I don’t cry until I’m power walking down the hall, head down, trying to hide my face with my hair because I absolutely fucking hate it when I cry and I hate it worse when I cry in public.

I flee to the laundry room, in the basement, because it’s warm and noisy and there’s no one in there. For a moment I consider burying myself in the huge basket of clean sheets, but I settle for sitting on the floor in the corner, my back against an industrial dryer.

Then I just fucking sob. I’m angry at the Post for telling everyone why I dropped out of med school and for running that picture, but I’m mad at myself all over again for doing it in the first place. I’m angry at Kostya for being a dick about it, and I’m angry at him for not even saying something and just cutting contact without even saying goodbye.

“I’m sorry?” What the fuck is that?

Then I feel awful for being mad at him, because he has way bigger shit to worry about than my feelings, and I should give him the benefit of the doubt. I fucking know that, but I still feel like he’s taken sandpaper to my heart. And now I’m going home, and even though I know it’s obviously the best decision, I don’t want to.

I want to stay here. I want things to be normal again. I want to go back to Kostya trying to make jokes in the rose garden.

After a while, I stop finding reasons that I’m crying and just cry until I’ve got the hiccups.

I’m in the laundry room for a long, long time.

* * *

Kostya was right, and things start to turn around. He figured out pretty fast that the United Svelorian Front wasn’t united at all: the group responsible for his father’s death was a tiny, fringe segment, and a much larger part of the Front would be happy with governmental reform instead of overthrow.

Plus, the peaceful factions resent the fringe elements for dragging them into this. It doesn’t take much for the USF to start fighting itself while the Svelorian army nips at its heels.

Once Velinsk is safe, the palace workers all go home. Yelena goes back to her family’s villa on the Black Sea, and suddenly, the palace feels oddly empty without her around to chat with me about the best time to go sailing on the sea, or her favorite shampoo, or home remedies for colds.

She’s not smart, but she’s a genuinely nice, good-hearted person. Especially after the week we’ve had, I think maybe that’s better. Being smart hasn’t gotten me much of anywhere.

The only upside is I’m alone in my rooms again, which I’d been sharing with Yelena, two of the women who do the laundry, and the chef. Not that I spend much time there; I spend half the day in briefings and meetings as the unofficial American presence in the palace, and the other half taking care of odds and ends that someone has to do.

I see Kostya constantly. He’s in nearly every meeting, every briefing, every meal. We pass each other in the halls, exchange looks, and don’t talk. He’s always surrounded by people and I don’t know what the fuck to say, or where to start, or whether I even should. I know he’s got more things to worry about than me.

At least I sleep like the dead. Two nights in a row I fall asleep with a laptop next to me, trying to finish one last thing or go through one last briefing. Despite growing up with a diplomat, I don’t know shit about any of this, and I’m desperately trying to learn.

The third night, I jolt awake and don’t know why. The room is perfectly quiet and still, mostly dark, but I know something woke me up and got my adrenaline pumping.

Then I hear it: a soft but insistent knock on the door.

Something happened, I think. Anxiety squeezes my chest and my mind starts racing as I grab the black robe and pull it on.

There was another bombing. The USF is pushing back and coming for Velinsk, and we have to leave right now.

Kostya’s dead.

That last thought makes my fingers and toes go cold. The knock sounds again, and I knot the robe around my waist, half-run to the door through the dark, and pull it open.

It’s Kostya. He looks like hell.

He’s still in the clothes he was wearing that day, dress pants and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and it’s rumpled and creased, like he fell asleep in it at some point. His eyes have dark circles around them, they’re bloodshot, and he hasn’t shaved in a day or two.

I’m sure I don’t look much better.

“What happened?” I ask, the only question I can think of. Something has to be wrong.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

I step back and he enters, closing the door behind him. We’re in the living room in my little apartment. I’m very aware that I’m naked except this flimsy robe and he’s still dressed like he’s going to an office, and my arms are crossed over my chest like that will somehow make me more clothed.

