“Lady Volkov,” Stanislaw Czaja’s voice was deep, quiet, yet clipped with authority. “We need to discuss the matter of treason.” The declaration hung in the air, a bell tolling for silence. The murmurs died, replaced by a collective intake of breath. Janna felt a prickle of unease, but her expression remained one of bored aristocratic disdain. This was the moment for Kalina Volkov’s infamous haughtiness to shine. To betray fear would be to betray herself – and the imposter she was. “Treason?” Janna drawled, letting her gaze drift over Stanislaw with a dismissive air, as if he were an amusing, if uninvited, curiosity. “My dear investigator, one would think such a grave accusation requires more than a dramatic entrance at a perfectly respectable salon. Are you quite certain you have the right house? Maybe old Lady Gryzlow’s cat has been plotting against the Imperial pigeons again. Such a menace, that one.” A few stifled giggles erupted, quickly suppressed. Stanislaw’s dark eyes narrowed, but his composure remained unyielding. He did not rise to the bait, merely inclined his head slightly. “My apologies, my lady. This conversation is not for the ears of your charming company. If you would be so kind as to accompany me to a more private setting. The study, perhaps?” He gestured with a subtle flick of his wrist towards a closed door at the far end of the hall. Janna met his gaze, a flicker of challenge in her own. “Of course. One wouldn’t want to bore the populace with tedious administrative affairs. Feliks, ensure our visitors are adequately catered for in my absence. And do remind the Countess Dobosz that her pet marmoset is not permitted to climb the wall hangings, however artistic its intentions.” Feliks, who had materialized at her elbow, bowed with a flourish, his face a mask of concern for her but a hint of amusement for the Countess. “Indeed, my lady. Immediately.” As Janna swept past her stepmother, Irena Rostova, she caught the woman’s furious glare. Zoria, still pale from the Krovos Syndicate exposé, huddled beside her, a tear tracing a path through her carefully applied powder. A small victory, Janna thought, a delicious appetizer before the main course of Stanislaw Czaja’s interrogation. She followed Stanislaw into a study, a room steeped in the scent of aged leather and dust. Bookshelves lined every wall, their contents a dizzying array of arcane tomes and official-looking bound registers. Stanislaw closed the heavy oak door behind them, the soft click echoing in the sudden quiet. “Please, take a seat.” He gestured to a plush, high-backed armchair positioned opposite a large, imposing desk. He took the seat behind the desk, his posture erect, his hands clasped before him. The arrangement felt less like an invitation and more like a carefully staged interrogation. Janna settled into the armchair with an exaggerated sigh, crossing her legs languidly. “Right. Now that we’re in this delightfully oppressive room, enlighten me, investigator. What, precisely, has the infamous Kalina Volkov done this time? Did I accidentally insult a particularly sensitive current in the sky? Or maybe my choice of hat offended an Imperial pigeon?” Stanislaw watched her, his expression unreadable. “This is not a jest,” Stanislaw said. “We have reason to believe you possess a coded record, detailing illicit transactions with agents of the Veridian Confederacy.” Janna feigned a delicate gasp, pressing a hand to her chest. “A record? My dear officer, the only accounts I concern myself with are the quarterly expenses of my wardrobe. And even those give me a headache. As for ‘Veridian Confederacy’… are those those peculiar people who wear too much green? I find their fashion choices utterly pedestrian, wouldn’t you agree?” She tilted her head, a hint of a playful smile touching her lips. Her eyes, which were truly Kalina’s, held a dangerous spark that Janna knew how to wield. Stanislaw’s gaze was unwavering. “The transactions involve sky-energy components,” Stanislaw said, his gaze unwavering. “Components crucial to Starevian defense. Information that, if leaked, could compromise our entire network of shield towers.” “Shield towers?” Janna blinked, as if considering a complex piece of embroidery. “Oh, those enormous contraptions that hum so loudly near the city limits? They do interfere with one’s afternoon naps, I must say. But I assure you, my only involvement with them is to politely request their engineers to dampen the vibrations.