When Nesta came down for breakfast the next morning, she was in a foul mood. She hadn't slept at all as her mind kept replaying the party over and over. She couldn't seem to forget the feeling of the stranger's hands on her body, of the way they'd swayed together to the music.

And, worst of all, she wasn't sure she wanted to forget. And that made her angry. She was supposed to be doing a job, one she'd failed at last night, and, what's more, she was never going to see the stranger again. How could she? She didn't even know his name or what he looked like without his mask.

When Nesta found Anatoliy in the breakfast room, she would have turned around and gone back upstairs, except Anatoliy saw her before she could flee. 

"Nesta! Good morning!"

Nesta frowned as she took a seat on the other side of the table. "Why are you so cheerful?" 

"Here," Anatoliy passed her the teapot. "You look like you need this."

Nesta poured a generous cupful into one of the tall, glass teacups that Kirovkans favored. She'd never quite gotten used to those cups, to how unwieldy they were, to the way the cups rattled against the metal holders. Sometimes, she missed the smaller, Kellan teacups–such a strange thing to miss–the way you could cradle them in both hands, the sound of clinking porcelain. 

The tea was different, too. Nesta couldn't quite put her finger on how. Maybe the Kellan brews were more bitter, or maybe the Kirovkan ones were smokier. Or maybe it was something else entirely. She didn't know. But it wasn't the same.

"How do you drink that without sugar?" Anatoliy demanded as she took a sip of the strong, black brew. "Or milk. I thought you Kellans took your tea with milk."

Nesta shrugged. "Milky tea is vile. Besides, it dilutes it. I need it strong today."

Anatoliy chuckled. "Well, your late night paid off." He pulled something out of his pocket and set it on the table, an elegant envelope with a red wax seal that looked very official.

"What is it?" Nesta asked, knowing Anatoliy wanted her to.

"An invitation to lunch today, at the Rose Room. Have you been?"

"To the Rose Room? Not a chance. Unlike some people, I wasn't born with a silver spoon shoved up my ass."

Anatoliy chuckled. "Some of us were born with platinum spoons, actually."

Nesta rolled her eyes and nodded to the envelope. "From Prince Kirill?"

"No," Anatoliy said. "He'll be there. That was explicitly mentioned. It's from Prince Nicolai."

Nesta choked on her tea. "What?" she spluttered. She hadn't even met Prince Nicolai. Unless... Maybe Kirill had gotten his brother to invite them, for some reason?

"Seems you made an impression last night. Well done."

Nesta thought that it was a minor miracle that she managed not to blurt out that she hadn't even met Prince Nicolai yet. 

"Here." Anatoliy said, sliding a plate of herring across to her.

Nesta shuddered. "Thanks, but I'd rather starve."

"Not a fan of herring?" Anatoliy asked with a smirk. He slid the plate away from her, thankfully, and passed her a platter of the Kirovkan pancakes called mlyntsi. They were a variant of a more popular Solniyan dish, bliny, although, in Nesta's opinion, they were the same thing with different names. Not that she'd ever say that to a Kirovkan–or a Solniyan, for that matter.

These ones were filled with cheese and fruit preserves, and Nesta's mouth watered as she helped herself to a generous portion. She hadn't eaten anything at the masquerade, and when they'd returned to the townhouse, she'd gone straight to bed in an attempt to avoid having to talk to Anatoliy, and now she was famished.

Anatoliy watched in amusement as she devoured two in quick succession.

"So," she asked him, since he seemed determined to stick around. "What, exactly, does one wear to a lunch at the Rose Room?"

"It's not technically a lunch," Anatoliy pointed out. "It's a tea, since it's being taken at a tea room. And you should wear a tea dress."

Nesta stared at him for a beat. "And what, exactly, is a tea dress?"

Anatoliy blinked. "Not a clue. Something ladies wear to tea."

Nesta rolled her eyes. "If I knew what that was, I wouldn't have asked." 

"I'll ask someone," Anatoliy conceded.

Nesta sat back in her chair, feeling rather smug. "Thank you. Pass the porridge, please?"

✦————✴————✦

Tea, it turned out, was an entirely different meal from lunch, held at an entirely different time. When Nesta and Anatoliy arrived at the Rose Room, it was already three, and Nesta was famished again.

True to his word, Anatoliy had sent a maid to help Nesta dress. The maid had picked out a frock in a fetching shade of rose, far frillier and more girlish than most of Nesta's new wardrobe. Nesta had paired the dress with a blush-colored headband that she thought matched the gown quite prettily.

Anatoliy, as usual, wore black.

Nesta wondered what people thought of the pair of them as she floated up the stairs to the tea room on Anatoliy's arm. What did they think of the grim-faced man clad in somber black, and the girl on his arm in her pink frills and ribbons? Did they wonder why they were together? Did they whisper of how they didn't quite fit together?

When they stepped inside, Nesta felt a little better about her choice of attire. The vast tea room, located on the top floor of one of the new department stores in the city center, was bright and airy, full of greenery and life. A massive glass dome let sunlight spill into the space, and rose vines climbed columns up to the high ceiling. The walls were inlaid with bits of jade-colored enamel and paneled with white plaster. The elaborate moldings that ran around the edges of the room were carved to look like roses.

Tables were scattered about as if to give the impression of carelessness, with potted plants and folding screens giving the illusion of privacy to the diners–mostly women and families. The young, unmarried women could be recognized by the pale pastels they wore, while the matrons wore darker tones. The men, like Anatoliy, wore mostly monochromes.

