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I don’t know how to answer that without sounding foolish.

For sleeping in Anya’s bed. For being there with Nikolai. For making the house look like something it is not supposed to be. For wanting it to be exactly what it looked like for one night.

“I didn’t mean for you to find us like that,” I say.

Galina looks at me for a moment. “Miss Anya seemed comfortable.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

I wrap my arms around myself. “You looked upset.”

“I was surprised.”

“No, you weren’t.”

That earns me the smallest lift of her eyebrows.

I probably should not have said it. But I’m tired, and my chest hurts, and I don’t want one more person in this house pretending politeness is the same as honesty.

Galina studies me for another second, then glances toward the stairs. “Come,” she says.

She leads me down the hall, not to the kitchen, but to the little alcove near the linen press where morning light comes through a narrow window. It is not private exactly, but it is quiet.

She folds her hands in front of her. “I was not upset because you were there,” she says.

I wait.

“I was upset because for a moment it looked like something this house had not had in a long time.”

My throat tightens. “What?”

“A family,” she says.

I look away.

Galina’s voice stays calm. “When Miss Anya was very small, mornings were difficult. Mrs. Sofia was often tired. Mr. Nikolai was often gone. There were good days, of course. People forget that about unhappy houses. They are not unhappy every hour.” She looks toward Anya’s closed door. “But those mornings became fewer.”

I say nothing because I don’t want to interrupt her.

Galina looks toward Anya’s door, then back at me. “I have known this family longer than most people here,” she says. “My father worked for Nikolai’s grandfather. I grew up around the old house.”

“The old house?”

“In the country. Before they moved most of their lives here.” Her mouth softens a little. “It was always busy. Drivers, guards, cooks, children running where they shouldn’t. Nikolai’s father was young then. Viktor was not born yet. Nikolai’s mother used to complain that there was never a quiet morning.”

I try to picture it. This house already feels too large sometimes, but the way Galina says it makes the old one sound alive in a different way. Loud, crowded, full of people who all knew each other’s business.

“So you were basically family,” I say.

Galina gives me a dry look. “No. Staff should not confuse themselves.”

I feel my face heat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean⁠—”

“I know what you meant.” Her voice is not unkind. “My father was loyal to them, and they were good to him. That’s not the same as family.”

I nod, though I am not sure I fully understand the difference as clearly as she does.