing to apologize for. Feel better, Miss Vassy, and please let us know if you need to speak to our medic again. As I said, we are happy to help.”

Florence offers Sasha and Svetlana's husband one last tearful smile before returning to her delegation’s side. She does not look at Svetlana again. That was it — two glances. The first caused her to faint. The second was a non-acknowledgment. 

Svetlana doesn’t know what she expected. She had eyes only for Florence. She thought Florence might have...

In the opposite side of the arena, Walter puts an arm around Florence and leads her out. Svetlana watches them go. Neither of them look back.

Beside her, Sasha has the slightest of smiles. It only grows when the American is finally coaxed back into the arena, nearly an hour later, and proceeds to spectacularly lose against Svetlana's husband. 

Chapter Text

They walk back to the hotel. Florence's cheeks slowly regain their color.

“He keep you up late?”

“Well, he sent me to the gas station at three in the morning to buy bottled water. Insisted the Soviets had poisoned everything in our mini fridge and in the hotel's gift shop…”

Walter grimaces. “I’m sorry, kid. You can grab me next time, and I’ll do it. You need to rest. He’s… you know, he’s…”

“I know."

A gust of wind blows by and Florence puts her hands into her denim jacket’s pockets. Her legs must be cold.

“Want my jacket?” he asks, but she shakes her head.

They keep a steady pace.

Then Walter asks, “Did you know her? That woman?”

“Which woman?”

“The woman Freddie recognized. The one on the Soviet team.” The only woman besides Florence. “Short blonde hair, tall… I didn’t realize she was a woman until I got a good look at her.”

“Oh,” Florence quietly says. He takes that as an affirmative.

“At a chess competition?” he guesses.

“No. We met in school.”

“Really? That must’ve been, what, ten years ago?”

“Something like that. I was surprised to see her.”

“Lost contact?”

“Yes, but I didn’t realize she cared deeply about chess. I suppose she might be their interpreter.”

Walter pieces together what Florence is saying.

“You don’t think she’s one of Anatoly’s seconds?” Rare, certainly, but Florence is proof that female seconds exist. She looks away.

“I can’t imagine she would be. Then again, what do I know? It’s been years.”

They keep walking. He can tell it’s weighing her down. And the last thing he wants is for both of his stars to have rain clouds over their heads.

“Tell you what,” he says as they enter the hotel, “I’ll grab you a few snacks from the gift shop and make a quick phone call. You head upstairs and get comfortable. I’ll find out who she is, okay?”

Florence pauses before the elevator. Her exhausted, cautious expression relaxes into a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Just before she gets inside, he asks one last thing.

“What’s her name? So I can ask?”

“Sokolova.” Florence sounds breathless. It’s good she’s taking the elevator. “Svetlana Sokolova.”

“Got it, kid. I’ll be up in ten minutes.”

When he returns, her hair is gathered into a bonnet, she’s in a nightgown, and her makeup’s come off. Now he clearly sees her skin has an unpleasant gray tinge to it and her lips are white. But she accepts the allergen-free snacks he brought and thanks him profusely.

“I found out who she is,” he says, because he can see the question in her eyes. “The name ’Sokolova’ isn’t on any documents. But ‘Sergievskaya’ is; your friend Svetlana is Anatoly’s wife.”

Her expression doesn’t shift in the slightest. He also knows Florence to be an exceptional liar.

“Thank you for letting me know,” she simply says. “Thank you for everything. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“Not at all. But I do have to get back. Gotta see if I can make him behave."

“Please stop him before he accuses every Soviet of carrying, I don’t know, a bloody poison pawn or something.”

He sighs heavily. He would, wouldn't he? “I’ll do my best, kid. No promises.”

With that, he leaves her to rest and heads back to the arena.

Sasha’s delighted.

She's never seen him so happy. She’s frightened.

The mood in his suite is decidedly celebratory. Nikolai and Yuri toast and say, “Proust!” and their KGB chef has to correct them (“Prost!”) and they drink again to correct themselves. They’re certainly not holding back with the abundance of Italian and German liquors. Svetlana doesn’t partake; she sits and waits for the other shoe to drop, because it must.

“She took one look at you and went down.” Sasha’s eyes shine with victory. “She’s terrified and so is he. We will finally win.”

She should be happy he’s happy. She tries a smile.

“It’s so funny. No one believes anything the American says,” Nikolai smugly says. “I mean, did you hear him? He is so psycho. He was like some fucking lunatic escaped from the madhouse, calling us KGB and shit.”

“Me, KGB?” Yuri asks, holding a hand to his chest in mock innocence, and Nikolai, the medic, and Sasha all laugh.

“At least the second seems nice,” the chef says. But that prompts laughter from everyone.

“Ooh la-la! I didn’t know you liked African girls,” Yuri teases, and the chef flushes.

“I only said she’s nice.”

“Well, she’s taken.” Yuri points at Svetlana. “Sveta’s gonna fuck her real good. That her job, you know?” He turns back to the chef. “You’ll learn as you do more assignments. Whenever we bring Sveta, it’s because we need some girl to get fucked. The noises you’ll hear coming out of her hotel room — if you’re unlucky enough to be next to her, you won’t sleep!”

“You’re really going to fuck the second?” the chef asks, turning to Svetlana. He’s taken aback. “I mean — she’s nice, and I guess she’s not bad-looking for a… you know.”

“Aw, Sveta doesn’t care,” Yuri interrupts. “She’ll fuck African girls, covered-up Islamic girls, fat girls, transsexual ‘girls’, invalid girls, deformed girls… she fucked that chunky, cross-eyed Philippines girl that one time. Remember her crying in the hotel lobby when we left? Saying Sveta was the first person to ever show an interest?” He snorts and crosses his eyes and makes a terrible impression of a Tagalog accent. “Please stay with me, Svetlana, without you I have no one!”

Svetlana stands. Her hands are fisted.

“Going to fuck the second already, Sveta?” Nikolai teases. “At least she’s not cross-eyed, but I still feel sorry for you. You'll have to tell us if her bush is as tangled and greasy as her hair is. I wouldn't know.”

Yuri roars with laughter. The chef joins in. 

Physical fights between agents are strictly prohibited during an active assignment. Nikolai once broke Yuri’s nose the night before a public event in Paris and Sasha was furious. She hadn’t seen Nikolai for a week after they retuned to Moscow. The next time she saw him, he, too, was sporting a broken nose and he limped for a month after.

Now they all know better than to fight in the midst of an assignment. Sasha carefully watches her.

“Smoke break,” she impassively says. As she heads towards the door, Sasha puts a hand on her shoulder. Her entire body tenses. She didn't do anything wrong, did—!?

“They’re joking,” he reminds her. “They’re having fun. We weren’t expecting such positive results. I hope you’re not upset, Sveta.”

The subtext is: I know you’re not upset, Sveta.

So what she says is, “I’m very happy.” And he nods and lets her go. She hears the last few things her teammates say as she reaches the door.

“Sveta will fuck any girl. She’s a thirsty dyke.”

“It’s so sad, because she has such a pretty face and fair skin, fair hair, everything. She could be seriously beautiful if she… oh, well. Such a waste.”

“Honestly, it’s probably good she’s obviously a dyke. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself if she looked like a lady.”

She leaves as the room again erupts into laughter.

Anatoly and Viigand were not invited to Molokov’s suite. They weren’t not invited, but both can tell when they’re not welcome.

They still need to eat, so they find themselves at the hotel’s happy hour snack bar. Neither opt for alcohol. Both load their little plates with finger foods.

“You could go to a proper restaurant,” Anatoly suggests and Viigand nods.

“I could.” He makes no indication of doing so. “You beat the American. You could go celebrate.”

“I could.” He won’t.

It’s the strangest feeling, being excluded from a celebration he… caused? The feeling that he’s utterly unimportant resurfaces. Look at him! It’s like missing his own birthday party.

“You did well."

“Thank you.”

It’s always awkward when two non-conversationalists stand together. So they sit and munch on little tea-sized sandwiches and small rolls.

“You could try to make friends,” Anatoly says after a while. It’s giving advice he’s never known how to take. His wife was his first and only friend. “Nikolai and Yuri are around your age. Maybe just a little older?”

Viigand finishes chewing on his sandwich. “They can be mean,” he quietly says, and Anatoly supposes there’s no way around that.

The rest of their (short) dinner passes. There is a last call for food. On a whim, he grabs a disposable plate and picks the remaining sandwiches and grabs a bottle of orange juice.

Florence is afraid of her.

And why wouldn’t she be?

She scared Florence so badly she fainted.

Svetlana makes it to the toilet in her room just in time to vomit. She hasn’t eaten much (in fact, she hasn’t eaten at all today), but she’s still retching after emptying herself out. It’s the strangest sensation; she feels very little emotionally and yet her body reacts violently. She sweats profusely; her shoulders shake uncontrollably; she has trouble breathing; and she feels nothing.

