I don’t know what’s happening, but I know it’s bad. I don’t need to speak Russian at all to see Kostya’s face change when Niko tells him something, settling into a hard, stony mask. I want to shout what the hell is going on? but I know my manners for once, so I just stand there like an idiot.

More and more people keep trickling in, and I recognize some of them from the ball two nights ago, some of them from briefings. Some I don’t recognize, but then Niko steps back and says something loudly, his voice raised, and everyone else echoes him.

I catch the word korol, king.

Suddenly I think I know what happened.

My stomach twists and I cover my mouth with both hands as everyone else in the garage goes down on one knee and Kostya just stares at them, beyond them, like he can’t see anything.

The king was with my parents in Kiev, I think.

I feel nauseous. I’m shaking. I force myself to take deep breaths so I don’t hyperventilate.

Everything is still for a long time. It’s probably a few seconds but it feels like hours, and then Kostya barks something and everyone stands, swarming around him as he gives orders in a flat, hard-edged voice.

People start rushing back out of the garage. One older man says something to him and Kostya nearly shouts at him, and I just stand there, watching because I have no fucking idea what to do. I still don’t even know what’s going on, not really.

Finally, when there are only a few people left in the garage, I walk over to one middle-aged man. I think we danced once at the masquerade, though I can’t remember his name right now so I don’t bother addressing him.

“What’s going on?” I ask. It’s impolite and informal but I do not fucking care right now.

He looks at me with his serious, lined face, and he’s about to say something when footsteps come toward us and we both turn.

“A moment,” Kostya tells the man. The man nods his head and leaves, and Kostya turns his hard gray eyes on me.

“My father was murdered twenty minutes ago by a car bomb in Tobov,” he says, his voice flat and strange.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Kostya, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He just nods.

“Your parents weren’t with him,” he says.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I want to reach out and grab him, hold him and stroke his hair but we stand there, locked in place like we’re statues. I can feel tears running down my face, but I don’t reach up to wipe them away.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says, his voice stiff and formal again. “There’s a lot to do.”

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll help however I can.”

He starts to step away, then hesitates. He looks at me, and for a moment he gives me a long, wistful look.

“I’m sorry about the sea cliffs,” he says.

Then he walks away.

* * *

We’re all herded back into bunkers. There’s an enormous one below the garage, it turns out, and that’s where we are as we slowly find out that it’s worse than we thought, that the elements of the United Svelorian Front that everyone thought were small, fringe elements were larger than anyone in the government suspected.

Kostya’s father is dead. The train stations are shut down, occupied by insurgent forces. The two airports are shut down, also occupied. The border crossings. The USF is making demands. At least, I think that’s what’s happening. Once in a while, someone comes over and updates the idiot American.

Everyone is constantly shouting in Russian, and I feel beyond powerless. I can’t even understand what they’re saying, let alone do anything at all, so I sit in a folding chair in the corner with my head in my hands as my mind spins.

I don’t know how long I’ve been like that when there’s a hand on my shoulder, and I jerk my head up.

“Hazel,” Yelena says, smiling down at me sadly.

I blink.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, formalities and politeness a distant memory.

“The queen and I were talking about putting a pond in the gardens,” she says, her soft voice sad. “She wanted my opinion.”

A pang of guilt stabs through me. Not only are my parents okay and Kostya’s father is dead, but now I’m talking to the perfectly nice girl I stole him from.

“Oh,” I say. “How is the queen?”

Yelena’s brow knits together slightly, then relaxes.

“She’ll be okay,” she finally says.

She grabs another folding chair and settles in next to me, her dainty hands in her lap. I have no idea why, because it seems like she should probably hate me or at least not really like me or something.

“I think you might need a translator,” she says.

We sit together for a long time. She translates random snippets of conversation, tells me where cities and towns are, fills me in on the background story to all of this.

Yelena tells me that the USF started as a political group in Sveloria, not terrorists. They were populists, for the most part, and they wanted western-style reforms: a free press, free assembly. Some kind of representation in the government, even if it was only ornamental, but Kostya’s father refused everything, sometimes even tightening restrictions.

So the USF radicalized, becoming violent, and when they did, Kostya’s father crushed them mercilessly. The remnants fled to the mountains, where Kostya himself fought them years later.

Just as Yelena finishes, there’s another wave of shouting. Before Yelena can translate, Kostya storms out of the room, past us, and up the stairs. There’s the sound of a heavy door slamming shut, and then a moment of total silence before people stream after him.

I look at Yelena.

“Something like, ‘If they want to fucking kill me I won’t wait for death like a fox in a hole,’” she says, frowning. “Do foxes have holes? Is that the right animal?”

“They do,” I say.

Then we look at each other. I shrug. Yelena kind of shrugs.

“Let’s get out of this stupid bunker,” she says.

* * *

Yelena and I work side-by-side through the afternoon, into the night and just past sunrise. The palace was full of people who don’t live here, so we find beds and food for everyone. Communications are still up, so I work with one ear listening to the BBC. After a long time, my text to my parents that I’m alive finally gets through, and minutes later, CNN is reporting that there’s an American citizen among those holed up in Velinsk.

I’m on my back, underneath a desk, trying to troubleshoot an ancient desktop computer as Yelena translates the error messages for me when someone comes into the room and nearly kicks my head.

I look up. It’s some kid, maybe fifteen.

“Are you Hazel Sung?” he asks in English.

“Yes,” I say.

“America’s calling,” he says.

He doesn’t get more specific. I follow him through the noisy halls of the palace to the cabinet offices, then into a large meeting room. It’s nearly empty: two officials and Kostya, all looking at a blurry projection on the wall. They look tired, totally exhausted.

“Miss Sung?” a voice says from a speaker.

“Yes,” I say.

One of the officials points at a chair and I sit.

“I’m Marcia Bloom, the Secretary of State,” the projection says, and I blink at it.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say automatically.

“I wish these were better circumstances,” she says. “I’ve known your mother for many years.”

I just nod.

Our meeting only lasts five, maybe ten minutes. I think she just wants to make sure that I’m all right and not under duress, and she seems relieved that I’m acting relatively normal. She asks me to keep her updated on the situation, but also makes a vague comment about working for the state department on an informal basis.

I’m too tired to parse that, but when the call ends, I’m relieved that they made contact and I’m not all alone out here. It makes me feel better to think that someone’s watching me.

As I leave the room, Kostya rises, and then the two other men rise. Kostya waves them down, but then escorts me out and shuts the door behind him. We’re in a hallway that’s not exactly private, but there’s no one immediately around us.

“Thank you,” he says.

I look around. There’s no one. I take one of his hands in both of mine. I squeeze it, but he doesn’t squeeze back.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, uselessly.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he says. “I don’t know how this is going to go, but we would very much like to have the U.S. on our side.”

There’s no one here, I think. Say something real.

I feel awful immediately. This is probably the worst day of his life, and I’m upset about me?

His hand is still in mine. I just nod. I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours, most of those hours have been bad, and I’m trying not to cry.

“Of course,” I say. “Anything I can do to help.”

I squeeze his hand again. He holds on, but he doesn’t squeeze back.

I let his hand go.

He swallows, looking at me for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then goes back into the meeting room.