I try not to think about the last time he was in this apartment. That was a week and a world ago.

“We should have the airport again within two days,” he says.

I just nod.

“So you can go back to the U.S.,” he goes on.

I almost say yes, I understood the implication there but I don’t.

“But what happened?” I ask.

“I got a report from the seventh division that they’re making good progress,” he says.

“Is that it?” I ask.

His eyes flick to the windows behind me, the bedroom door, taking everything in.

“Yes,” he says.

We pause for a long moment and look at each other, and then he looks away and runs one hand through his hair, the cords in his neck popping.

“It’s two-thirty in the morning,” I say. “And you came to tell me something might happen in two days?”

“I thought you’d want to know,” he says.

I swallow hard and look at the floor. He didn’t come to tell me that, and he’s not still standing there because he came here to tell me that, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what he wants and I don’t know what I want and I don’t know how any of this should be working, right now, in the middle of all this shit.

He’s here because it’s your room, not to tell you that, I think.

I take a deep breath, then hold out my hand.

He looks at it, then at me. He takes it, his fingers warm and rough just like always.

I lead him to the couch. I sit and then pull him down until we’re half-sitting, half-lying, propped up on one arm, his head on my chest. My robe’s come partly open, and after a minute he puts both arms around me, his rough stubble on my bare skin.

I drape one arm across his shoulders and stroke his hair with the other hand, and he lets me. For the first time in days I feel like I’m doing the right thing at last, even though I couldn’t put it into words.

I just know, deep down, that this is why he’s here. This is what he needs. Gradually, he relaxes into me, his shoulders losing tension, his breathing getting slower and evening out.

“I met my father for the first time in this palace,” he suddenly says, and I jump.

“I thought you were asleep,” I say.

“Not quite,” he says.

“You remember meeting your father?” I ask.

“I do,” he says. “I didn’t know that was strange until years later, when I was a teenager. I guess for most people, their fathers are always... there.”

“I don’t remember meeting mine,” I say.

“It wasn’t really the first time,” Kostya says, shifting a little. “He was around when I was very young, but I don’t remember that at all. I didn’t recognize him when I met him here.”

I can’t imagine meeting my father. He’s just there, a fixture in my earliest memories.

“I was two when the Soviet Union fell, and my father left to lead the monarchist forces against the communists,” he goes on, his voice half dreamy. “He sent my mother and me to safety. The last few years of the civil war, we were here, back before it was restored, and it was filthy and dilapidated, but it was beautiful in the way old, dilapidated things can be.”

I keep stroking his hair and let him talk.

“I used to find things,” he says. “Cufflinks, a hair comb, an old iron wedding ring. A silver spoon. A carving of a bear. All these little treasures that would be nothing to anyone but a five-year-old, but I used to keep them safe in a box I found and I never told anyone.”

“Do you still have them?” I ask.

“I do,” he says. “It’s so strange, sometimes, to walk around this place like it is now and think about what it looked like the first time I saw it. That’s what it looked like when I met my father. We were in that ballroom where the masquerade was, and it was morning, so the sun was coming in through those big windows.”

His hand moves against my back, stroking me absentmindedly. I fight to keep my eyes from filling with tears, because for a moment, this feels normal.

“Actually, most of the windows were broken and there was a breeze,” he says. “My father was up on the dais, and he was wearing his military uniform, surrounded by other men in military uniforms. I entered with my mother, through those big doors, and I remember her saying, ‘Kostya, go say hello to your father,’ and I wasn’t quite sure which one he was.”

I can’t even imagine that.

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Six,” Kostya says. “I’m not sure he ever quite forgave me.”

“Of course he did,” I say.

“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Kostya says. “It’s bad luck.”

“I won’t tell,” I say.

“I owe everything to him,” Kostya says. “I’m here and not herding cows in the mountains because of what he did. He used to tell me all the time, ‘blood isn’t enough,’ that just having a lineage didn’t mean shit unless you could back it up. And he could back it up.”