When she’s finished, the flushes the toilet and washes her hands and brushes her teeth and takes mouthwash. The stinging sensation keeps her grounded.

There’s a familiar, gentle knock at her door. She makes her way to it. Her husband holds an envelope in one hand and a little plate with sandwiches in the other. A juice is tucked under his arm.

“I was going to ask if…” Halfway through, he loses his nerve. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

He knows better than to probe, knows he isn’t worthy of a legitimate response.

“I brought you some sandwiches in case you hadn’t gotten dinner.”

The last thing she needs is a meal, but she accepts the plate and the juice and sets them on her table before returning to the door. He stands stiffly and the envelope is still held between his index and middle fingers.

“I didn’t get to speak to you after the match. Congratulations.”

“I don’t deserve that.” There’s a slight shake to his head. “He was worried about his second. It wasn’t fair.”

“You shouldn’t underestimate yourself.”

“It wasn’t fair,” he quietly repeats, but he switches gears. “What the American said — it wasn’t all unfounded. He recognized you from somewhere. He singled you out.”

He waits for her to respond and she doesn’t. There isn’t a hint of emotion on either of their faces.

“You’ve met him before?” he finally asks and even he doesn’t know if it’s an accusation.

She speaks carefully. She always does. “You know I studied English in America. I needed the qualification to become a schoolteacher.”

He doesn’t look away. “You… studied together?”

“That was years ago.”

“And you never mentioned this because…”

“It was years ago,” she repeats, and he knows better than to ask again. He looks away. The motion causes the stubborn curl that always falls onto his forehead to do so now. She focuses on that lone curl. It’s easier than looking at her husband.

Neither speak. A heaviness bursting with unanswered questions and unrequited love and betrayal hangs around them. It can never go away.

“Anatoly,” she says. “What did you come to ask me?”

He thinks for a moment, frozen, then shakes his head.

“Nothing. I only wanted to bring you something to eat. Have a good night, Svetlana.”

With that, he puts the envelope back into his pocket and retreats to his hotel room. In his absence, she lingers, pressing her sweating forehead against the cool doorframe.

She’s not only the worst ex-girlfriend in the world. She’s also the worst wife.

Freddie makes his entrance. He is physically unable to enter a room without causing a disturbance. The door flings open and Florence wakes up.

“Are you alive?” he demands. “Any coughing? Stomach pain? Trouble breathing?”

She shakes her head. Fuck, it hurts (for reasons completely unrelated to poison).

“Feeling nauseous?”

“Feeling tired,” she honestly says. She rolls onto her back with resignation. Naptime’s over, she wistfully thinks. “How’d it go?”

“I lost.”

He throws the curtains open and the remaining sun pours into the room. Still half-asleep, she turns her head away from the light. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know, Flor. Are you?”

“What does that mean?” she tiredly asks, and he shakes his head and mutters something to himself. He settles into an uneasy pace around her room.

“How do you feel?”

“Tired,” she repeats, but the message isn’t getting across.

“Sore?”

“Just a little bit.”

“Yeah, you hit the ground pretty hard.”

She can feel it. Not that she can complain — he’ll take any complaint as irrefutable proof of her poisoning. “It’s fine.”

“You know, I don’t think he was a doctor.”

“He’s a medic. He showed me his ID.”

“Oh, no one’s ever faked an ID before.”

She doesn’t answer. Absentmindedly, she clutches the Cheburashka stuffy she was sleeping with under her chin.

Seeing her lack of response, Freddie suddenly asks, “Are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what? How mortifying that was? I’d rather not.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“Your evil fucking ex is here.”

Florence yawns and closes her eyes and curls back up. In response, Freddie grabs her comforter and yanks it off.

She opens her eyes. “No! I’m cold.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re cold? That’s not what you said this morning when you passed out because the room was ‘too warm’ and not because your evil fucking ex showed up out of nowhere.”

“Fuck! What do you want me to say?”

“Say you’ll stay away.” His forehead is beaded with sweat. His eyes have a wild look. If only he would take his pills! “Maybe we should go home. They’re trying to intimidate me out of the competition. They’re threatening us…”

“How are they threatening us?” she softly asks. “Their existence is not a threat.”

“Don’t think for a second I don’t see you not promising you aren’t going to fuck her.”

Silence. She rubs her forehead. “Can you try that sentence again? I couldn’t understand you over all of the negatives.”

Freddie flops down on the edge of her bed. He refuses to return her comforter. “Don’t fuck her. Do you promise you won’t?”

“I promise.”

“It’s not a fucking coincidence she shows up now. She’s planning something.”

“Freddie…”

“They’re all planning something. I think one of them is staying in our hotel.”

“Who?”

“The real evil-looking one.”

“You think they’re all evil-looking.”

“Well — yes. But he’s extra evil-looking.”

This is unproductive. Florence shifts and holds back a hiss of pain.

“I only lost because of all the shit they pulled this morning,” he tells her. “The lights. I know they messed with the lights. I can tell. And they did something to you…”

She sighs. “I highly doubt they messed with the lights. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Mr. Trumper.”

“Oh, but it does! Their world, especially. They’re obsessed with me. They hate me ‘cause I’m good. They know Sergievsky can’t win. So they’re messing with the lights, getting a hypnotist, poisoning you…”

She's tired. “It’s possible — and I’ve been saying — that Anatoly is simply more talented than you think.”

“Anatoly,” Freddie fumes. He leaps up to his feet again, glaring. “Anatoly, huh? When did you two become such good friends? I saw you going up to them, batting your eyelashes like some damsel in distress. Oh, Anatoly and Mr. Evil KGB Overlord, I’m so sorry about causing a commotion—“

“Bloody hell, Freddie! I spoke to them for, like, two seconds. I’m not surprised basic human decency baffles you. I can’t apologize to Anatoly for accidentally causing a scene?”

“Well, you haven’t apologized to me!”

There is a complicated silence. Florence tries to muster the limited warmth the bed can provide in the absence of a comforter.

“I’m sorry,” she quietly says. “You have to know it wasn’t a pleasant experience for me either.”

“Oh, everything’s about you, isn’t it? Poor you. Don’t forget — we’re here because of me,” he snaps, and Florence doesn’t press. She lies, shivering, waiting for him to expel the nasty funk he’s gotten himself into.

Time knocks some sense into him. He sits at the edge of the bed. His head hangs. He takes his glasses off and Florence realizes, with a jolt, that he’s crying.

“Oh, Freddie…”

“I just don’t want you to die, Flo.” He sounds no less frantic. “And I know you think I’m crazy and everybody thinks I’m crazy but almost losing you once was enough.”

“I’m not dying,” she promises, and she sits up despite her shoulder’s protests. “I’m really not. I got a bit lightheaded, that was it.”

“But they’ve poisoned you before. They could do it again.”

She doesn’t answer.

A beat later, he asks, while sniffling, “How’s your thingy?”

She stares at him.

“My thingy.”

“You know! Your — your thingy.” He makes a hand motion that means nothing to anybody besides him.

“My thingy is perfectly fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He studies her, looks at the way she’s propping herself up, sees her goosebumps.

“You’re hurt,” he then says. “Your shoulder. Your head. Do you need something?

She shakes her head and winces. “No. But you could let me sleep…”

He’s out of steam. He nods and slowly stands and throws her comforter over her bed. She immediately burrows underneath.

“I just… be careful, okay?” He doesn’t seem to know what to say. “If you start feeling, I don’t know, confused or… or overwhelmed… or if you feel like you’re… uh, again, confused…”

She patiently waits for him to make his point. He doesn’t. He hovers uncomfortably, then leaves.

And she goes back to sleep, clutching Cheburashka more tightly than before.

They brought their own secure telephone from Moscow, though he doubts anything’s tapped. She answers after six rings.

“Hi… hello?”

She’s drunk. His lips press together into a thin line.

“Already drinking?” he asks, displeased, and she takes a moment too long to answer.

“Have you heard of time zones, Mr. Molokov? I am not… like, working right now.”

The time difference isn’t so large, but he makes no comment. “Do you want an update or not?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

So he briefs her and the resulting silence feels like condemnation. He almost asks if she heard him, when her voice, surprisingly soft, pipes up.

“But you didn’t harm Miss Vassy in any way. She became faint of her own accord?”

“I told you: we didn’t do anything. The sight of Agent Sergievskaya alone sent her toppling.”

“That poor girl… she must’ve been so frightened.” Clearing her throat, Svetlana asks, “And how is, um, Agent Sergievskaya?”

That catches him unprepared. Briefs usually focus on the target parties — not their own. “Why would she be anything other than fine?”

“I think this must’ve been upsetting for her. Surely your sympathy can extend that far.”

“She’s delighted.” He grits his teeth. “We’re already winning.”

“She told you she was delighted? Those were her words?”

Her exact words, if he recalls, were, I’m very happy. Same sentiment.