"Wait here," Anatoliy instructed Nesta as he went to speak with the host.

While they spoke, Nesta wandered over to a painting hanging on the wall near the host stand. In the painting, four women sat together at a table surrounded by potted plants, their heads bent together. They all wore fashionable shades of peach, robin's egg blue and cream, a color palette which offset the green and pink decor of the tea room quite nicely.

"It's a Kazan," a voice came from behind her, making her jump.

Nesta whirled and found herself face-to-face with a stranger. The man was older, perhaps fifty or sixty. His dark hair was thinning and tinged with grey, and his dark eyes reminded her of chips of flint. His features were stern, hard, and yet his expression wasn't unkind.

"One of his earlier works," he continued, despite Nesta's unease. "They hang it for the bragging rights. His paintings sell for thousands, these days. The nobility can't get enough of them."

"It's... nice," Nesta said lamely. Over the man's shoulder, she saw Anatoliy approaching, and, for the first time that she'd ever seen, he looked... afraid.

The man snorted. "It's insipid."

"A-as you say, sir," Nesta stammered as Anatoliy at last reached her side and placed himself, almost protectively, between her and the stranger.

"Count Valiev," Anatoliy greeted the stranger, his tone tight, strained.

Nesta had to fight not to flinch. Count Valiev... She knew that name. It was a name that sent frissons of fear through the Halfworld and the Shadow World.

Count Valiev was the recently-appointed Lord Provost in charge of Zaryevsk's law enforcement, and, unlike his predecessors, he was actually competent. More than that, he was famed for his iron will and inflexible sense of justice. If the law said that a thief should lose a hand, and he caught a child stealing, rumor had it, he would carry out the rule of the law to the letter, no matter how harsh the punishment, and call it justice.

Nesta's feet itched with the urge to flee.

"Lord Malinin," the Lord Provost said, and although his tone was affable, there was something about it that turned Nesta's blood to ice. "Fancy meeting you here. And who is your companion?"

"My cousin," Anatoliy said tightly. Nesta noticed that he did not introduce her by name.

"Indeed? I can't say I see the family resemblance."

Anatoliy said nothing. His silence felt threatening.

The Lord Provost extended his hand to Nesta, giving her no choice but to take it or come across as unbelievably rude. She made herself smile as he brought her hand to his lips. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Malinin."

Neither Nesta nor Anatoliy corrected him about her name.

"Are you new to Zaryevsk?" he continued, dropping Nesta's hand. To her surprise, he hadn't held onto it for very long, unlike most men, who seemed unable to resist keeping their grip for just a moment too long, just long enough to be sleazy. But not the stern-faced Lord Provost. Indeed, he seemed almost... brusque. As if such courtesies were beneath him, as if he thought they were a waste of time.

"Yes," Nesta lied.

The Lord Provost's dark eyes narrowed. "Indeed? Funny. I could have sworn I'd seen you before."

Nesta felt a shiver go down her spine.

"I... I don't think so, my lord," she managed to choke out.

His gaze remained fixed on her face. "Hm. Perhaps I'm mistaken." But his tone seemed to say that he was sure that he was not, in fact, mistaken. "Welcome to Zaryevsk, Miss Malinin."

Nesta forced a polite smile. "Thank you."

"Lord Malinin?" The host materialized at Anatoliy's side. "Your party is here. Shall I show you to your table?"

"Yes, please," Anatoliy told the man. To Count Valiev, he gave a perfunctory nod. "Count Valiev. Always a pleasure to see you." Even Nesta could tell he was lying through his teeth.

The host cleared his throat, as if to dispel the tension between the two men. "If you'll follow me, my lord...?"

Anatoliy nodded and followed the host. Nesta made to join them, but Count Valiev's hand shot out and closed around her forearm, trapping her.

Nesta had to resist the urge to make a scene. "My lord?" she asked, ashamed when her voice came out as a nervous squeak.

"Unlike many of my peers, I am neither blind nor stupid," Count Valiev said, his voice too low for Anatoliy or the host to hear. "Anatoliy may claim to be your cousin, but I know that isn't the case. I would feel remiss if I did not warn you: Anatoliy Malinin is not a good man, and he can be very dangerous to someone like you."

Nesta frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Be very careful how you tread with him," the Lord Provost murmured. "And if you ever find yourself in trouble, I hope you will come to me."

And, with that, he released her arm and stepped away.

"What was that about?" Anatoliy asked as they followed the host deeper into the tea room.

Nesta glanced back over her shoulder at the Lord Provost. He stood like a soldier, legs firmly planted, back ramrod-straight, hands clasped behind his back as he watched Nesta and Anatoliy depart. His expression was unreadable, his eyes cold as ice.

"I have no idea," Nesta said truthfully.

Something scratched at her arm, and she frowned. As Anatoliy turned to follow the host, Nesta reached into her sleeve. Her fingers brushed against a piece of paper that hadn't been there when she dressed. Even though she wasn't doing anything wrong, some instinct made her glance over her shoulder as she slid it out. 

It was a business card, printed with Count Valiev's name and the crest of Zaryevsk's Provost Guard. Nesta turned it over. On the back was a hand-scrawled address that Nesta recognized as an office in the Provost Guard's headquarters. 

Nesta glanced over her shoulder again at the Lord Provost. When he met her gaze, to her surprise, he gave her a reassuring smile.

His words echoed like a warning bell in the back of her mind.

If you ever find yourself in trouble, I hope you will come to me.

Nesta shivered and shoved the card deep into her pocket, then hurried to catch up with Anatoliy. 

Word Count: 19488