Rose watched him breathe.
Watched the vein in his temple pulse.
The lines bracketing his mouth deepen.
When he finally set the letter down, it was with the kind of care you gave to the dead.
She didn’t speak.
Just waited.
She knew him well enough now to know pushing would make him shut down.
Instead she reached for the map tucked behind the letter, folded like origami, vellum-thin and yellowed with time. She unfolded it carefully, the lines crackling in the cold.
Under the lamplight, fine black ink traced rivers, borders, the faint topography of an estate in Europe.
There, near the center, was the symbol of fire.
And beneath it, in neat, small lettering:
Failsafe trigger – sealed in the west wing wall. Activate only if the vault is compromised.
Heat-activated ink glowed faintly in an X when she passed her fingers over it.
She swallowed hard.
Then tucked the map into his palm.
He didn’t resist.
But he didn’t look at her.
Not yet.
Finally she reached into the envelope’s bottom and pulled out the last object: a small, black flash drive. Its surface was scuffed, but intact. Taped to its side was a note in sharp, modern handwriting:
From one Romanov to another. —N.
Victor’s eyes sharpened.
He took it with a shaking hand.
Turned it over once. Twice.
Rose watched him exhale.
“Nikolai?” she said softly.
He nodded, slow. Like his neck barely remembered how.
“He’s not trying to kill me.”
She blinked.
“You’re sure?”
He huffed, low and humorless.
