Page 40 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“Breakfast,” she says in careful English. “Mrs. Wentworth sent me.”

“Mrs. Wentworth has minions. That tracks.”

Her eyes flick to me, then away. “My name is Lidiya.”

“Cara,” I say. “Although I assume everyone here got the trading card.”

A corner of her mouth almost moves.

She lifts the covers from the plates. The tray holds dark bread, butter, sliced fruit, and a bowl of something white and grainy that looks like cottage cheese that went to finishing school and came back with secrets. A spoonful of dark cherry jam sits beside it in a tiny glass dish. Tea the color of old furniture.

My stomach turns itself into a fist.

“Wow,” I say. “Very… committed.”

Lidiya folds her hands. “You do not like?”

“I’m sure it’s great if you farm through winter. I usually do coffee. Toast. Maybe a banana, if Moscow hasn’t declared fruits suspicious.”

This time, the mouth does move. “I can ask.”

“Ask whom? The breakfast committee? Criminal concierge? Is there a guest feedback form, or do I carve complaints into the windows with despair?”

Lidiya glances toward the door, where the guards are almost certainly listening.

“Mrs. Wentworth handles the household,” she says. “Food requests are permitted.”

Permitted.

The word lands in the tray between us.

“Charming,” I say.

Lidiya lowers her gaze, and for one second, I feel bad. She is not the cage. She only carries the tray inside it.

“Coffee,” I say more gently. “Black. Toast. Butter. Banana, if possible.”

“I will ask.”

She leaves with the tray untouched. Twenty minutes later, coffee arrives with toast, butter, and a banana sliced on a small plate. No note comes with it. The delivery girl isn’t Lidiya and she doesn’t smile. Nobody explains a thing, which tells me plenty.

I sit at the table and stare at the food. They’ll give me toast, but not the same face twice. I drink the coffee anyway. Principles are lovely, but without caffeine, they tend to crash.

After breakfast, I open the suite door.

Two guards stand outside. Different men from last night. Older than the airport pair. One has a square face. The other has pale eyes and a scar near his chin.

“Morning,” I say. “Can I walk outside?”

Square Face looks straight ahead. Scar Chin looks at me.

“You may walk the wing,” Scar Chin says.

“Does movement under guard earn loyalty points?” I ask.

Square Face stays carved out of soldier discipline. Scar Chin almost smiles. Good to know. Square Face is stone. Scar Chin has seams.

I step into the corridor. Both men move with me, one behind and one ahead, leaving enough space to pretend I’m choosing the direction.