Seven Witches

nine

Cythera was incredibly uncomfortable for many reasons.

One: she was flushed from the three glasses of wine she had and was afraid she would fumble with words and make the situation worse.

Two: her breasts were still pressed up and she soon found out that being seductive in a room with other seductive people was much different than being seductive in the Tsar's room with two consolers to her left and four guards behind her.

Three: she had a feeling that this was going to turn into an interrogation and she might throw around a few insults which could or could not be taken as an insult to the Russian crown.

Four: she had caught the Tsar glancing at her cleavage twice now.

"So," Vladimir finally took a seat, fingers drumming on the table. He was clearly very angry and very nervous. "You lied to me."

She raised both of her eyebrows high, her hair now unbound and reaching her waist as she sat down. "Did I now,"

The Tsar did not smile. "I asked you if Russian was your mother tongue and you said you were taught Russian since you were a toddler. Will you explain now how you spoke that other language with the witch?"

Cythera sighed, feeling the urge to take off her shoes. "I was taught Russian as a toddler, but I was also taught Latin which also happens to be the other language you're referring to."

Vladimir blew out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his curly hair. "Very well Cythera, I will ask you questions and you will be answering me truthfully with no loopholes this time, understood?"

She nudged her head at the two consolers and the four guards and gave the tired Tsar a meaningful look. He dismissed them all. "Can I have a change of clothes?"

"This is not the proper time or place for—"

"I can't breathe," she interrupted.

The Tsar stared at her blankly before cursing and taking off his long coat and handing it to her, mouth pressed into a frown. She asked him to turn around and then proceeded to untie her corset, moaning when it came off and her ribs were free. Cythera wore the coat over her skirt and sat comfortably on the sofa.

"All right, I'll start talking." She said and Vladimir turned around. "My handmaiden was Latin and often spoke to me in Latin but also taught me Russian so I can actually speak to someone other than her."

He seemed satisfied by the lie she spun, hand on his chin. The truth was, she didn't know why she knows Latin, only that her thoughts and every single inner conversation she'd ever had was in Latin. "What were you both talking about in the ballroom?"

"I was trying to convince her to not murder you and a few of your guests. I also asked her how old she was. It's fourteen," she said, staring at the window where snow had begun to fall again.

Tsar Vladimir stood up and began pacing, arms crossed. "She was a summoner, how could that be possible? The last summoner was killed by my father, I saw it happen."

That lamp would really look good if it made contact with his skull, with as much force as possible. Cythera stood up as well because it was awkward for her to talk to a moving man while she rested her arse. "May I ask when that was?"

He stopped pacing and stared at her, thinking. "Sixteen years ago," he seemed to say, not to her but to himself. He cursed again, settling back into the couch. She could do nothing but watch this monarch curse and ask questions. "I remember you, Cythera. I must admit, it is uncommon for a Latin woman to give a child the name of a Greek land."