Free Sekret by Lindsay Smith

into the sheets, shivering, and squeeze my eyes closed again.

 
    CHAPTER 10
    WITHIN A WEEK , our days at the mansion become routine as we prepare for our first real mission: in the mornings we hone our psychic abilities, learning to apply them to different scenarios, and in the afternoon we study spycraft—conducting surveillance, or luring out information from someone on their guard. I reintroduce food to my system carefully, like I’m building up a tolerance to poison; my socks still slink down my ankles, but at least my cheekbones no longer look like lethal weapons. Larissa keeps me sane in the evenings. Without her distracting me, chatting about her favorite radio show, my frustration would have swallowed me up already. Major Kruzenko plays our mother, our headmistress, and our warden, a softer presence to counter Colonel Rostov who makes thankfully rare appearances to check on our progress.
    Only when Kruzenko departs one day with Ivan and Sergei do I have my chance. Everyone is gathered in the ballroom, reading or chatting or listening to Valentin practice his scales; even the pet spiders let their shoulders droop and bow their heads toward one another to gossip. I’m among them one moment, on the periphery of their conversation, and gone the next, wedging the knife between the door to Kruzenko’s office and the rotted-wood frame. It pops open easily. I’m inside with the door latched again behind me before I hear the ostinato of heavy boots resuming their well-trod patrol route.
    The office is tinier than I expected, and disappointingly bare. The room is little more than an oversized closet, stuffed with a heavy oak desk, which must’ve been a nightmare to fit through the doorway, and a tiny window, grimy and fogged, that overlooks the shedding autumn trees. I was hoping for at least a file cabinet, but I settle into the creaky chair behind the desk and test the first drawer: empty. The second holds pencils rubber banded together and a hand-cranked sharpener. My nerves crackle, bracing for disappointment as I tug open the final drawer—
    My heart slams against my ribs. Lying at the bottom of the drawer is a single folder stamped SEKRET.
    I pry the folder out. Something rattles underneath it—a framed photo. It’s old—a harsh image of stark blacks and crisp, pleated whites, too sharply contrasted to show the image’s subtleties. A crowd of people are wedged into a narrow metal room, like the hold of a ship, all of them wearing soldier uniforms. I immediately recognize the gaunt, blazing stare of Colonel Rostov, though he’s almost smiling and has a flop of pale hair covering his forehead. The woman beside him, raising a glass toward the camera in salute—could that be Kruzenko? All her fat’s been trimmed away, revealing a strong, sturdy gymnast’s body. Her shoulder presses seamlessly against Rostov’s, as if they’re cut from the same block of stone. Another man, on Rostov’s other side, must be the twins’ father. I’d know that smug grin anywhere. A few others glance toward the camera, annoyed to have their card game disrupted, but I don’t recognize the rest. These must be the original psychic spies, the ones who fought in the Patriotic War like Sergei said.
    I set the picture aside and reach for the folder. It’s too thin. My hope ebbs even before I open it. Sure enough, it’s only a few pages of handwritten notes with today’s date across the top.
    MIKHAIL: attempts to increase distance of mind reading progressing slowly. No improvements from last week’s test at a 20-m range.
    LARISSA: still lacking clarity on Veter 1 test results. Too far in future? Too uncertain? Reminded her there are lives at stake, but she remains frustratingly blasé. I quote: “Even if I saw someone’s death, the events that led to it would be so knotted together, who knows what one factor you’d need to change? You people have set these events into motion knowing what could happen. I’m just the wind