Krystof’s words, heavy as the coal dust settling on the manor’s gargoyles, hung in the humid air of the glasshouse. Lenora traced the delicate curve of the orchid’s petal, its pure white a stark contrast to the grime outside. “I don’t believe that,” she declared, her voice firmer than she felt. “People don’t just… break beautiful things without a reason. And they can always be mended.” Krystof offered a thin, mirthless smile. “Indeed, Miss Chekova. Some believe a reason justifies the wreckage. As for mending… Koslov Manor has seen many attempts at repair, none lasting. I trust you will find your chambers adequate. Dinner is at eight. Do try not to get lost.” With a faint rustle of impeccably tailored wool, he turned and exited the conservatory, leaving the heavy, grimy door to sigh shut behind him. Lenora stood alone amidst the vibrant growth, the silence amplifying Krystof’s chilling assessment. But her optimism, stubborn as a weed through cobblestones, refused to wither. She glanced around the conservatory, her eyes scanning the pots, the shelves, the intricate ironwork supporting the glass ceiling. Serafima. Her pragmatic sister, who saw secrets in plain sight and hid information like a squirrel hoarding nuts. If Serafima had been here, if she’d known Lenora might follow, she would have left a sign. She moved slowly, methodically, touching the waxy leaves of a monstrous-looking jungle vine, peering into the dark soil of a terracotta pot. Her gaze fell upon a stack of discarded seed packets near a watering can, a common enough sight. She picked one up. *‘Kravnik Nightbloom’* it read, a flower known to unfurl only under the twin moons. Nothing unusual. She flipped through a few more. *‘Crimson Thornblush’, ‘Veridian Whisperleaf’*… then, tucked amongst them, a crumpled piece of paper, smaller, folded tightly. It wasn’t a seed packet at all. Her fingers fumbled, unfolding it. The paper was rough, a scrap from what looked like a delivery manifest. Scrawled hastily in Serafima’s distinctive, sharp hand were three urgent words: *Trust no one. Especially not Volkov.* Lenora’s heart gave a lurch, a cold ripple spreading through her. Volkov? Who was Volkov? Before she could ponder the cryptic warning, a voice, deep and smooth as polished coal, startled her. “Forgive the intrusion. One finds the most unexpected blooms in the most desolate gardens.” Lenora spun around. Standing just inside the conservatory door, where Krystof had exited, was a man who seemed to defy the manor’s gloom. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his silver hair swept back from a sharp, intelligent face. His smile was wide, revealing perfect teeth, but his eyes, the color of tarnished brass, held a calculating glint. He carried himself with an almost predatory grace. “I am Baron Mikhail Volkov,” he announced, extending a hand that felt oddly cold. “And you, my dear, must be the new Mrs. Koslov. A genuine pleasure. I had the… distinct misfortune of attending the recent unpleasantness. My sincerest condolences on your sister’s departure, and belated congratulations on your rather sudden elevation.” Lenora’s politeness warred with the chill of Serafima’s warning. “Thank you, Baron. I’m Lenora Chekova.” She didn’t offer further pleasantries. Serafima’s words echoed in her mind: *Especially not Volkov.* “A florist, I hear,” the nobleman continued, his gaze sweeping over the solarium, lingering on the pristine orchid. “A delightful contrast to our host’s… particular predilections. Tell me, Mrs. Koslov, have you had much opportunity to discuss Master Gavriil’s grand, if somewhat misguided, ambitions for the Krovnian skies?” Lenora frowned. “I haven’t. I only just arrived.” “Of course. But you are his wife now, are you not?” His smile tightened. “I, you see, was a significant investor in the ‘Koslov Comet’ venture. A substantial portion of my family’s fortune, in fact, now rests in the rusted skeleton of a dream. Gavriil Koslov’s genius, while undeniable, is matched only by his profound capacity for… spectacular failure.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “I believe, with your… unique position, you could be instrumental in helping me salvage some small portion of that investment. The patents for his airship designs, for instance. Brilliant concepts, truly. Just in need of a more… practical hand to guide them to market. A hand, perhaps, belonging to someone who doesn’t allow personal tragedy to cloud their business judgment.” Lenora felt a prickle of unease. “I don’t know anything about patents or business, Baron. And Master Koslov’s affairs are his own.” The visitor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Oh, my dear. His affairs are now *your* affairs, are they not? And Gavriil, in his current state, is hardly capable of protecting his own interests, let alone yours. Imagine the goodwill you’d earn, the influence you’d wield, if you were to facilitate a… mutually beneficial transfer of those designs. Think of it as a way to ensure your own future, beyond the confines of this soot-stained prison.” His eyes bore into hers, a silent threat underlying his charming facade. “I won’t,” Lenora stated, her voice shaking slightly but resolute. “I won’t betray my husband.” The Baron’s smile evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard line. “A commendable sentiment, for a new bride. But perhaps a little… naive. You misunderstand the nature of this household, Mrs. Koslov. You are not a cherished wife; you are a replacement, a temporary fixture. And Gavriil? He is a broken man, a recluse. What can he offer you but a gilded cage and a legacy of ruin? Help me, and you might carve out something real for yourself.” He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm, a gesture of faux comfort that felt like a claim. “Let go of her, Mikhail.” The voice was low, rough, emanating from the conservatory door. Gavriil Koslov stood there, a silhouette against the industrial smog that filtered through the glass. He was dressed in dark, unadorned clothing, his usually severe expression now a mask of cold fury. His eyes, though shadowed, seemed to burn with an internal fire. The nobleman’s hand dropped as if stung. He turned, his confident posture faltering slightly. “Gavriil! My dear fellow. Just having a cordial chat with your charming wife. Discussing… matters of mutual interest.” Gavriil took a slow, deliberate step into the room, the heavy door thudding shut behind him. The air thickened around them. He didn't raise his voice, yet his presence commanded every molecule in the room. “My wife does not discuss ‘matters of mutual interest’ with men like you.” He moved with a quiet, menacing grace, closing the distance between them. “Come now, Gavriil, be reasonable,” the man attempted, a hint of desperation entering his tone. “We’re merely talking business. The future of your patents, your legacy –” Gavriil was suddenly upon him, a blur of dark fabric and coiled power. His hand shot out, not striking, but gripping the lapel of the Baron’s expensive charcoal suit with shocking force. The guest gasped, stumbling backward as Gavriil propelled him towards the door. The older industrialist scrabbled for purchase, but Gavriil's grip was unyielding. He opened the glass door with his free hand, a blast of cold, soot-laced air rushing in. “You will leave this house,” Gavriil growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Lenora’s bones. He shoved the Baron out onto the gravel path with a final, contemptuous thrust. “And you will never approach my wife again. What is mine, Mikhail, you do not touch.”

An Unwelcome Vulture