Cristelle Comby - Red Lies

The betrothal had been a quick affair. Both bride and groom had been blessed by the attending priest at the Cathedral’s entrance, and the blessed rings had been placed on their fingers between two prayers. The second part of the ceremony, the crowning, was about to begin, and Sofiya wasn’t sure how to feel. A part of her felt like a lamb being led to slaughter, while another couldn’t wait to reach out and grab the freedom that was finally in sight.

For Sofiya, the guests in attendance were little more than blurry faces. Aside from her family in the first row, the rest were strangers. For the most part, they were distant contacts of Petrov that had been invited for the form more than out of any real interest. She hadn’t been introduced to her soon-to-be mother-in-law, though she knew she was in attendance. “We don’t get along,” was all the diplomat had said on the matter, and Sofiya had had no choice but to take it in her stride.

In the centre of the church, the couple professed that they were marrying of their own free will and that they had not promised themselves to another. An ektenia and several longer prayers later, the priest placed a crown on the head of the bride and another one on the head of the groom. An ektenia and several prayers later, the procession began, and the married couple soon found themselves with the priest’s epitrachelion tied around their joined hands.

For better or worse, their fate was sealed.

The civil ceremony and tour of the city was a quick affair, and Petrov seemed all too happy when the wedding party returned to the Kremlin for the reception. The guests were, too, if the leering glances towards the buffets and bars were anything to go by.

Sofiya caught up with her parents in the lobby. They had grown apart over the years and, aside from the occasional letter or phone call, she didn’t really hear from them much. But that was what happened when your job required you to be abroad for weeks at a time with little to no notice. She discovered that her father had aged even more than she remembered, and his hair, which had once been thick and chestnut brown, was now thinning and silver-white. The years had been a little kinder to her mother, and the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes gave her an aura of wisdom rather than of old age. Both were dressed in their Sunday best and still looked out of place beneath the ornate crystal chandeliers.

She doubted they’d ever come to the Kremlin before, let alone to its Palace and by invitation. It was no wonder they felt so uncomfortable and didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Sofiya wasn’t sure what to tell them. Should she lie through her teeth and tell them that she was happy to have finally found the prince of her dreams? Should she prepare them with the fact that this was probably the last time they would see their daughter in this life? In the end, she settled for some warm smiles and platitudes as she escorted them to their table.

When the party began, Sofiya drank champagne for the first toast and moved to vodka for the second. The way it burned on the way down felt grounding, and she itched for another one. But Petrov was already asking for her hand, and a waltz started playing in the background. She had no choice but to give him this dance, but she promised herself it would be the only one tonight.

As they moved and swirled to the cheering and applause of the guests, she tried losing herself in the music. The sea of smiling faces that surrounded them felt suffocating. Aside from her parents and a handful of relatives, all of whom she hadn’t seen in over ten years, she barely knew anyone. The only guests she did know were people she wished hadn’t been invited: Mikhaïl Serov and Svetlana Alexeïeva.

The first dance ended, and everyone applauded. Sofiya thanked the crowd with a shy smile and a wave of her hand before she moved to the bar to quench her thirst. She planned to drink her way through all the subsequent dancing, singing and gaming. And she’d consider it a bonus if she could wake up tomorrow with no recollection of the day’s events.

She was surprised when Serov walked up to her with a reproachful look on his face. She’d expected that kind of behaviour from her husband, or maybe Alexeïeva, but certainly not from her handler. Really, the man ought to be happy with her; she’d done her duty to the best of her abilities and accomplished the impossible. Couldn’t he cut her some slack, for once?

“I see your time in the west hasn’t improved your manners, little bird?” he said, leaning against the bar.

“I’m not your ‘little bird’ anymore, Misha,” Sofiya replied, unable to keep a soft slur from mangling some of her words. “I’m a married woman now.” She pushed her hand in front of his face to illustrate her point. “See!”

He pushed her hand away as if it were offending him. Then, motioning at the empty glass in her hand, he asked, “How many of those have you had?”

“One—no, two.” Pouting her lips, Sofiya scrunched up her brow in deep concentration. “Yes, that must be it, two—dozen—give or take.”

Her humour was lost on the older man, and he grabbed her wrist when she tried signalling the bartender for a refill.

“Oh, come on, Misha; have one with me.” She tried batting her eyes at him, but it had no effect. “It’s my wedding, after all; so, let’s celebrate.”

He pulled at her arm, hard. “You’ve had enough.”

“Let go!” Sofiya ordered.

“Keep your voice down, and don’t make a scene.” He moved closer, his beady eyes boring holes in hers. His voice was low, but cutting when he said, “Dammit; have you no shame? As an agent of Directorate K, you are expected to conduct yourself better.”

Sofiya chuckled but lowered her tone. “And what will you do; put that in your next little report? And then what? I will still be Petrov’s wife tomorrow, and the day after that.” Turning towards the barman, she hollered, “Waiter, another one, please?”

The glare Serov sent towards the young man minding the bar led him to quickly reconsider his actions, and he moved to a pile of dirty glasses that needed to be sorted out.

“You’ve had enough for tonight,” Serov said, pulling at Sofiya’s wrist as he led her out of the room.

Behind them, the party continued as if nothing had happened. Between the cheering and loud music, Sofiya doubted anyone would notice her absence. Her liaison officer took her down a long corridor and pushed her into a service elevator. With her heels, she had a hard time keeping up with him, but she tried, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her faltering in her steps. She wasn’t that drunk yet.

On the second floor, Serov pulled out a key to open one of the numerous doors that lined the corridor, before pushing Sofiya inside. The young woman should have wondered how come he’d had a key to one of the Kremlin’s Palace’s bedrooms, or better yet, how he’d known there was a free room here in the first place. As it was, she was too tired to care. There was a large bed in the middle of the opulent space, and it looked inviting.

When she let herself fall onto it, the change in stance made her hiccup.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, opening the door. “I need to go and have a word with Svetlana Alexeïeva. Directorate K has certain questions she needs to answer to.”

Serov saw himself out, and Sofiya heard the key turn in the lock. She heaved a sigh of relief; her plan was unfolding to perfection—both of her plans, actually. The coast was clear for her, while Alexeïeva’s had dark clouds looming on the horizon.