She stood on a precipice. Before her the darkness of night, stretching on and broken up only by small candles in dusty windows. Behind her the black shadow of Alexander Samsonov, of Joseph Stalin, of Lavrentiy Beria. And Sveta stood between them on the edge. A familiar sensation, though this void felt colder than she remembered.

They wouldn't find her here. Not here, looking out through the window with only a few candles as warmth. No one expected Sveta to be in an attic.

They should've though.

She could smell mold. Sveta remembered that smell, of mildew eating away at the planks beneath her now booted feet. Even a decade later she knew it.

She also knew what Zhanna had seen. The way she'd clawed herself away, putting the Americans between herself and Sveta. Sveta knew what she saw, because she now saw it in the mirror every day. She saw the NKVD. Sveta had hidden from them for a decade. But she'd become one.

Outside, she saw movement on the street. Martial law had been declared after they'd found the camps. Her eyes closed. The camps. She'd only heard stories of the GULAG camps. Sveta didn't know if they resembled the ones found by the Allies. But she knew Beria, and she wouldn't have put it past the NKVD.

Now the Americans moved to secure the town. Men at every corner, curfew for Germans at 1900 hours. She watched the Military Police patrolling. Black and white arm bands, black and white marks on their helmets.

Sveta turned away. She looked back into the flickering room. The candles gave a soft glow. It seemed almost peaceful. Their light reflected off the bottles of schnapps that she'd found. Her dark stare could scare any of the enlisted who knew her name. The Samsonovs inspired fear everywhere. The window became fascinating once more. Tears stained her cheeks.

She heard a knob turn. Wood scraped against wood. She whipped around and found herself face to face with Ron Speirs, leaning against the small wall of the five steps up into the attic. So. He'd found her after all.

Sveta hadn't wanted to be found. But those hazel eyes. They always found her.

He looked exhausted. It wasn't often Ron Speirs showed his fatigue, but standing there with his head slightly cocked and mouth drawn in a thin line, shadows of flickering candles splashing darkness on his skin, he showed it.

Neither spoke. Sveta just watched him from the window, watched as he took in the attic. He found the bottles of schnapps almost immediately and showed no sign of surprise. Ron moved from the stairs then, letting the door close behind himself. His boots creaked against the wooden floor as he moved to her.

Her left side still leaned on the wall. Sveta needed the anchor. He mirrored her, still not saying anything. A battle of wills. But Sveta didn't have the energy, didn't have the fire to put up a fight. It took no time for her to break eye contact, wiping away her tears with her arm. Sveta pushed away, back to him.

"She's doing better," Ron said. A few beats of silence followed before he elaborated. "Roe and Spina are with her."

Good. Good. The medics were good. They would take care of Zhanna. Sveta felt herself crashing. She still didn't face Ron, looking instead at the nearly glowing bottles of alcohol that sat next to the candles. She reached for one.

"You're not doing that again."

Ron. Sveta stiffened. That was why she'd wanted to be alone in the attic. To drink alone and die alone and hurt no one else with her evil. But Ron's sharp command interrupted her efforts. Sveta turned to him.

He moved away from the window again. With a long look at her face, studying her, he shook his head again. "If I have to sit up in this attic all night, then for fuck's sake, I'll stay here." His voice sharpened. "You're not drinking yourself to death."

He wouldn't let her die. He wouldn't, or couldn't, be the one to set her free from the strings. They still pulled her up, held her, made her dance.

"Christ's sake, Sveta," he growled. "You choose now to be silent?"

Silent. No. She opened her mouth, feeling the cotton-dryness from lack of use as she did so. "If I talk, may I have a drink?"

May I. Please, sir. If you would. Sveta fell back into the dance with ease. But Ron saw through it. She knew he did, because he just shook his head and pursed his lips, slipping off his coat. He tossed it onto a box. "Better share."

The attic had a small table. Ron moved it over in one motion as Sveta stood, watching him. They didn't talk. They didn't talk until Sveta took a chair across from him and Ron popped open one bottle. In the light of the candles, his face almost glowed. Sveta nearly smiled, thinking about him there in the warmth of the light. But she didn't.

To his credit, he let her have the first drink. As the glass bottle parted her lips, she released the tension in her shoulders. A sweetness like nectar, giving her life. Or poison giving death.

"That's enough," Ron insisted. He shook his head. Sveta watched him grip the table and he reached out for it. "Jesus, stop."

"Everyone dies, Ron," she finally said. "I've seen it many times."

His lips folded inwards, forming a thin line as his brow furrowed. But he took the bottle from her, protecting it like it was gold. Gold to be bartered. Gold for words. "When you die, Sveta, it'll be on a battlefield. Not in a goddamn attic."

"It started in an attic," she muttered.

Her thoughts often went there. And she told him. She recounted those ten days in Rostov-on-Don. Ten days where her hope had been her papa, Sasha Samsonov. That hope had shattered into a million pieces along with her heart when her mother confirmed that the men in blue caps that slaughtered children worked under orders from the man she hugged before bed.

"I did what I could, Ron," she told him. Her eyes teared up again, thinking of the poor on the streets that she helped her mother bring bread to. That had only lasted a few years, though. "I tried. We tried, with Zhanna. All I wanted was a friend."