“Yes, those were her exact words.”

“And… Tolya?”

She is drunk. “Why do you care?”

“Um, why wouldn’t I? How is he, is he there? Does he want to talk to me?”

“Get ahold of yourself,” he firmly says. She is the sloppiest drunk he has ever met. She makes Yuri the epitome of poise and control. “He won. As you can imagine, he’s very happy.”

“Can I talk to him?” she asks again. “Please? I want to talk to him.”

“He is not interested in speaking to a left-behind drunk. You are an adult woman. Act like one.”

“I saw him on television. He looked quite pale. I rewinded the program and watched it over and over.”

“Why do you care?”

She hiccups. “You may have forgotten, Mr. Molokov, but he is our champion. Without him, we are nothing.”

“You watch your words, Svetochka.”

“I’m only… I only think we should maybe approach this with as much compassion as we can.”

“If you want compassion,” he flatly says, “you’re in the wrong business.”

But she suddenly laughs. “Business? What business, Mr. Molokov? These are our lives.”

“So let’s not waste them by prioritizing compassion.”

“No, we won’t waste them. Let’s celebrate our lives with compassion.” She hiccups again, more loudly this time. “You know I asked to watch the kitty? They lied to me. They said someone else had already offered. But they asked someone else to watch her after… after I asked. They didn’t want me to watch Matroska. Do you think they think I’m stupid? Or, like, oblivious or something?”

“Everybody thinks you are stupid, because you act like it.” He sighs. “But I know you are not. Go to bed. I’ll update you tomorrow. You better have a clear head when we speak next.”

She doesn’t respond. Good. He’s tired of hearing her voice.

“You approved this operation,” he reminds her. “And we will succeed. We will make your beloved Tolya the champion.”

“He already is,” she whispers, and he hangs up the phone.

Finally, quiet. The suite is dark and empty. The sitting area is trashed with empty pizza boxes and bottles, but the housekeepers can deal with it tomorrow.

He runs a hand through his hair and then over his face.

What kind of fool would celebrate life?

She’s in the arena’s designated smoking area, a little outdoor patio with a few chairs. But she opts to lean against the wall, absentmindedly watching birds circle a fountain in the distance.

Second day is… fine. The American’s mood seems to have soured further overnight, which didn’t seem possible. And yet.

The door opens and someone joins her on the smoking deck. Svetlana doesn’t look over. She’s not interested in entertaining a conversation. But the intruder approaches her directly.

“Not to let us smoke in there, it isn’t civilized.” Florence produces a cigarette and smiles coyly. Her hair flutters in the breeze and Svetlana catches a hint of floral perfume. “Will you give me a light, Svetka?”

Chapter Text

Wasn’t Florence everything once?

Nine years ago, Florence was freedom. Svetlana made a decision to stay in New York and it was because of Florence she decided to stay. Escaping beatings and threats was only an inevitable byproduct (and a secondary fantasy at most). It was a fantasy brought on by Florence.

She absently lights Florence’s cigarette. In the distance, Sasha. Her every move, he watches. His dark eyes assess Florence and, more importantly, Svetlana’s performance.

This assignment will not succeed through adequacies and sufficiencies. Sasha's assignment demands perfection and she doesn’t dare deliver anything but.

“Are you feeling better?” A my darling almost slips, because Florence was her darling and she called her that every day. Florence used to be synonymous with my darling.

“Oh, much. I’m brand new.” Florence’s lipstick leaves pink stains on her cigarette. “You have an excellent medic in your delegation. Could you thank him again on my behalf?”

“I’ll be sure to relay the commendations.”

“Please.” Florence smiles and doesn’t ask in which capacity Svetlana joined the Soviet delegation. She either knows (and how?) or doesn’t care (and that doesn’t sting).

Florence so casually enjoys her cigarette and Svetlana braces. For years she’s wondered how Florence would react if they ever saw each other again. She’d have expected tears — why did you leave me? — anger — why did you leave me? — fear — did you put me in the hospital? — resignation — I wish I’d died!

Instead, Florence smokes. A look at her face would inform a passerby she’s relaxed, perhaps a bit drowsy in the warm breeze, her eyes half-closed.

Svetlana, unthinkingly, lifts her own cigarette and exposes her left hand. But for her relaxed demeanor, Florence is sharp. Her eyes settle on Svetlana’s ring finger and it’s infuriating how nothing passes through her face — not one hint of hope or disgust. She won’t even give the courtesy of recognition.

But who is Svetlana to deserve…?

“I’d love to catch up.” As if they knew each other in passing and didn’t mean everything to each other — once! Florence turns away to breathe out smoke and Svetlana can’t tell if it’s courtesy or a deliberate avoidance of her gaze. “It’s been too long, Svetka. My God. Were we ever so young?”

Svetka.

The last time Svetlana felt young, she was fourteen years old.

Svetka. So that’s what her name sounds like on Florence’s tongue. She’d forgotten.

“Dinner,” Svetlana suggests, and she adds a smile to suggestion. This smile isn’t for Florence’s benefit — it’s for Sasha’s. He’s ever-present. Florence is in front of her, but it’s Sasha she’s focused on. He’s counting her smiles and scoring her romantic advances.

She made a disaster of her first mission with Florence. She hates to think Sasha doesn’t trust she’ll perform well this time around. It dampens any possible excitement she could feel over the reunion.

Florence, maddeningly elusive, mirrors her smile. “This evening? We can meet at your hotel entrance, say, at six?”

“I’ll be looking forward to it, dear.”

Florence disposes of her cigarette and says something about going to check on the American. As Svetlana watches Florence leave, something in her stomach flutters. It’s not the warm butterflies she felt when they were roommates. She couldn't feel those if she tried.

What she feels are the butterflies of terror of what’ll happen should she disappoint Sasha the same way she did nine years ago. The first time he was as kind and patient as he could be.

He has no reason to be patient when the stakes have tripled.

Svetlana follows Florence inside. Sasha watches.

Then she spots her husband, frozen, standing in a corner. His face, too, reveals nothing. But he watches Florence return to the American and he looks at Svetlana and his shoulders sink in realization and resignation.

Freddie, sprawled across the hotel room’s couch, takes one look at her and does a double-take.

“And where are you going, dressed like that?”

“Dinner.”

People don’t dress like that for dinner. “With who?” he demands.

“With whom. With a really cute guy…” Florence coyly fights a smile. “He’s Italian.”

“Really? Some Italian guy?”

“You might notice we’re in Italy, Mr. Trumper.”

“Don’t get all smart with me.”

“What’s wrong with Italians?” she defensively asks. “I haven’t snogged anyone in ages. I’ll go mad without a little enjoyment.”

“You ‘snogged’ someone last week.”

“Exactly my point. Oh, he’s so cute, Freddie. I love Italians.” She makes no effort to fight her giddiness. “They have the most adorable accents, don’t they?”

He sighs. The fact that she hasn’t already slept with anyone is unusual, but she was tired the first night and faint the second.

“If you say so.” Personally, he thinks Italians sound stupid. “You’re really going to ‘snog’ some Italian guy?” And he can’t say he isn’t relieved she’s making eyes at some local instead of that evil fucking Russian.

“I told you he’s cute. A real gentleman.”

Fine. Maybe it’s a good thing; it’s a sign she’s feeling better.

“You’ll tell me if you see any of the Russians following you, yeah? You’ll phone Walter and me and we’ll come get you.”

“Of course.”

“Have fun, then.”

She giggles and dashes to the door. “Don’t wait up for meee!”

“I wasn’t going to, Miss Vassy.”

Ugh. Walter’s dragging him somewhere, anyway. He supposes he should get ready.

He’s brought Freddie to a highly rated spa. A rejuvenating full-body treatment will probably not temper Freddie’s rotten mood, but there’s no shame in trying. Besides, Walter’s certainly been looking forward to a little pleasure.

Why host a chess championship in Merano if not to enjoy the spas?

Unfortunately—

“SHE’S HIS WIFE?”

Walter sighs. He lifts a finger to his lips — it’s a goddamn spa, it’s supposed to be relaxing, and he highly doubts the locals appreciate an irate American’s ravings.

“Yes,” he quietly says, hoping Freddie will match his volume, “but that—”

“There’s no way. There’s no fucking way.” Freddie shakes his head so hard his dreadlocks slap him across the face. “I know she does not like men.”

Walter privately agrees. But he says, “Whether or not she likes men is her business.”

“Poor Florence.” Freddie isn’t even listening. “God. When she finds out…”

“She knows.”

“SHE KNOWS?”

This time, a couple in one of the pools shoots murderous glares their way. Walter doesn’t blame them. He shushes Freddie and Freddie lowers his voice (by one decibel). “She didn’t tell me.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned anything. But with Freddie pestering him about Svetlana Sergievskaya, Walter thought — incorrectly — that revealing she’s only the challenger’s wife and not some secret KGB spy might placate. If anything, he’s riled him up.

