The first challenge is figuring out how to spell it in Cyrillic, the alphabet that Russian is written in. I’m not exactly sure what the difference is between some of the letters without someone here to guide me, but I give it a shot.
Then I crack open the dictionary to the end and scan the page, biting my lip.
Zloyushka isn’t in it, and I sigh dramatically, leaning my chin in my hand. I consult the English-to-Cyrillic guide again. I look back at the Russian dictionary, scanning my eyes down the page.
This time, my gaze falls on zloy, and I almost laugh out loud.
Duh, Hazel, I think. It’s a root with some stuff tacked onto the end. You know, the thing languages do?
Zloy (adj). Bad; wicked; naughty. See also ploho, neposlushnyy.
I stare at the word and think for a long second. There’s a suspicion bubbling up in my brain, and I flip to the front of the Russian dictionary where the section on nicknames and diminutives is.
I read it, frown, stare at the wall, and think for a long moment.
Then I grab A Guide To The Svelorian Dialect For English Speakers, and flip through it until I get to the nickname section.
I read it. Then I read it again, just to make sure I’ve got it right.
I look at the word I’ve written in terrible Cyrillic on the scrap paper, and despite myself, I start smiling. The -ushka ending is a diminutive, something that attaches to a name to make it into a nickname.
Russians in Russia don’t attach diminutives to adjectives to create nicknames, but Svelorians do. The most literal translation of zloyushka would be something like naughty little female person.
Bad girl. The crown prince is calling me bad girl.
That means I’ve got no choice but to meet him tonight, right? So I can tell him I figured out his stupid nickname?
It would be rude not to.
At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself.
The rest of the day seems endless. I play some badminton with my dad, go visit the horse stables, and walk along the beach for a spell. Even though I was enjoying the break at first, I can feel myself start to get a little itchy at the inactivity, like there something I ought to be doing, but instead I’m hanging out at a palace being absolutely useless.
At eleven, I head back to my own rooms, because I feel like my face is one giant billboard that says I’VE GOT A SECRET.
I tear through my closet, and finally pick out ankle boots with a low heel, dark skinny jeans, a green tank top and a black, long-sleeve shirt. The shirt zips diagonally up the front, so it’s at least a tiny bit stylish.
Not that I have any idea where we’re going. It could be a black tie event for all I fucking know, in which case I’m wildly underdressed, a feeling I’ve already gotten a pretty good grasp on during my short time here.
The minutes tick by. I pace back and forth, flipping through TV stations on the TV, but they’re mostly in Russian, though I think there’s one where they’re speaking Turkish. We’re not far from Turkey, after all.
At 11:40 I give up and tiptoe to my door, and then I stand there with one ear to it, listening.
It quickly occurs to me that I’m being ridiculous. I’m allowed to leave the room, after all.
For that matter, I’m allowed to walk to the garden, and I’m allowed to have a conversation with Kostya. Hell, I’m allowed to go wherever he’s taking me. I’m a guest, not a prisoner.
I just probably shouldn’t.
With that in mind, I walk through the palace as casually as I can manage, like I’ve never even heard the words clandestine meeting in my life. I see a few staff members, but they just nod at me.
Finally, I’m there. At the bench, by the arch, the heavily sweet smell of roses trickling through the air. My stomach is tied in a million knots, or maybe it’s one giant knot. Maybe it’s a million knots that have formed themselves into one big knot, like some kind of anxiety Voltron. It doesn’t fucking matter.
At exactly 12:00am, a dark form steps through the stone arch and looks around. I stand, adjusting my shirt, and step forward.
“Kostya?” I murmur.
The other person steps forward, and the second he moves, I know something’s wrong — he’s a little shorter than Kostya, and he’s got a very, very slight limp. I stop short and hold my breath, but it’s way, way too late.
Run! I think wildly. He’s got a limp, he won’t catch you!
I force myself to stand there. If I run, someone’s going to think there was an assassin in the garden, the whole palace will go on alert, and I don’t need to cause any more trouble.
“Miss Sung,” a familiar voice says.
I exhale.
“Nikolai...” I say, trying desperately to remember his formal patronymic. “Sergovich?”
I’m almost positive that’s not it.
He inclines his head very slightly.
Oh, my god, just tell me what your fucking name is, I think. I already feel like an asshole.
“It’s a lovely night,” he says, very formally.
“Yes,” I say. “I couldn’t sleep so I was taking a stroll through the gardens. They’re very beautiful, and also relaxing and mesmerizing.”
Mesmerizing? I think. Moron.
He just nods again.
“I frequently walk through them when seeking calm,” he says. “Pleasure to see you again, Miss Sung.”
“The pleasure was mine,” I say.
He walks on, disappearing as he rounds a bend in the path.
Shit fuck shit fuck shit cock damn hellfire, I think.
I wonder if I should give up and just go back to my rooms, because now Nikolai knows I was expecting to see Kostya in the garden at midnight, and if that’s not suspicious as shit, I don’t know what is.
You haven’t even done anything, I remind myself. Besides get high on the roof, but there’s nothing between you to keep secret.
It just feels like there is.
More footsteps. I take a deep breath and turn to see another figure standing in the stone archway. This time I keep my mouth shut as the figure walks toward me, approaching until he’s towering over me, so close I think I can feel the body heat radiating off him. I swallow hard.
“I was right,” Kostya says, his voice low.
Chapter Twelve
Kostya
“I figured out your nickname,” Hazel says, looking up at me.
She’s always got this expression in her eyes like she’s laughing, and I don’t know whether she’s laughing at me or at the world or whether I’m misreading, but there’s something enticing about it. Like she and I share some joke, some secret from the outside world.
No one’s ever looked at me that way before. I don’t know what it means, but I know I like it.
“And?” I ask.
“It just means bad girl,” she says. “I’m disappointed. I thought maybe you were more creative.”
“Is that a request?” I ask. “I can send you to the dictionary every day if that’s what you want.”
“There’s already enough here I don’t know,” she says. “I like at least knowing you’re not calling me a squirrel scrotum or something.”
“Squirrels are revered animals in Svelorian folklore,” I say, keeping my face perfectly straight. “Their scrotums have a long, storied history in alchemy and magic here.”