“Ellen?” Vanya seems torn between laughing in disbelief and shaking his head. “With all due respect, what right does she have to sit at the table?”
“She was married to that family,” Mischa says before Sergei can voice his own explanation. “She was married to its fucking head. She can have a say.” He turns and mounts the stairs, leaving Vanya staring after him open-mouthed.
“M-Mischa—”
“I won’t fight the appointment,” Mischa declares over him. From the top of the staircase, he adds, “But don’t expect me to roll over, Sergei. You want to play politics. We’ll fucking play.”
“Mischa…” With one last look at his brother, Vanya follows him, his steps resonating through the manor’s very foundation.
Their absence drains the room of anger. Left behind is a mixture of Sergei’s quiet observation and my own shock.
“What are you doing?” I demand, advancing on the older man.
His eyes flicker over my face, impossible to read. “I’m giving you a chance to state your case,” he says. “Do you want an end to this bloodshed? Mischa may have the council stacked in his favor, but you possess one thing that neither he nor I have.”
“And what is that?” I rasp.
He carefully tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear, heedless of how I flinch at his touch. “A voice,” he says. “Your words alone have more impact than any political savvy. Remember that. I hope to see you tonight. If you don’t mind, I’ve already taken care to have a dress delivered to your room.”
He leaves, disappearing down a corridor at the other end of the hall.
In this moment, in the center of the marble flooring, I feel more like a pawn than ever.
And the game is already in checkmate.