“Why would Florence be upset?” Walter asks, recalling her non-reaction at the hotel. One of the attendants approaches with cucumbers, so he lies down on the treatment table and hopes Freddie will follow.

“She made Florence crazy.” He lies down, though he seems no less agitated. “And I don’t throw that word around lightly. But she literally made Florence crazy. You don’t even know. Florence was, like, a completely different person before rooming with her.”

...

...

...

Oh.

They were roommates.

With a burst of clarity, Walter realizes.

Unclear how he didn’t piece it together before. He’s usually good at these sorts of things. He almost laughs — it all makes sense! Freddie and Florence were friends. Florence began a sexual, if not romantic, relationship with Svetlana. And Freddie got jealous. He had to find something about her to hate, and the fact that she was Russian was the perfect excuse.

“She sleeps with a stuffed animal that evil Russian left her.” Freddie closes his eyes as the attendant begins placing cucumbers over his eyes. “It looks evil. Its ears are too big. It’s like a fucked-up teddy bear.”

Walter sighs deeply and closes his eyes. A moment later the attendant begins placing the cool, welcome cucumbers. He lets himself enjoy the sensation — one, two, three! — and does his best at fashioning a response Freddie Trumper might deem acceptable.

But he was quiet for too long. Freddie takes advantage and keeps going.

“Florence was only a baby. She was nineteen. That evil Russian was already twenty-one. She was preying on her.”

Walter resolves never to mention any of his prior relationships to Freddie. “Look, Florence is clever. Don’t you think you ought to trust her judgment a little more?”

“Listen to me. That evil Russian destroyed her. But she refuses to accept that someone she loved poisoned her.”

Freddie lives in a unique reality and arguing on that premise is fruitless. That’s Florence’s problem — she dismisses every complaint of Freddie’s as psychosis. Walter calls into question the merit of his points. After all, snapping at Freddie to take his pills won’t miraculously cure him of his paranoia.

“Why do you think she was poisoned?” The cucumbers are exquisite. He feels his eye bags disappearing. “As I understand, she suffered a severe allergic reaction. Extremely unfortunate, but she recovered okay. That’s what matters, right?”

“No. First of all, she is not okay. Second, she was poisoned. That evil Russian was done with her and was — you know — disposing of her.”

“You weren’t there, Freddie,” Walter quietly says, because he’s heard as much from Florence. But it’s the wrong thing to say.

“I just know she didn’t have a seizure! I have seizures! Those don’t stop your heart and give you a fucking stroke! Those doctors don’t fucking know what they’re talking about.”

Okay.

“Florence has very severe allergies. She’s very careful, but she was bound to have an accident.”

“But she didn’t before she was poisoned! That’s my goddamn point. You know she used to be, like, semi-normal about food? She was a weird vegan, but she did ten thousand sports and she danced every day. She actually used to eat. And now she’s terrified of food because of that evil fucking Russian’s poison.”

Walter attributes Florence’s food issues to something else. It’s sad, but it’s extremely common among ballerinas — and he's not going to explain to Freddie that his best friend has an eating disorder on top of a mile-long list of allergies.

“Maybe,” he suggests instead, “we can start by not calling Mrs. Sergievskaya ‘that evil fucking Russian.’”

“Fine, maybe that white devil will work better,” Freddie snaps and Walter only refrains from pinching his nose because he can feel the attendant’s lathered it with a creamy face mask.

The last thing he needs is for someone to hear his champion referring to his opposition’s wife as an evil fucking Russian or a white devil.

“Has she ever threatened you?”

“Yes! Well — not verbally. But yes!” When Walter sighs, Freddie presses on. “She threatened me with her eyes. She was thinking threats at me. I know she was. She hates me. She hates that I have her figured out.”

“Freddie…”

“She poisoned Florence! That isn’t a threat. That’s an action.” His breathing is excited and erratic. “And you know why she’s so scared of me? Because her evil overlords beat her up when she fucks up. That's how the KGB works. And if I manage to convince people that she is a spy — which she is — then she’s going to get into big trouble. And that’s why she hates me.”

“Freddie.”

“I don’t get it, Walter. I really don’t. It’s so obvious she’s a KGB spy. Like, it’s so fucking obvious. You and Florence — I respect her as a chess player and you as a business person, but, man, you’re stupid as fuck when it comes to the Russians. I mean, these people killed Florence’s dad. Shouldn’t she know better than to trust them?”

That’s enough.

Freddie’s voice is excessively loud again. Walter doesn’t need to open his eyes to know they’re attracting attention. Outbursts — especially for a black man in Europe — will lead to problems.

“You need to be careful,” he firmly says. He can still hear Freddie’s haggard breathing.

“Around the white devil? You bet I do! We all do.”

“I mean you need to control yourself. I understand you’re upset. You’re allowed to be upset. But you need to keep that to yourself.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean!?”

“I’m saying,” Walter says, more quietly still, “that you’ve previously been arrested for domestic violence for a reason.”

That works.

It stops Freddie in his tracks. He can tell, because Freddie stops breathing. He hears one soft intake of breath and nothing else and imagines the look of hurt that crosses his face.

It’s quiet and serene for five seconds.

“That was a misunderstanding,” Freddie says. He finally speaks softly, coolly, cowed. “I’d never lay a hand on Florence like that.”

Walter believes him. He also knows Freddie’s agitation can get out of control.

“I don’t need to know what happened,” Walter says, “because what happened is what the records say. And with a prior arrest for domestic violence, you need to watch yourself.”

Slowly, Freddie’s breathing becomes audible again. Worse, it becomes burdened.

He can hear Freddie’s sniffles.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “You don’t believe me. No one does. What am I supposed to do, sit around and wait for that evil fucking white Russian devil to poison Florence again?”

“Freddie—“

“Fuck off, Walter.”

And Walter only removes his cucumbers in time to see Freddie storming out of the spa, his hands shoved deep into his jean jacket’s pockets.

One moment, they’re sipping wine in Merano. The next, they’re in a Thai restaurant in New York.

Florence is coughing. Florence is choking.

Florence is dying.

Svetlana’s paralyzed with fear, just as she’d been nine years ago. But it’s hard to live in the past when Florence is so impossibly lively. She hardly eats, because she says she ate an early dinner at the hotel. The lack of food gives her a lot of time to talk and laugh and Florence was always so good at both. Her laugh, at the moment, is barely restrained. Her face is flushed with excitement.

“There was totally a mouse!” she insists, trying and failing to suppress her giggles. “Just because you never saw it—!”

“I never doubted you,” Svetlana promises.

And she didn’t.

The evening feels disturbingly familiar. It’s plucked from the past; it feels so ridiculously effortless and that makes Svetlana push her guard higher. What ended their relationship nine years ago has gone unacknowledged. Florence dangles it over her head, a sword waiting to drop. Svetlana loathes herself. She used to do so well under pressure. But with Sasha always dangling something over her…

The thought alone makes her flinch, shattering the picture-perfect evening. She doesn’t mean to.

Florence notices.

Her giggling stops. The cheer in her face is replaced with concern.

“Are you alright?” she asks, so softly and so tenderly and Svetlana wishes she could snap at her to stop and to simply yell at her or hit her for what she did nine years ago.

“Yes, love.” She searches Florence’s face for any sign that she’s gearing up to hurt her — as she should. But this was their same problem nine years ago. Svetlana approached Florence under the assumption that she was a threat. But Sasha's information was wrong. 

It’s different now, she supposes. Sasha isn’t saying Florence is a threat. He’s merely saying Svetlana should seduce Florence to the American’s detriment. But Florence is ever a master of expression.

Over the warm candlelight, a deep exhaustion seeps bone-deep. Tonight’s is the first full meal Svetlana’s had since their arrival three days ago. It feels heavy in her stomach and the night is warm and Florence is stunning and Svetlana is tired of being on edge, tired of waiting for something to go wrong (because it must; it always does). She wishes she could lie down and close her eyes and sleep without the nagging worry that something’s coming for her.

“You look tired.” Florence rests her cold, trembling hand on Svetlana’s. “Are they being kind to you?”

“Who, dear?”

“Your delegation?”

“You think they aren’t kind?”

“They were all very courteous to me when I wasn’t feeling well,” Florence softly says. “But I just… I wonder, surrounded by so many…”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Florence draws her hand back. “You should rest. It’s getting late.”

And just like that, Svetlana’s ruined the evening.

But for her, it was ruined before it started. Every interaction she has with Florence, while under Sasha’s instruction, is tainted.

“I have a bottle of wine in my room,” she mutters. She doesn’t want to do this, but Sasha's counting on her. “Would you like…?”

And she finds herself desperately wishing Florence will turn it down. Maybe she’s too tired, still recovering, she doesn’t want to leave Freddie alone for the evening. To her despair, Florence offers a sweet smile that pains Svetlana.

“I’d love to,” she softly says, and Svetlana is suddenly cold despite the warm air.

