Page 59 of To Catch A Rogue

Yes. But the "behind" caught her attention.

She looked up through several loose strands of hair. "You think you're going in there without me?"

Hell, no.

His mouth twisted ruefully. "Blade and Herbert will be almost in place. If we abort now, we might be leaving them in there alone."

She didn't have time to think about this sudden revelation.

Lark pushed to her feet, forcing her shaking limbs to obey her. "You're not going anywhere without me. Someone needs to watch your fool back."

"Point of entry," Charlie said, gesturing to one of the servants’ entrances. "Ready?"

"When you are," she replied, dragging the mask up over her mouth and pulling her hood over her face.

She couldn't afford to be a Grigoriev right now.

She needed to be Lark.

"If you—"

"I'm fine," she said. "Let's go."

* * *

Nothing could have preparedher for the palace.

Lark tried to focus on the task ahead of them instead of the flashes of memory that overtook her with every damned step.

There was no sign of habitation in the servants’ quarters. No hint of rot. To all visible appearance, the place was abandoned, and yet all the hairs down her spine lifted. It felt like eyes were watching her wherever she went, but she couldn't hear anything.

The ornate ballroom had the air of a mausoleum. Dust lay thick on the chequered floors, and several of the chandeliers had fallen, spraying glass everywhere. The remaining shards caught the rising moonlight through the windows, winking like tears of pure fire, but a dark curtain of gloom shrouded the ballroom.

She moved as if in a trance.

Up the enormous staircase into the hallway where most of the Grigoriev ancestors had once looked down upon her. Charlie slipped ahead like a wraith in the night, checking rooms, but Lark paused by the enormous family portrait on the wall.

The gilt frame was blackened with soot, and someone had slashed through the portrait, leaving a flap of canvas hanging down. She reached up, lifted it back into place, and found herself staring directly into her father's eyes.

Konstantin Grigoriev had been an imposing man with dark brown hair much the same color as hers, though there was more green to his eyes. His neatly trimmed beard and mustache flanked a stern, unforgiving mouth. He'd been serious and sober at the best of times, much like Dmitri, but when he smiled the entire room lit with its warmth.

And he always smiled for her.

At his side, Dima and Nikolai stood stiffly, though they couldn't have been more unalike if they'd tried. Kolya was the joker of the family, constantly tugging her plaits or playing tricks on her, and Dima had been quiet and studious, given to long brooding silences.

She looked for Obsidian in Dmitri's face.

Was that a hint of him about the mouth? Obsidian's hair and eyes were fairer than the boy in the painting’s, but was that merely the craving virus bleaching the color from his skin?

It was said that Dmitri resembled her father's first wife more than their father, so she couldn't find any traces of him in Konstantin either.

Lark pressed her fingers to Yekaterina's gown, wishing she'd told her sister how much she loved her when she'd had the chance. She could almost remember sitting for the portrait. Baby Evgeni fussed and cried the whole time, wanting to be free to roam, and all she could recall was feeling the same resentment.

"Lark." Charlie ghosted back down the hallway toward her.

She let the flap of canvas fall. She had a job to do. There was no point dwelling on the past, and yet her heart hurt in her chest as if the muscles were squeezing tight.

"Found anything?"