Page 64 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

It sat nestled behind a tall iron gate, surrounded by pines dusted with the remnants of spring frost.The house was built in the old imperial style: three stories high, painted a soft cream with green trim, and wide wooden shutters flanking every window like it was posing for a postcard.The front porch alone was the size of the apartment I shared with Vera back in the city.

Inside, it was all polished wood, oil paintings in heavy gold frames, and the faint but persistent scent of beeswax and pine needles.Not the fake pine used in cleaning fluid, but real pine, cut from actual trees, the kind no one I knew could afford to burn.

It took every ounce of discipline I had not to gape like a boy fresh off the kolkhoz.I kept my posture straight, my smile warm, and my reactions muted, like I’d seen all this a hundred times before.But I hadn’t.Not even close.

The vodka helped.

We were a few glasses in now.Good vodka, the kind that went down smooth and clean, without leaving a chemical burn in the back of your throat—and the four of us sat around a dining table long enough to host a Party congress.The chandelier above us sparkled like icicles.Real crystal.Not imitation.

A Rachmaninoff record spun softly on the gramophone in the next room, threading its way through the candlelight and conversation.The second piano concerto was moody, and impossible not to feel in your ribs.

Vera’s parents were in fine form.Her father was leaning back in his chair, a fresh pour in his glass and a satisfied gleam in his eyes, like a man convinced he’d already won an argument.

“I’m just saying Vera,” he began, for the third time, “if you joined the Leningrad Party Committee, it wouldn’t be some act of nepotism.You’re capable, articulate, and you look good in a suit.”

Vera rolled her eyes, but she was barely smiling.She looked flushed from the drink and the warmth, her red hair pinned back with the precision of someone groomed to appear perfect at all times.

“I look good in a lot of things, Papa.Doesn’t mean I want a desk job writing speeches for men I can’t respect.”

Her mother sighed—an elegant, disappointed sound.“You and Petyr could do so much more with yourselves.You’re both wasted in that factory.”

I forced a polite chuckle and took a sip of vodka.I was already sweating beneath my collar.

They didn’t mean it cruelly.They never did.But that was the worst part, really—that casual assumption of superiority.The way they saw the world as a two-tiered system: real people, like them, and everyone else who existed to serve.

Vera, to her credit, didn’t rise to the bait.She just swirled her drink and said, “I want to earn my place.I’m not interested in a title just because it comes with a nicer car and privileges.”

That wasn’t the whole truth, of course.

I glanced sideways at her, watching the soft pull of her mouth as she sipped her drink.Vera had never explained it out loud to her parents, but I understood.If she took their job offer, if she entered their gilded world, she’d be watched.Controlled.Everything she did would be dissected, and Mira would be the first thing cut out of her life like a tumor.They wouldn’t say it, but they’d make sure of it.Mira didn’t belong in their world.

Neither did I.

And yet here I was, playing the part.Holding Vera’s hand when prompted, nodding in all the right places, making a show of admiration for a house I wanted to burn down with my mind.

All I wanted was to be in bed right now, tangled up in Dimitri’s arms, not seated at some bourgeois table pretending I cared about careers, politics and designer curtains.

I missed Dimitri so much it ached.

There was a hollow space inside me that nothing filled anymore.Even the vodka, smooth as it was, only took the edge off.Every time I blinked, I saw Dimitri’s eyes.Every time the conversation lulled, I heard his voice.And when Vera’s parents talked about babies and futures and five-year plans, I thought about how Dimitri looked when I kissed him.How peaceful he became when no one was watching.Like the world hadn’t ruined him yet.

I looked down at my glass, realized it was empty, and poured myself another.The record clicked to an end and the silence that followed was too clean, too complete.

“More music?”Vera asked, already rising to change the record.

Her mother nodded.“Play something brighter.That last one made me want to slit my wrists.”

Vera flashed a tight smile, but didn’t answer.

I stayed quiet, staring into the clear surface of my glass, pretending it showed me nothing at all.

Vera returned from the gramophone with a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, like she already knew it was going to irritate someone.The needle dropped with a soft scratch, and within seconds, the room filled with the clinking swagger of Soviet-approved jazz.Bright horns, syncopated piano, something with just enough swing to feel illicit.

Her father frowned at the shift in tone but said nothing.Her mother, ever the curator of appropriate moods, tightened her mouth like she’d bitten into a lemon.

“Much better,” Vera announced breezily as she slid back into her seat beside me.

And then, as predictably as snowfall in February, came the baby talk.

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