Page 48 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

Istared at my reflection and fiddled with the top button of my nicest shirt.It was the one I reserved for weddings, interviews, and funerals.Tonight, apparently, qualified as all three.

Weddings, because I was pretending to be someone’s suitor.

Interviews, because I’d be performing for my parents and Mira simultaneously.

And funerals, because the old me, the one who didn’t lie, was probably rolling into an early grave.

My pulse thudded in my throat as I struggled with the button again.I wasn’t sweating, not yet, but I knew I would be the second I stepped outside this room.I ran a hand through my hair, smoothed down the sleeves, and tried not to look like a man about to commit emotional treason.

Petyr said this would work.That it would help everyone.

Mira needed a fake boyfriend to wave around so her family would stop asking about weddings and children.I needed a fake girlfriend to keep my father from scrutinizing every move I made.A simple, elegant lie.No one gets hurt.

Except the liar.The liar always gets hurt.

What if Mira got attached to me?

Petyr had just laughed.“Mira?She collects men like vinyl records.You’ll be her favorite for a week, tops.”

Still.I wasn’t good at games.Not this kind.And now that I was committed, I had to play my part perfectly.

The doorbell rang.My stomach clenched so hard I thought I’d throw up my mother’s stew.

I bolted for the hallway, trying to beat my father to the door, but he was already there—some kind of sixth sense for meddling.He pulled it open with a grunt that doubled as both a greeting and a warning.

Petyr stood there in a freshly pressed shirt, Vera on his arm, and beside her, Mira.

Mira was beautiful.Not in a terrifying way, thank goodness, but in an effortless, confident way that told me she was perfectly aware of her effect on people.And used to it.

My father’s eyes scanned the trio.His mouth curled downward, more frown than expression.

“Don’t keep my boy out all night,” he muttered, then stepped aside like a man reluctantly surrendering his post at the city gates.

They stepped inside.Vera beamed.Petyr smiled at me with that infuriating twinkle in his eye.Mira gave me an appraising look and a little nod, like she’d just decided I was fine for the job.

I tried to smile back, but it probably looked more like a wince.

We all crowded into the living room.The wallpaper still peeled in the corners, and the sofa still sagged in the middle like a sigh.My mother came in drying her hands on a dish towel, and thank goodness for her.

“Oh my, what a lovely surprise,” she said warmly, lighting up the entire room with her voice.“You’re all going somewhere special, I take it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vera said, immediately slipping into charm mode.“We’re going to the Philharmonic.They’re performing The Rite of Spring tonight.A special program of revolutionary works for a revolutionary city.”

My mother gasped.“Oh, how wonderful.That’s the one where they riot on stage, yes?”

“Almost,” Vera grinned.“But I promise we’ll be home before any artistic bloodshed.”

My mother laughed.My father didn’t.

I stood stiffly in the corner, watching them, my mouth dry.Mira crossed her legs and smiled demurely, playing her part to perfection.Petyr caught my eye and winked.

I cleared my throat.“We should go.Don’t want to be late.”

As we gathered our coats, my father followed me to the door and leaned in close.His breath smelled faintly of vodka and disapproval.

“She’s a pretty girl,” he murmured, his hand heavy on my shoulder.“Don’t mess this up.”

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