Outside, the helicopter took off. At first, the sound of the rotors was still close and harsh against the windowpanes; then it became a tremor in the glass, then a dull throb in the storm. Eventually, the snow swallowed that up too, leaving only the heated chalet behind.
And two men who, to the outside world, were merely accidental heroes — but to each other, had long been something far more complicated.
The fire in the lounge burned with that discreet persistence that did not demand attention, but simply asserted its warmth. The flickering light fell upon the wood, the carpet, the glass, and the teapot made of Chinese porcelain. Outside, the snow swept diagonally past the windows, as if the night were trying to prove that it had indeed cut off every route down. Even a wild boar trotted so close to the windows across the snow-covered terrace that its bristles scraped against the window frames.
Shane was still standing at the edge of the dining room. His good hand rested on the edge of the table, his injured shoulder immobilised, the white sling standing out against the dark fabric. His gaze was half on the window, half on the nothingness beyond the windows, after the wild boar had disappeared.
Ilya stood a few paces away in that controlled posture, which for the first time was no longer dictated by the presence of others, but only by silence.
Between them lay warm light, the licked-clean cups of the six crèmes brûlées, guest rooms, three or four days’ worth of snow, and no spectators left.
From the lounge, one could see the teapot that Max had placed on a low side table. Next to it, two cups, a blanket, a small plate of pastries. As if the house itself had decided that no sensible person should be standing alone in any corridor after such an evening.
Shane finally exhaled.
“Three to four days.”
Ilya didn’t reply immediately.
“Three to four.”
“Jennifer is frighteningly efficient.”
Ilya looked towards the fireplace. “Efficient?”
Shane turned slowly and leaned his hip against the table. The movement cost him more than he wanted to show.
Ilya noticed immediately.
“Your shoulder—”
“It hurts, but I’m still alive.”
A hint of something that, under different circumstances, might have been a smile flitted across Ilya’s face and vanished just as quickly.
“You’ve already said that.”
“Yes. And it was a good answer back then, too.”
Ilya took a slow step closer. Not directly towards him. More in the direction of the lounge, as if the path there just happened to be the same.
“Dana lied.”
Shane raised his eyebrows. “Which part?”
“The bit about ‘barely’.”
Shane laughed briefly. “You sound worried.”
“I am.”
Shane looked at him for the first time without an audience, without the hallway, without strategic caution.
“That scares me.”
Ilya stopped by the fireplace. There was still some space between them.
“You didn’t have to chase after him to the window.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
Shane glanced briefly at the noose, then looked up again.
“Because he wanted to escape and would have betrayed you.”
Ilya waited. Shane shook his head slightly.
“And because I was fed up with just making assumptions. Someone finally had to do something that wasn’t just based on suspicions.”
Ilya said quietly, “That doesn’t sound like the whole reason.”
Shane looked at him for a long time.
Then: “No.”
Silence again.
Ilya went to the tea table, poured some tea, set down the first cup, then poured a second. His movements were precise, almost ceremonial. A man who needed something for his hands when words became dangerous.
He brought Shane the first cup in such a way that it felt like the most natural thing in the world, if one had watched them both long enough.
Shane took it with his good hand.
“Thanks.”
Ilya took the other cup, but stopped instead of sitting down.
“Earlier in the loo—”
Shane looked up immediately. “Yes.”
“I didn’t believe you.”
Shane nodded once. “Neither did I.”
Ilya stared into the cup as if hot tea could provide an explanation.
“And now?”
Shane thought for a moment.
“Now I believe you didn’t kill him.”
Ilya looked up. “Is that all?”
Shane looked at him. For a split second, he was tempted to be witty again. He let it go.
“Now I also believe that all along, you were more afraid for me than for yourself.”
Ilya didn’t reply straight away, but finally remarked: “That was unreasonable.”
A brief gust of wind buffeted the windows. The fire in the fireplace cast the light differently for a moment. Ilya set the cup down.
“When Jennifer said I shouldn’t get in the way—”
Shane waited.
“I think I’d rather have let Toolidle kill me than walk away.” That was so honest that the room fell briefly silent.
Shane looked at him. “I know.”
Ilya blinked once. A slight crack in his composure.
“No. You don’t know that.”
Shane set down his cup.
“Yes, I do.”
