Page 53 of Emerald

No pretty view out my window, either. I’m on the top floor, but the only thing I can see is the iron fire escapes on either side of my flat, and the dull, flat facades of other buildings close by. Unlike Ivan’s monastery, my apartment is in the heart of the city, with no lovely old trees around.

I really should move. St. Petersburg is one of the most beautiful cities in Russia—certainly the most European in style. I could have chosen a nicer neighborhood, a prettier flat. Why am I always punishing myself?

Part of it was that I never expected to stay here so long. I rented a place quickly when I was looking for my father.

The other part of it is the utilitarian way I was raised. My father taught me how to survive, not how to thrive. Not how to actually enjoy things.

But he’s gone now. I’m an adult. It’s up to me how I want to live, what I want to do.

For a while my goal was money. What good is money, though, when I never spend it on anything?

I don’t know what I want now. Staying at Ivan’s place has made me dissatisfied in more ways than one. I envy the bond he has with his men. And I’m already missing certain things about Ivan himself. Not just the sex, though god knows it’s the best I’ve had. No, it’s our other interactions I miss even more.

The way that I watch him, and he watches me every time that we speak, each of us having finally met a worthy opponent, someone worth watching, worth studying, worth trying to understand.

And the way he does understand me. When we were lying in bed together discussing Remizov, he valued my opinion.

I respect Ivan. He values intelligence, loyalty, humor.

I think at my core, I value the same things.

Which is why I regret leaving his monastery. I regret not going with him today.

I didn’t have to workforhim. But I could have workedwithhim. I could have been his friend. His partner.

The kettle begins to whistle, startling me out of my thoughts.

I pour hot water into my mug, then pick up the steeping tea, trying to use the mug to warm my hands. I’m shivering a little, naked in the chilly kitchen. I didn’t want to put on my robe until I’d washed all the soot off myself.

Maybe I’ll just drink the tea in the tub, so I can get in the warm water.

I take three steps in the direction of the bathroom. As I do so, I hear a sharp crash over my right shoulder. Glass shattering, as someone punches a hole in the kitchen window.

Then a heavy clunk, followed by three thuds and a roll as something is thrown in my window, skittering across the floor.

I see the battered red canister, the pin already pulled.

Incendiary grenade.

I drop the tea. Before the mug has even hit the floor, I’m sprinting out of the kitchen, into the bathroom. No time to try to force up the shutter of the rickety old window—I take a deep breath and make a running leap into the bathtub, which is nearly full.

The explosion rips through my apartment. I see the bright bloom of fire as all available air over my head superheats and combusts into liquid flame.

I’m lying in the bottom of the bathtub, with three feet of water over me—my only shield from the explosion. That, and the thick porcelain sides of the tub. I’m waiting for the tub to crack, the water to boil me alive.

Instead, it’s the ancient wood beneath the tub that gives way.

The floorboards split, and the bathtub plummets through the ceiling of the apartment below.

I fall down into my neighbor’s living room, tub and all.

Flaming plaster, wood, and tile rain down on me.

I jump out of the bathtub, bruised but not dead yet.

Now I’m standing naked in the middle of the destruction.

There’s a fire raging overhead. Everything in my apartment is burning to dust.

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