They reach Svetlana’s room.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Florence pins her to it with unexpected force. For one bizarre second, Svetlana thinks Florence is attacking her and she does nothing — this is what she’s been waiting for all evening.

But Florence is only kissing her. (Could that be the same thing?) And so she kisses back as deeply, because that is all she does and all she’s good for. The room is dark and quiet, save for the sounds of their shallow breaths and kisses.

“I saw your ring,” Florence whispers when she is able, “and I wondered.”

“Wondered…?”

“If you still — if you’d — if you thought about me.” She struggles with words amidst short breaths and desperate kisses. Every time Svetlana thinks Florence is drawing away, she doubles down.

She kisses Svetlana like her life depends on it. And Svetlana kisses back because her life does depend on it.

Once upon a time, she might have loved Florence. But she was young and she was an empty canvas, waiting to be written, and Sasha took up the easel. He told her so consistently, under lashes and fists, that she never really loved Florence.

He wanted to associate her thoughts of Florence with pain and hurt. And he succeeded.

Florence kisses her again, too hard, too fast, knocking the breath out of them both. It’s like she knows she’s running out of time, or maybe she thinks if she kisses Svetlana deeply enough time will revert itself and Svetlana will never leave her.

“I never stopped loving you,” Florence whispers into her ear, “and then I saw your ring. I figured it must mean something.”

“It does. I could never stop loving you either, my darling,” she whispers back, and it’s both a lie and a truth. It’s a lie: she stopped loving years ago. It’s a truth: Florence Vassy isn’t someone you fall out of love with. It's both: Sasha tarnished her every memory of Florence and now she can't think of Florence without tensing and bracing for physical pain and that will always drown out love. 

In a room nearby, Anatoly lies awake and stares at the unfamiliar ceiling and feels more lonely than ever. In a room in another hotel, Freddie fitfully dreams of the death of his best friend. And in a laboratory in another country, Svetlana’s fallen asleep with her hand still wrapped around a half-empty bottle of vodka and she dreams sweetly of Anatoly.

Chapter Text

Svetlana takes a hot shower. When that doesn’t help, she takes an even hotter shower that turns her skin bright red and feels like acid. When that doesn’t help, she takes a cold shower. And when that doesn’t help, she abandons the idea of a comforting shower altogether and numbly stands in the middle of her hotel room’s bathroom. Water drips from her hair and onto her neck and runs down her chest and back and stomach. A puddle slowly forms on the towel she’s standing on. It chills her feet.

There’s a comb by the sink. A couple of strands of long, curly dark hair are caught in it. She doesn’t know how long she stares.

…

…

…

A knock.

She blinks. A drop of cold water on her forehead rolls down the side of her face. Her arms, damp, are covered in goosebumps.

“Please, no housekeeping,” she quietly calls. But the voice that answers isn’t the housekeeper’s.

“It’s only me,” he says, and she buries her face in a towel before wiping herself off and hurriedly dressing. Buttoning her shirt with shaking fingers is difficult.

She opens the door nearly a minute later. He’s waiting with his saintly patience. She wonders when it’ll run out.

“You’re cold,” her husband murmurs, misinterpreting her tremors. He shrugs off his burgundy cardigan and puts it over her shoulders. She lets him.

“I’m fine.”

He knows better than to take her word for it, but he’s helpless. Perhaps she should feel guilty about last night (and this morning), but she doesn’t feel much at all.

She notices his face is irritated with razor burn, a natural response to shaving multiple times a day.

“We can both get breakfast,” he suggests and he must hate himself for suggesting it when they both know what the answer will be.

“I’m not very hungry.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe.”

It won’t happen.

“Tomorrow’s a rest day.” His voice is even softer than hers. “Maybe we could…”

They couldn’t. A rest day means she’ll need to entertain Florence.

She once would have given her life for one day more with Florence. Now the mere idea is unpleasant, daunting, monumental, and deeply unsettling at best. In fact, she’d rather spend the day entertaining her husband, because she, at least, knows him.

Touching him wouldn’t terrify her.

Her throat constricts.

“I’m very busy, but we’ll see.” She shifts her weight in a way that indicates her desire to be left alone. The truth is she hasn’t the energy to feel guilty. “You should relax tomorrow. Do something you want to do. You deserve it.”

But he leaves after that. Who knows how the conversation ended? Alone again, she walks to an armchair and sits and absentmindedly watches a dove on her balcony. She stays exclusively on the first floor. Sasha doesn’t trust her after…

She closes her eyes and leans back.

There are many things she remembers and many more she doesn’t. She’s thinking of Florence, but she can’t think of Florence without thinking of Sasha. She tenses instinctively, expecting a lash. To love Florence is to feel pain. To be with her, a blow, to even think of her, a lash.

She reunited with Florence and it felt like nothing — besides the pain she now associates with Florence. She can’t even remember what they talked about during dinner. She must’ve sat there, talking, eating, laughing. She played her role expertly. But the specifics of the evening evade her. Florence could have mentioned her father. Svetlana might have said she’s a schoolteacher.

It’s funny. In the days following her return from New York, she thought seeing Florence again could have saved her. A childish fantasy: Florence by her side, Florence holding her hand, Florence telling her she didn’t deserve what Sasha... Florence, in dreams, might’ve reignited Svetlana with that fire of hers, dragged her to this side of the growing chasm between woman and weapon — because that’s the type of person Fantasy Florence was.

But, just as it was nine years ago, the real Florence can’t be enough. Florence, her fantasy and her dream and her hope bundled into love, all dashed forever.

Florence stumbles into the suite she shares with Freddie. She clasps her hands over her mouth in an attempt to quiet herself. But there’s no disguising her frantic gasps for breath amidst painful giggles.

She can’t stop reliving the moment. She reunited with her dear Svetka and it felt like everything.

That sparks another round of hysterical laughter. She laughs so hard she cries. She laughs so hard she collapses onto the couch, dizzy from lack of oxygen. She laughs so hard it frightens her and that makes her cry harder and that makes her laugh harder. She’s spasming between sobs and snorts when Walter, no knocks or announcements, walks in.

She tries to clear her mind like the doctor said, but Svetka sneaks into her thoughts, the quiet, sly thing she is. Florence weeps into a pillow and it’s both from sorrow that she spent so long without her sweet Svetka and fucking ecstasy that her darling heart has finally come back to her. 

Walter has a theory he isn’t willing to publish — imagine the bad publicity — that posits all chess players are psychotic. He hasn’t determined if his theory goes:

psychosis —> becoming a chess player

or

becoming a chess player —> psychosis.

Regardless, the two chess players he works with work overtime to keep his theory alive.

“There, there.” He can’t tell if Florence is crying or laughing. She’s doing both. (And he wonders if the Soviet manager has to deal with as much — Sergievsky and Viigand seem much easier to deal with than his unfortunate duo.)

Then again, looks can be deceiving.

He rubs Florence’s back to no effect. She’s curled into fetal position on the couch, straining for air, panicked tears making their way down her cheeks. She attempts to muffle herself with a pillow. He takes it; no need for additional blockage.

He closes the curtains, collects a blanket, and returns to the couch. Step one is to get Florence as physically comfortable as possible. Step two is to dim the room. Her sleeping disorder takes care of step three. In a few minutes, her laughing sobs are replaced with shallow breaths as her body rushes to recover oxygen.

When Florence begins to snore, he finally relaxes. It’s a good thing Freddie’s not there. He usually panics and cries poison!, which only makes Florence more hysterical and that sets off a hideous feedback loop.

He picks up the newspaper. Jet-lag always hits her hardest. She doesn’t stir until nearly an hour later.

“Hey, kid.” He looks over. “Welcome back.”

She sits immediately. Some of her hair is drool-plastered to her cheek. Her eyelids flutter, but she stubbornly fights because she’s Florence. Before she succumbs to sleep again, she stands and roughly rubs her eyes.

“Freddie is…?”

“In my hotel room.” And before she gets any ideas, he shakes his head. “Came knocking at my door around three. Said he couldn’t stay in this room. It’s bugged.”

Florence grimaces but says nothing.

He opens the curtains again. Morning sunlight floods inside, momentarily blinding them both.

He brings her a glass of water, an apple, and her pill box. She stares at the glass of water, then abruptly leans back and pours it over her face. Her shirt gets soaked, but she achieves the desired effect. Her eyes grow slightly more alert.

He refills the glass with no comment. That girl will do anything in the face of a sleep attack except sleep. At least she had the good sense to leave the cocaine at home.

“I think Freddie’s worried about you.” He’s worried too. It’s not that he believes everything Freddie has to say, but between Florence’s medical records and… everything else, he has to wonder.

She doesn’t say anything. So he has to. “You and I both know where you were last night.” And this morning. How Freddie believed her lie about some Italian boy — he’s always had too much blind faith in his best friend.