He pushed himself away from the table, slowly, carefully, and took a few steps into the drawing room. Not quite all the way to Ilya. Far enough that the conversation no longer sounded like something that could have been held over a long dining table.
“I just didn’t know if it was because you thought I’d done something or because you thought I’d been dragged into something.”
Ilya said quietly: “Both would have been bad.”
“For you?”
Ilya met, held, and broke Shane’s gaze.
“For both of us.”
Shane exhaled slowly.
“That almost sounds as if we have a problem.”
Ilya replied dryly: “Almost? Shall I fetch Max’s Germknödel? With the melted butter? And the poppy seed sugar?”
For the first time, the hint of a smile actually lingered on his face for a moment longer. Shane saw it. And something in his own expression softened, became more playful and open.
“At the press conference, you looked as if you’d rather ignore me.”
“Yes, because that’s what you expect from a Brit.”
“And now?”
Ilya didn’t reply straight away. He glanced briefly at the fire, then back at Shane.
“There are no cameras here now.”
Shane took another step. With a injured shoulder, a sling, tea on the table and snow outside, every movement was more deliberate than it would otherwise have been.
“And if there were?”
Ilya shrugged ever so slightly.
“Then Jennifer would show them the door.”
Shane laughed. This time so softly that it was almost just warmth.
“With black coral jewellery?”
For a few seconds, they simply looked at each other. Shane gestured towards the bowl containing Jennifer’s necklace.
Then Shane said, more calmly than anything before: “I thought that if it was you, I’d understand why.”
Ilya closed his eyes briefly, because the sentence came back to him and now meant something else.
“I thought that if it was you, it was because you thought you had to save someone.”
Ilya now took the final step closer himself.
“And yet here you are.”
Shane glanced briefly past him towards the window, at the snow, at the whole impossibly warm, impossibly discreet chalet.
“Max put me in the Russian room and you in the British one: a mishap or on purpose?”
Shane slowly raised his good hand as a question.
Ilya looked at it. Then at him. Then he closed the small distance that remained and placed his hand in Shane’s, just skin and warmth.
Shane closed his fingers around his hand.
“Three to four days, eh?”
Ilya said, almost dryly: “If you behave yourself.”
“I’m injured. That takes the place of behaving.”
Ilya raised his other hand and touched the sling very carefully, just the edge of the fabric, not the injured area. For a moment, only the storm stood between their words.
Then Shane said: “If I get well again quickly enough, we might see each other in Copenhagen.”
Ilya looked at him.
“The charity tournament?”
“To protect the oceans,” said Shane. “I’ve been asked to lead the Commonwealth Defence Pact team. But now I have to see if my shoulder holds up and nobody decides I’m politically, medically or emotionally unfit.”
“Copenhagen is cold.”
Ilya let her gaze drop briefly to her bandaged hand.
“Then you’d better hurry up and get better.”
“Why?”
“So I can beat you there again when I’m leading the Socialist Solidarity Pact team.”
Shane laughed softly. “You’re awful.”
“You like that.”
“Unfortunately, all too much.”
Ilya grew serious again. “And if you can’t play?”
Shane didn’t answer straight away. Outside, snow pelted against the window. Inside, the fire crackled. Max’s teapot was still steaming.
“Then I’ll come anyway, if I can get a ship’s ticket,” said Shane.
Ilya’s hand tightened slightly around his.
“I’d pay for it if you can’t.”
Shane pulled him closer slowly. Slowly enough that Ilya could pull back at any moment, slowly enough that they could both decide to stop.
Ilya didn’t.
They kissed. It was a cautious, quiet kiss. Almost uncertain at first. Then more confident, because both of them had long known how much had already been between them. When they parted, they remained close enough that there was no real distance between them.
Ilya rested his forehead very lightly against Shane’s for a moment.
“Jennifer said we shouldn’t argue.”
Shane smiled.
“I can manage that.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s enough of a heroic deed for today.”
Ilya exhaled once. The sound was almost a laugh.
Shane raised his good hand slightly towards the parlour.
“Will you fetch the yeast dumplings?”
Ilya nodded.
“Before or after?”
He took the teapot, Shane the cups. Together, slowly, carefully enough for the shoulder and for everything else that had nearly been broken tonight, they walked over to the parlour.
Outside, the world continued to vanish into the snow, whilst an invisible wild boar ran through the snow.