"How did she come to stay with you?" he asked. Ron took a small drink, his eyes never leaving her face even as he lifted the bottle.

Sveta frowned. She came scared and alone. "Her caretaker was my governess. As the Purge of Poles increased, more being sent to camps or killed, they asked us to shelter her." Sveta sighed. She reached out for the bottle and he passed it over. One more quick drink. "My mama said yes, of course. So she lived with us, though I kept her from the spotlight. Only bad things live in the spotlight."

"Like Beria?"

She jerked her head up. That name. He spoke it so freely. Though Sveta supposed it didn't really matter any more. Not since the note. Her hopes of leaving meant nothing. Maybe now, with nothing to lose, past this point of no return, she could speak about him.

"Lavrentiy Beria took women to his estate, raped them, and sometimes killed them. He would offer flowers to them if they would lie. Any girl who accepted the flowers would be allowed to live. Any who did not would be apprehended." Sveta said. She felt her skin crawl as the words formed. Her grip on the glass bottle tightened, turning her knuckles white. "I had to keep Zhanna from that."

"Your parents knew?" he asked. His voice rose a bit, the anger visceral.

Sveta offered him a tiny smirk. "Of course. They were the ones who warned me, Ron. 'Don't ever be alone with him, Svetka,' they would say. He couldn't touch Lana Stalina but he wanted me. He knew that if he could prove my disloyalty, my father would be suspect to arrest, clearing the way for him to Stalin."

Silence fell between them again. One of the candles began to burn low. The little fire, beginning to go out. But Ron interrupted her musings. "And your mother?"

Her eyes closed without thought. Pain shot through her again. The alcohol warmed her a bit, restoring the fire in her chest. Her mother. Veronika. She'd left her alone. Veronika had left her alone. She bled out and left Sveta to care for Zhanna.

"I found her first," Sveta choked out. Her chest tightened. "She shot herself in her bedroom while my father was in Moscow. He'd left his spare pistol. The silence killed her."

"And that's when you and Zhanna left to train?" he asked.

Sveta nodded. Soon after that, at least. "To get away from them all," she said. "Stalin's son joined the war as well, Vasily. We all fled." Her heart pounded. She'd fled, but Beria had followed. "But he's been watching. I don't know how, Ron, but he has. The roses in Aldbourne, the roses in Mourmelon, the roses in the cell." Tears filled her eyes. "Maybe even the roses sent to Sink at Mackall, though I don't know. I don't know. And then the note and roses in Sturzelberg."

"Come to America."

Sveta glanced up. He said it so forcefully, as if he could will it into reality. Ron watched her, inspecting her face as she turned to him. Those hazel eyes.

"Don't you want to!"

"You know I do," Sveta bit back. The fire returned as the alcohol worked. Sveta stood from the table, the legs scraping against the floorboards. In the dark she paced. "But I can't, Ron! He'll never stop."

"Jesus. Sveta!" He stood too. Ron moved away from the table. His anger, building again, desperate. "Just leave!"

"I can't!" she shouted. Tears streamed down her face. But she stood in front of him, so close she could feel his ragged breaths. Warmth. Too warm. "I am Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova, loyal Russian."

He scoffed, turning away. When he faced her again, he growled. "You're a goddamn puppet."

It stung. Not that he had said it, but that he was right. She knew that. Sveta drew back, face contorting as she tried to stop the tears. A puppet. A marionette. She danced where they told her. "Yes. I am."

Ron paused. He watched her again. They both did, looking at each other not two feet between them. Hazel eyes and dark eyes. He had power. Ron didn't know what it felt like to be restrained the way the puppet strings held her.

Her chest burned. She looked at the way the dying candle light made his face glow, almost golden in the darkness. He was real. Real and alive and there, with her. Heat crept to her face as she watched him. She wanted him. She wanted what he offered. Like a drug.

But she couldn't have it. Sveta turned away. She started back towards the alcohol. But a hand, warm and firm took her wrist. Sveta shivered. She looked up at him there, stopping her from grabbing one drug by offering another. Whispering, she shook her head. "Ron—"

A knock on the wooden door made her heart leap. He released her after a moment, as both took a half step back. He raised his voice, though she swore he stumbled over the word at first. "What is it?"

Lipton's voice came through, strong and apologetic. As he opened the door, he tried to explain to Ron. "Colonel Strayer needs you at the CP, sir." He took one glance at her and didn't seem surprised. He offered a smile.

Sveta hoped the tears had dried on her cheeks. Fresh ones tried to escape, but she pushed them away. She pushed them down. Ron glanced at her, then at the alcohol.

"I can stay, sirs." They both turned to Lipton. He shrugged, moving up the last steps to stand level with them. "There's a whole lot going on here I don't understand, but I can help."

Ron nodded once. He turned back to her, and then back to him. He hesitated only briefly. "Stay with Captain Samsonova until I get back. You," he turned back to her, "stay out of the schnapps."

Sveta nodded. She would. She couldn't go to America with him, and she regretted that as much as she regretted anything, but she supposed she could make it back to Russia for him. With her single nod, he tapped Lipton on the arm and then headed down the stairs. Lipton moved to sit at the table.

"Captain?" He wanted her to join. She could tell. To say something. He surely had dozens of questions. But he didn't ask them.

Sveta just sighed. "It's been long day."