“I’m an adult.” Florence won’t meet his eyes. “I spend my nights as I wish.”

“Sure. But you should consider how it affects you.”

“It doesn’t.”

Fine. “You should consider how it affects Freddie. He’s our source of income. And if he’s too busy worrying about you, that’s our problem.” She still won’t answer. “He’s telling me that after she left, you were — confused and —“

“Oh, me. He’s the one raving about cameras and microphones and secret agents and spies and he’s worried about me being confused.”

Well. She’s definitely awake now. In a demonstration, she takes her pills and swallows audibly, as if to say, My name is Florence Vassy and I take my pills. I’m not crazy like Freddie Trumper because, unlike him, I take my medication on the dot.

He caters to her pride.

“Look,” he says, “we know this is all in Freddie’s head. But for the sake of the championship, can’t we humor him?”

“I’m not going to stop seeing Svetka!”

Svetka. Walter groans internally. She really is in love.

“I’m not saying you have to. I’m saying we should work together to ensure he doesn’t find out.”

He sees her weigh her options. She stews, then flops down on the couch. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He sits with her. “I know he isn’t easy.”

But Florence isn’t listening, which is unlike her. She wraps a lock of hair around her finger. Her lips quirk into an unwitting smile.

“She told me she loves me.”

And you believed her? is his first thought, but he keeps that to himself. “I… see.”

“I pushed her away the first time.” Her shoulders hunch. One is black with bruising from her fainting spell two days ago. “I wanted too much. Cried too much. Talked too much. Maybe I was too silly or maybe she wanted someone with — someone who doesn’t look like me. The girl she really loved was waiting at home for her.”

He has no idea how to respond to that.

“But now she’s giving me a second chance.” She turns to Walter with glittering eyes. “I’m worried about her. She flinched when I touched, then told me it was nothing. I think someone’s hurting her.”

Troubling. “Not Sergievsky, surely?”

“No! No. I don’t think — I mean… do you think he’s the type…?”

“No,” Walter honestly says. He can’t picture Sergievsky lifting a finger even in self-defense.

“No,” Florence echoes. “It must be someone else. Her hair is going grey. Just above her ears. Kind of like you.”

He snorts. “Thanks.”

“But she’s too young for that. And it bears mentioning again, she tenses under my hands.” She tears up. “I suppose I hurt her. I must have hurt her. I didn’t mean to.”

“Kid…”

“She looked so tired. My poor, poor Svetka… she's hurting.”

Florence’s hands tremble more than they usually do. He puts his hands around hers and tries to rub warmth into them. A hot tear rolls off Florence’s cheek and splashes onto his thumb.

Her stomach growls painfully loudly. He puts the apple in her hand. To his relief, she absentmindedly takes a bite.

Then she seems to realize how hungry she is. She devours the rest of the apple and he gets another and she eats that one, too. He doubts she’ll eat a third, but he sets it on the coffee table anyway.

“I’ve been asking around and there’s this ice cream place,” he quietly says. “Italian gelato is supposed to be delicious. They have a line of sorbets that are made in a completely allergen-free environment. You should try it out.”

Florence stands.

“What time is the game today? Eleven, right?”

It was worth a try. “Eleven, yes.”

She glances at the clock on the wall. 

“I’ll go clean up. Please, could you wake Freddie and shove his bloody pills down his throat if you have to and then bring him back here? We need to go over Anatoly’s middle game strategy. Again.”

“Sure.”

“I swear to God, if he’s still talking about fucking cameras when he gets back here—”

“He won’t be,” Walter promises. He hopes it’s a promise he can keep.

He stops at the door.

“Florence?”

She looks his way. He hesitates.

“It’ll all be over soon,” he reminds her. It’s supposed to be comforting. “The boys will play their games and Freddie will win and then we’ll go home. It’s just a matter of how quickly Freddie wins. We could be home by the week after next.”

Florence had picked up the third apple. It slips from her hand.  “What do you mean, it’ll all be over soon?”

“I mean, you and Freddie and I will be home and the Russian and his wife will go back behind the curtain.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes he's made a mistake. An eternity passes and Florence smiles very sweetly. This prompts a dozen alarms in his head. 

“Of course,” she says. “It’ll all be over soon. I’ll see you in a bit!”

She picks up the third apple, bites into it, and disappears into her room. He watches her go, uneasier than ever. Freddie always asks for rooms with no balconies and he says it’s because of Florence. But Florence doesn’t have Freddie’s fear of heights.

He claims she went completely off the rails after Mrs. Svetlana Sergievskaya left the first time.

The thing is that as complicated as Freddie is, he wears his every emotion on his face. When something’s wrong, he makes sure everyone knows.

But Florence?

He heads to his room to find Freddie, who’s still curled up on the couch. He jumps a foot when Walter wakes him.

“Is Florence—” he frantically asks, “—is she — is she — is she okay?”

“Yes. Get up. She wants to see you.”

But Freddie hugs a pillow. “I had a dream we were back in college and she — she never woke up after the coma. I had to pull the plug.”

Unfortunately, Walter does not have an endless supply of patience and Florence used it all up.

“Okay. Well. Thankfully, she’s alive and well and she’s waiting for you. And Freddie?”

“Huh?”

He feels a headache coming on. “Please let’s keep the talk about the cameras and the antennas and the poison and the spies to a minimum, okay? You already talked to me last night. You don’t need to tell Florence.”

Freddie’s flabbergasted. “But she needs to know!”

Walter shakes his head. “No,” he firmly says. “She really, really doesn’t.”

Florence goes into her room and locks the door behind her. Then she stands against her window with her forehead pressed against it. It’s a cool day.

In the distance, she sees two street cats with their tails wrapped around each other's. The sight makes her giddy.

“Papa, she says she loves me.” She can’t help it. The tears come back. “Just like you said. She’s giving me another chance. She thinks I’m enough.”

When she read Svetka’s letter (and hurled every curse she could at Freddie, insisting he’d forged it and that Svetka was at their flat, caring for Florence's garden in her absence and waiting for her to come home from the hospital) and she’d seen Svetka’s confession that her true love was not Florence, Florence’s already fragile self-esteem had shattered completely.

But now?

It all has to mean something. Or it means everything, because Svetka means everything.

"I'll be good enough this time," she tells her papa and it's also a vow to herself. "I'll love her better than I did and she'll see I care and... maybe she'll think I'm worth it. Am I?"

She closes her eyes and waits for his answer.

Chapter Text

She's in Sasha’s suite. The sun fails to warm her.

“What has she said about last time?” 

“Nothing.” He expects more and she wishes she could give it to him. “We’ve spoken about our time together at university, generally, but we’ve avoided discussing the end of our relationship altogether. I thought it best not to broach the subject if she hasn’t.”

“You thought well,” he says, but he plays off a grimace. “I would have thought she’d, at the very least, inquire after your abrupt departure.”

So did Svetlana. It is unnerving how they've avoided the conversation in its entirety.

Sasha shifts. “What are your plans for tomorrow’s rest day?”

“Entertain her. She'll spend the night and I will… take it from there.”

“Good. Good. She won’t have time to practice with the American if she's busy with you. Perhaps he’ll grow suspicious.”

She nods. And Sasha says, "You’re doing well, Sveta. I’ve been watching how you handle her. You’re atoning for your last mistake.”

She doesn’t dare welcome complacency. Sloppiness, her prime fault. But at his praise, she feels the rush she felt at fourteen upon receiving a piece of candy.

“Failure is not an option," he reminds her.

And she knows that better than anyone.

He’s never enjoyed rest days.

Most players use rest days to explore the hosting cities. Anatoly usually spends rest days locked in his hotel room with his chess set and wishing time would pass more quickly. Were he a FIDE organizer, there’d be no rest days at all. Besides, he sincerely doubts the American enjoys them any more than he does.

What’s worse is he has to suffer the knowledge that his wife is entertaining someone far lovelier than him. By early afternoon, he can no longer bear his solitude. He leaves his hotel room in search of — something? Anything.

As he walks through the lobby, no one looks his way. (He lacks the American’s magnetism.) His eyes find someone familiar sitting on one of the couches. No, not sitting — slumping.

He rushes over. But as he sits beside her, the cushions shift. Miss Vassy gasps awake, one hand flying to her chest. He’s just as startled as she is.

“I’m so sorry!” she breathlessly says. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“The mistake was mine.” He was stupid to intervene. Now he’s pinned himself. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you might be feeling faint again.”

“Thank you for checking on me. That’s very sweet."

He can't remember the last time his face was inches away from anyone else’s. Awkwardly, he turns away.

By any measure, he should dislike her. They both know why she’s in the hotel he and, more importantly, his wife are staying at. But all he can think of is her apology for her fainting spell the day of the first game. She addressed him when no one else did.

Molokov’s warning resurfaces: Just be careful. The American? An utter lunatic. You already know that. But his second? She’s even worse.

And yet her manner feels much kinder. 

