Page 65 of Jewel of the Assassin
Fleur pokes his stomach with a lavender sprig. He bows in gratitude. “I am unworthy of your shrooms, but I thank you nonetheless.”
Valentina tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she watches the way he leans into Fleur, the way she loops her pinky around his as if to ground him.
She notices. Of course she does.
Just then, a soft knock on the glass signals Zina’s entrance.Two luxurious fur coats hang over her arm—one black, one white.
“Pleasure to see you today, Fleur,” Zina says with a respectful incline of her head. “Emilian is still raving about your truffles. Says he might abandon butter entirely.”
Fleur smiles and rustles to the side to pluck another flower—a warm orange marigold with a golden center, the universal symbol of gratitude. She hands it to Zina, who tucks it into the pocket of her coat with a rare smile.
“I’ll see to it he gets it,” Zina promises, then hands me the coats.
I motion to Valentina. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”
I guide her to the greenhouse’s far corner, where a door leads to a tiled patio. After placing the white coat over her shoulders, I open the door, and we step out, the cool air immediately brushing our cheeks. It’s mid-fall, but the weather is warmer. A crisp 50 degrees. But it often feels cooler due to the oceanic wind. Frost and salt lace the air.
She hugs the white coat closer as I lead her onto the balcony. Below us, the grounds sculptures lie in silent vigil across the frost-coated lawns.
I glance down at her. She’s not smiling.
“What is it?”
A pause. My spine tightens with concern. Then, quietly: “Nothing. It’s just…I don’t remember them. Any of them. How can I not remember such incredible people in your life, Roman? In our life?”
I tuck her into my side and comb my fingers through her golden waves. “Because your mind is a labyrinth, Valentina. With locked doors, twisted halls. And sometimes, pieces get lost in the dark. But your heart…your heart’s always leading you. Every step. Every beat.”
She looks up at me, eyes moist and searching.
“And that’s what I love most about you. Your passion. Yourfire.” I smirk and cup her chin. “That sharp little tongue I enjoy sparring with. Your kindness. Your fury. Your strength.”
I brush my lips against hers.
“Don’t worry about remembering them,” I whisper. “Just keep being you. They’ll love you as much as I. They already do.”
“Really?”
“Well, not like that,Moya Samotsvet,” I chuff a laugh.
Next, I lead her down the stone stairway leading to the sculpture garden, contained in an elongated conservatory, too intrigued for her response. We enter the narrow threshold, enclosed by native Alaskan trees, which serve as a border.
No gust of air escapes. It’s dead silent. Pressure-sealed for its primary purpose.
I murmur a sweet but filthy implication in her ear. My plans for later.
Then, she turns, her lips parting, and my wife’s eyes go wide at the sight. And she…clenches my hand tighter.
23
“Do you want me to become one of your sculptures?”
VALENTINA
At first, I think I’ve walked into a graveyard. An intense one.
Bone. Glass. Dust. Dead flowers with crisp and colorless petals thread through the ribs of skeletal birds, deer, and foxes—each one posed as if frozen in the moment they last drew breath. Some still mid-lunge. Some in sleep. Some stare with hollow sockets toward the sea. The air smells like iron and lavender, salt and ancient rot.
“Roman… what is this?” My voice feels too loud.