He pauses and swallows, his fingers still moving against my back.

“I don’t know if I can back it up, Hazel,” he whispers. “I’m afraid everything he fought for is slipping through my fingers, and if I don’t stop it, we’ll have five more years of civil war. He brought Sveloria from a backwater to a first world country, and I don’t know if I can keep it that way.”

I have no idea what to say. Anything I can think of sounds like a kindergarten teacher’s encouragement, so we’re quiet for a long time.

“I don’t think I ever loved my father,” Kostya finally says, his voice low and quiet. “He’d lecture me about continuing the bloodline and having children, and I’d think, I’d rather not be a father than be a father like you.”

He’s silent a moment.

“I didn’t want him to die like this, Hazel,” Kostya finally says.

“I know,” I say, and kiss the top of his head.

We’re quiet again.

“Can I sleep here?” he asks, his fingers on my back. “I don’t dream when I sleep with you.”

I push both of us up, and he looks at me like he’s still waiting for an answer. His eyes are even more bloodshot now. I stand and hold out one hand again, and he takes it.

“Come on,” I say.

In the bedroom I move the laptop off the bed and Kostya just looks around tiredly, like he doesn’t understand what a bed is any more. I walk to him and start undoing the buttons on his shirt, and as I do he takes both my hands in his and leans his forehead down to touch mine.

For long moment he just rubs his thumbs over my knuckles, like he’s trying to think of how to say something.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice close to a whisper.

“Kostya, don’t be,” I say.

He laces his fingers through mine, his palms against the backs of my hands.

“Zloyushka, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says. “I don’t know how to be the king, and I don’t know how to keep my country from disintegrating, and I thought if I could ignore you I’d stop thinking about you all the time and I’d get better at what I’m supposed to be doing, but I couldn’t. And I didn’t.”

This time I can’t stop my eyes from filling with tears.

“I wanted to protect you, and I couldn’t,” he says. “Not even from the Tobov Post.”

“Kostya, you have bigger things to worry about than me,” I say. “I’m fine. The Post can go fuck itself.”

He half-smiles and squeezes my hands in his. A very, very distant bell tolls three times.

“I’m glad you slept with your married professor,” he says.

“I’m not,” I say.

“You wouldn’t have come here otherwise,” he says.

I sigh and let my eyes close, our foreheads still together.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”

“You’re the American and I’m finding the silver lining,” he says. “Something must have gone wrong.”

He wobbles a little on his feet, and I tug at his shirt.

“Come on,” I say, softly. “Go to bed.”

I get the last button undone, push it over his shoulders, and ignore the heat pooling inside me. Once his shirt is off, he slides one hand down my back, along my still-open robe, and then pulls me toward him, swaying on his feet as he does.

He kisses me and I kiss him back briefly, my hand on his neck, and then pull away. I stroke his stubble with one thumb.

“Come on, zloyushka,” he says, sounding half-drunk.

“No,” I say firmly. “You’re falling asleep on your feet.”

“I’ll make it fast,” he murmurs.

“Not sexy,” I murmur back.

Kostya sighs, his fingers circling on my back.

“You’re right,” he finally says. “You’re naked and I’m so tired I’m barely hard.”

“Your dirty talk is also pretty lacking,” I tease, shrugging my robe the rest of the way off, and climb into bed.

He gets in after me, and his eyes are shut before his head’s on the pillow.

“Let me get six hours of sleep, and then we’ll fuck slow and hard until you come so hard your hair curls,” he says.

My insides twist around themselves. Kostya barely opens one eye and looks at me.

“Was that better?” he says, his voice slurring.

“You’re filthy for a king,” I say.

He smiles, sleepily.

“I’m just honest,” he says, and rolls over until his face is in my neck. “Sometimes in important meetings the only thing I can think about is what it feels like when you come with me inside you.”

“Kostya, go the fuck to sleep,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around him.

He sighs, but he doesn’t say anything else. I stay awake for a few more minutes and listen to him breathe, then fall asleep myself.