“Are you feeling better?” he asks.

“Much."

Getting a good look at her face floors him. He’d seen she was beautiful, but it can’t compare to sitting beside her. She might have the loveliest face he’s ever seen. “It’s just this horrid jet-lag. I can’t seem to shake it off! I sat down only to catch my breath and I fell asleep…”

He doesn’t ask what she’s doing in his hotel and she doesn’t say. 

She wears a pale blue dress of chiffon and a matching ribbon in her hair, but he suspects she'd stun in any color. He’s always resented how poorly he looks — his skin is too pale for vibrant colors and far too dark for pastel colors. Nothing fits right, because he isn’t right.

Looking at her, he wonders if the problem isn’t his skin color. Here she is, beautiful in blue, and here he is, uncomfortable in an all-black business ensemble. Molokov insisted they all dress more sharply than they usually do to show the world how sophisticated they are when contrasted against the American’s jeans and sneakers. But he wishes he were wearing one of his colorful cardigans. Perhaps his slacks with a wider fit...

And now he’s feeling miserable. His shoulders sink. Miss Vassy leans forward in concern. She seems like the type who was never teased as a child for having tape on her glasses. She seems like someone who’s never had to endure tape on her glasses, period.

“Are you okay?” she softly asks. And for a moment, he considers really answering. I’m not okay and I’ve never been. The only point in my life in which I briefly thought I was okay was a lie. Who was I to think she fell for me? I travel from competition to competition and she spends all her time with women I could never compete with — women like you.

Someone would need to put a pistol to his head before he might consider divulging any of his thoughts. So he skips an answer altogether. Before he loses what little nerve he has, he turns back to her and blurts out, “I have an extra ticket to the aquarium. Do you want to come with me? Now?”

His wife will never accompany him. Viigand might, but they’d spend the tour in an awkward silence. And — he’s lonely.

“Really? I’d love to!” Her entire face lights up and something flutters within. They stand. Now that Miss Vassy is at his side, people glance over. But he knows who they’re looking at.

The aquarium is only a ten minute walk away. With every step, the questions within bubble harder until one leaks out. It’s a special kind of torture to ask what he knows will only hurt him. But leaving the questions unasked is an even greater torture.

“Sveta mentioned you met in school.”

Saying her name hurts. She’s always his wife — impersonal, factual — and never his Sveta.

And it’s not really a question. He doesn’t ask if their relationship was romantic. He doesn’t need to.

What was she like? is what he really wants to know. Objectively, he met her too late. Sometimes, he (fool), entertains himself with a fantasy that maybe, had he met her before the KGB sunk its claws into her, she would have… he might have…

But it’s strictly a fantasy. He doesn’t know when she joined.

Miss Vassy takes her time. The sun shines on her hair. Her curls, unlike his, are expertly styled. His, frizzy, tousled, never sit quite right. He’s always hated his nightmarish hair. But she shows him how lovely curls can be.

Everything he’s always hated about himself — his glasses, his hair, his clothing, his existence — are the things he's most drawn to in Miss Vassy. It’s a growing list.

“Yes,” Miss Vassy says. “We studied together. She, English. I, psychology. It was a long time ago.”

Clearly not long enough if she's spending her nights with his wife, but he doesn’t say that. He itches to hear more, but Miss Vassy doesn’t divulge and he won’t ask.

They reach the aquarium. As they pass through the initial displays, she asks, “How did you meet Svetlana?”

“At a bar." He tries to focus on the clownfish instead of the memory. It’d been his favorite memory once and he often replayed it at night, giddy and blushing, hardly daring to believe a beautiful — no, handsome — woman would look his way. And he shouldn’t have believed it.

Miss Vassy doesn’t press. They admire the clownfish together, then move to the next display (angelfish).

She puts him at ease. When they reach the turtles, she stands so closely to the glass that her glasses fog up. She mimics a turtle bobbing its head up and down. She snorts when she giggles. It’s cute.

Under refracted aquarium lights, her blue dress and the ribbon in her hair glow. He finds himself staring at her in lieu of the sea creatures (and he loves sea creatures). There’s something about her he can’t pinpoint that traps his gaze. She’s looking at rays in amazement and he looks at her in amazement. He wonders if he’s attracted to her. The irony that he and his wife might be chasing after the same woman amuses him. He lets it amuse him. It’s either amusement or despair.

They reach the jellyfish displays and he comes alive. He’s drawn to the first ones: the blood-belly combs. He’s only ever seen pictures — maintaining a blood-belly comb is difficult because of the tremendous pressure they must be kept under. Miss Vassy doesn’t know how lucky she is. He tells her this, and then he tells her about the blood-belly comb’s habits. Next up are the nettles: bay and sea! He explains the difference in detail. Miss Vassy hangs on to his every word and he comes close to falling in love.

He’s in the middle of falling in love and telling her about snow globe jellies when he notices the judgmental glances nearby. It’s rare when people notice him. When they do, it’s always negative. He sees pity and distaste. All of a sudden, he’s ten and he’s in school. The girls tease his Kazakh accent. The boys call him names because he’s wearing his mother’s perfume.

Stupid. Fucking weird. Touched in the head. Sissy. Churka. Faggot. Worse. He can grow physically, but he’ll never outgrow the identities assigned to him when he was younger. Years of unkindness pile up. Just like that, he’s a dimmed comb jelly. He deflates; he sinks; he regrets.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters and he is. He’s sorry for wasting Miss Vassy's time and he’s sorry for boring her and he’s sorry for embarrassing her by existing and, most of all, he’s sorry for the way he can’t stop looking at her. But her eyes widen and she steps closer to him, gesturing towards the snow globe jellies.

“No, I want to hear. You’re saying they can live as deep as ten thousand feet? They’re survivors, then! Surely most creatures would crush under the pressure.”

“Well — they survive because they have to,” he tells her and he almost cries.

She points at another window. “And these? They look like fireworks…”

“They are firework jellies.” He swallows past the painful lump in his throat. “I used to draw them when I was younger. I’d sketch them and hang them up on my walls and pretend…”

“I think they’re magnificent." She beams. “My gosh. My personal tour guide. Today’s my day, Mr. Sergievsky!”

He finally realizes what she reminds him of. The ribbon in her hair resembles the most glorious tentacles. The skirt of her dress moves like any floating jelly. She might be the loveliest creature of all.

“Can I hold your hand?” he asks.

And then he freezes. Because what he really meant was: Your hands have not stopped shaking this whole time. You must be cold and I have no sweater to offer you. But he didn’t say that. And he wouldn’t want to over-explain. The last thing he wants Miss Vassy thinking is he doubts her intelligence.

Maybe she’ll laugh. Maybe she’ll misinterpret him. But she smiles and puts her hand in his. “Thank you.”

He can’t get it to stop trembling, but he succeeds in warming it.

He wonders what people must think, to see him holding hands with someone as exquisite as any jelly.

The American sits — no, flops — on the bench across. His body language, she sees, is stressed. She’s reminded of a cornered cat. But he followed her to a park nearby.

“You.” He even hisses like a cat.

“Me.” She’s unimpressed. “It’s been a long time.”

“Don’t ‘it’s been a long time’ me. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Nor have I.”

He eyes her with suspicion, hostility, and fear. His shoulders hunch. She sees the glare he’s desperately trying to maintain.

“So what’s your deal?” he demands. “You want me to lose, right? I won’t. I don’t lose against commies.”

He doesn’t know her husband. But she doesn’t say that. She smiles politely.

“I’m sightseeing while my husband participates.” Everyone else believes her. But the American’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Yeah, sure. Keep telling everyone that. Just so you know: she’s moved on. She’s seeing some Italian boy.”

He says it so smugly Svetlana almost laughs. It’s a good feeling. It’s been a long time since she’s laughed. But she doesn’t indulge. The American will have to discover the truth, but she won’t be the one to tell him. 

Her stomach jolts uncomfortably when she realizes what a terrible fight she's going to cause between the American and Florence.

He leans in.

“And I’m going to win. You hear me? I’ll win and I won’t feel bad for whatever happens to you.”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“Your KGB higher-ups are going to torture you.” His face darkens. “And you deserve it after trying to kill Florence. I hope they get you real good.”

It’s not real, she tells herself. She’ll only be tortured if she fails. And she won’t.

The American swallows audibly. “You actually did kill her. Her heart stopped and she had a stroke and the Florence you and I knew died. Which is what you wanted, I guess. She was shy and quiet and she was nice all of a sudden and I miss my Florence every day. So while they’re beating you up, I’ll be celebrating, you evil fucking Russian.”

She’s petrified. So she simply raises an eyebrow. “I think Florence is right, dear,” she coolly says. “You do need to take your pills.”

His lips press together in rage and she can see him debating between escalating and shaking her off. But it boils down to the simple truth that he’s afraid of her. He looks away. His jaw's quivering.