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, sir, is this why you’re so… intense? All this talk of treason and secret accounts. Does it keep you awake, all those vital sky-energy components swirling in your head?” She ran a finger along the armrest of her chair, her eyes sparkling with feigned fascination. “You seem like a man bearing the burden of an entire Empire. Does your back ever ache?” Stanislaw’s mouth pressed thin. For the first time, a flicker of irritation crossed his features. He was not accustomed to having his serious inquiries met with such deliberate frivolity, nor with such personal observation. “My duties are not up for discussion,” he stated, his voice colder. “We have witnesses. Documents. The register exists, and we believe it sits in your possession, or you know where it rests.” “Witnesses? Documents?” Janna waved a dismissive hand. “My dear Inquisitor, in Starevo, half the witnesses are paid liars, and the other half are simply jealous. As for documents, I barely sign my own name without assistance from Feliks. The idea of me deciphering a coded book of accounts… it’s quite amusing, actually.” She chuckled, a light, melodious sound that grated against the solemnity of the room. She rose gracefully, moving towards a bookshelf, her silk gown rustling. “You have mistaken me for someone with an interest in such dreary matters. My talents, I assure you, lie in other… avenues. Like discerning the precise shade of plum that best complements the Imperial Court’s current mood, or ensuring the caviar is perfectly chilled.” She plucked a heavy, leather-bound book from a shelf, inspecting its gilded spine with an air of profound concentration. “Such an exquisite binding. One rarely sees such craftsmanship these days.” Stanislaw watched her, his eyes still sharp, but the edge of his certainty seemed to have dulled just a fraction. He had expected bluster, defiance, perhaps even tears. Not this almost-flirtatious, utterly self-absorbed aristocratic performance. “Lady Volkov,” he said, his voice dropping low. “This is a matter of life and death.” Janna turned, the book still in her hand. Her smile softened, losing some of its sharp edge, becoming almost… sympathetic. “My dear Inquisitor. Is it truly? Or is it simply a matter of reputation? In our world, sometimes those are one and the same. And I, for one, would rather perish than lose face. Wouldn’t you?” She met his gaze, holding it, a challenge now openly replacing the feigned innocence. Stanislaw didn’t respond, merely stared at her, a silent battle of wills playing out across the heavy oak desk. After a long moment, he exhaled slowly. “You may return to the salon. For now. But this conversation is far from over.” “Such a shame,” Janna purred, replacing the book with a deliberate slowness. “I was just starting to find your intensity… intriguing.” She swept out of the study, leaving Stanislaw Czaja alone with a lingering scent of expensive perfume and a growing sense of bewilderment. Later that evening, after the last carriage rolled away and the mansion settled into a quiet hum, Janna found Feliks waiting for her in her private chambers. He was arranging a selection of nightclothes, his movements precise and silent. “Feliks,” Janna began, turning from her vanity, where she’d been removing her elaborate hair ornaments. “Czaja seemed rather… insistent about a certain record book. Do you know anything about it? Or anything that might be hidden here?” Feliks paused, a silk dressing gown draped over his arm. He turned, his usually flamboyant demeanor replaced by a rare solemnity. “My lady, if I may speak frankly.” “Always, Feliks.” He sighed, a delicate sound. “The former Baroness, the true Kalina… she was not always as she appeared. Not entirely. I believe she was being… coerced. Blackmailed, in all likelihood. There were letters. And a man, a hulking brute of a fellow, who visited often, always late, always leaving her shaking behind locked doors. She never confided in me, but terror soaked through every breath. And she had a way of looking at me, sometimes, as if she knew something terrible was coming for her.” He wrung his hands, a gesture Janna had never seen from him before. “I owe her a debt. A life debt. She saved my sister from the workhouses years ago. Whatever she was involved in, she did not deserve her fate. And if there is a ledger, if there is anything that could clear her name, or… or explain things, I would help you find it.” Janna felt a surge of unexpected warmth. Feliks, the gossipy valet, was not just loyal to the ‘Baroness’ but to Kalina herself, and with a depth she hadn’t anticipated. This was more than a sidekick; this was an ally. “Thank you, Feliks,” Janna said, her voice softer than usual. “Your help would be invaluable.” With Feliks’s assistance, Janna began a systematic search of Kalina’s private rooms. They combed through secretarial desks, beneath loose floorboards in the library, even behind the paneling of a grand, antique armoire. Hours passed, the only sounds the rustle of fabrics and the creak of old wood. Just as Janna was about to give up on the study, her fingers brushed against a faint ridge along the underside of a heavy oak display case. It was perfectly camouflaged, almost invisible against the polished wood. With a delicate prod, a small section of the wood clicked inwards, revealing a shallow, narrow compartment. Her pulse quickened. This had to be it. The lost book, or at least a clue. She reached for the opening, her fingertips brushing the cool, dark space within. *Don’t.* The whisper echoed in her mind, cold and sharp, distinctly not her own voice. *Don’t.*

A Dangerous Interview