“You killed my best friend,” he says with finality. “I’m glad Florence is alive, but she’s a completely different person. So, yeah, you bet I’ll be rooting for anything that hurts you. And right now the best thing I can do is win.” He stands. “So I will. It’s not even, like, a fuck-all-commies thing anymore. It’s a fuck-you-specifically thing, you murderer.”

He leaves before she answers. Which is fine. 

Her teeth chatter. She watches him from a distance. His hands are shoved in his jean jacket’s pockets and he scowls at the ground as he walks.

She lowers her head.

They’re still holding hands when they leave the aquarium.

“You were so kind to invite me,” she tells him on the way out. Her eyes sparkle. “Let me treat you to ice cream! Well. Gelato.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Who really knows? It’s Italian. My manager went on about how delizioso this place is supposed to be.”

So he agrees.

On their way to the gelato shop, she asks, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

It’s an easy one. “Australia.”

“Really.” She raises her eyebrows. “I’ve never been. Why?”

He can’t possibly embarrass himself any more than he already has.

“The jellyfish.” His self-regard has a tendency towards cruelty. He thinks he winces; he isn’t sure if his face moves. “Probably a stupid reason.”

“Not at all.” Miss Vassy — Florence — looks at him with her wide eyes. “You know I wanted to visit Hungary just because they had a seasonal exhibition of a Czechoslovak children’s show I used to watch? I can’t even imagine how many species of jellyfish must live in Australian waters.”

“No, you can't imagine.” Mostly he’s thinking about how she could have agreed his reason was silly and didn’t. Her hand shakes in his. He squeezes it lightly.

“There’s a very large aquarium in London… my papa took me when I was younger.”

“I want to see,” he blurts out, and she grins.

“Come visit! I’ll take you. It’s only fair.”

He imagines visiting. It’s too nice a thought. It's a fantasy.

“What about you?” he asks. “Where would you go?”

“I’m exactly where I want to be.”

They join the line for gelato. Viigand, queueing in front, suddenly turns. As always, he gives the impression of a mouse that’s been caught in wrongdoing. “Hi,” he nervously says.

But Florence sticks a hand out enthusiastically.

“Leonid Viigand! My gosh, what an honor. I’ve studied your chess games!”

“Me?” His eyes are as wide as snow globe jellies. He looks like he’s waiting for her to burst out laughing. But she nods earnestly.

“You’re fantastic. That game last year, where you beat Li, that was sensational. Freddie got tired of me playing reruns. That trick you pulled with your bishop? I was obsessed.”

“Um,” he says.

His cheeks hint at color. He wraps his arms around himself. Like Anatoly, he can’t seem to take his eyes off Florence’s face. She continues chatting, making up for both Anatoly and Viigand. Five minutes later, Viigand’s cheeks are fully pink. Florence has coaxed a smile onto his face. (Anatoly has seen him smile maybe twice in his life.)

Anatoly opts for mango gelato. Viigand picks a strawberry cream flavor. And Florence selects a cherry gelato from the allergen-free section. All three sit at a table outside. Viigand’s lips turn pink and Florence’s red.

Anatoly watches them. The conversation has turned towards hair care. Florence is recommending a special conditioner. She writes it down on a scrap piece of paper. Viigand smiles with growing confidence. She compliments a plush bunny keychain connected to his crossbody purse. He shows it to her and tells her where he got it. He compliments her dress. She tells him she got it here, actually, in Merano, and she writes down the name of the shop.

Anatoly doesn’t notice Florence is speaking to him until she gently taps his hand. He blinks.

“Are you okay?” she softly asks, and he nods.

He is and he isn’t.

What he’s imagining is a world in which he is brave. In this world, he doesn’t apologize before every breath.

It won’t end well, he suddenly wants to warn Florence. Every city we visit, she has a new lover. You’re no different.

And he means no cruelty. Quite the opposite: it would be more cruel to leave Florence under the impression she has a future with his wife, because his wife has no future. He’s beginning to doubt she ever had a past. She is an agent of the KGB. Was she ever anything but?

He remembers the American’s earlier accusations. Poison. Deceit.

No, he isn’t okay. Florence and Viigand finish their gelato. The afternoon is over when they all stand. Florence says she really must get going, and Anatoly thinks, with a hollow pang, that this must mean she’s going back to his hotel. She’ll be the one in his wife’s arms tonight.

She goes first. Anatoly and Viigand watch her go. The ribbon in her hair looks so pretty he can hardly breathe.

It’s then that it finally hits him.

He isn’t falling in love with Miss Vassy.

He wants to be Florence Vassy.

The realization is like a riptide. He’s a jelly being carried away from everything he knows. His eyes are wide. The hand he’d been using to hold hers tingles warmly. He feels a rush of something beautiful — and far too terrifying.

“Wow,” Viigand, beside him, quietly says. “She’s…”

She sure is. Anatoly couldn’t agree more.

Florence lies across the bed, propped up by her elbow. Svetlana lies flat. Florence gently runs her fingers through soft strands of blonde hair.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

Svetlana tenses. It’s not visible, but Florence feels the slight shift in the mattress. Even in supposed relaxation, Svetlana blocks comfort.

“I don’t know. Is anything wrong, dear?”

She won’t meet Florence’s eyes. She vacantly stares at the ceiling instead.

“I didn’t think so, but you’re…”

She doesn’t say what she’s thinking, which is that her sweet Svetka reminds her of a battered animal searching for a final resting place. The thought seizes her heart. It’s too sad to bear.

“I’m…?”

Florence traces Svetlana’s jaw with a trembling hand. Then she sinks into the mattress, her face mere inches away.

Svetlana looks at her. Her dark eyes are cautious, guarded, incredibly tired, and inexplicably fearful. Florence is able to extract every emotion through memory. Every time Svetlana returned from holiday break, she’d retreat into herself. Time seems to have amplified the effect.

“Is it me?” Florence needs to know. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Svetlana reaches for Florence’s face. She sets a warm hand on Florence’s cool cheek. Florence waits for her to say something more and she doesn’t. So Florence leans in and kisses her softly and sweetly. Then she kisses her again, cupping her face, lowering her hands, touching her Svetka’s shoulders, her arms, her chest...

She feels something in one of her breast pockets. Florence produces a little pawn. She giggles — so unexpected! — and sits up.

“You didn’t tell me you’d changed your mind about chess!” she playfully teases, leaping up off the bed. The top of the pawn is loose. She uses her thumb to—

“Stop.” In a split-second, Svetlana is in front of her. In the dim lighting, Florence still sees how pale she’s gone. The look in her eyes can only be described as terror. “Florence. Give it.”

Florence’s smile fades. She removes her thumb from the top of the pawn and silently holds it out. Svetlana snatches it back — yes, snatches — and places it in her breast pocket again.

Neither say anything. Florence looks to Svetlana. Svetlana looks out the window, pale and pained.

“I was just…” Florence is at a loss. She feels guilty and more. “I’m sorry. I was just playing. I don’t…”

Svetlana sits at the edge of the bed. Florence sits beside her. She tries to touch her Svetka’s back for comfort, but the moment her hand makes contact, Svetlana is retching, throwing a hand over her mouth and rushing to the bathroom.

Florence, stunned, follows. Svetlana vomits into the toilet. Florence’s eyes well up.

“I’m sorry,” she stammers again, horrified. “I’m sorry if I… please, I’m sorry.” Svetlana doesn’t answer. She vomits again. Florence grips the doorframe. “Oh, Svetka... should I go…?”

Svetlana flushes the toilet. She leans against the sink for support and rinses her mouth. Her entire body is trembling. Her face is still dangerously white, except for the area around her eyes, which is red. Florence wants nothing more than to gather her into her arms and take her to bed, but if Florence is the problem, if Florence is the one hurting Svetlana…

“…I’ll just go,” Florence whispers, because her voice will break if she uses it. She returns to the bedroom and puts her things into her backpack and heads to the door. As she passes the bathroom, she sees her Svetka still there, gripping the sink, head bowed.

Renewed guilt crushes Florence. She leaves.

When she steps into the hallway, Svetlana appears at the door.

“Please stay.” Her eyes, too, are brimming, even if tears don’t fall. “I’m sorry.”

“I just don’t know if I should.” Florence wants nothing more than to stay. “I’m hurting you.”

But Svetlana shakes her head. “Please come back, my darling.”

And Florence hesitates for an eternal ten seconds. But the sight of her sweet, broken Svetka defeats her. She returns to the room and wraps her arms around her. Svetlana tenses, like she always does, then slowly relaxes into Florence’s arms.

Florence can still feel the pawn in Svetlana’s breast pocket. It’s pressed against Florence’s breast now, too.

She pulls away.

“We can just sleep tonight.” She brushes her Svetka’s hair out of her face. “Just sleep all night long.”

“I’d like that,” Svetlana whispers.

And they do. Until around midnight, when Svetlana, fueled by nightmares, wakes them both with her piercing screams.