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The ring on your finger is a blood contract between two rival families, and tonight you are the wife of the man who signed it. Vsevolod Karaganov runs the northern corridor out of the fourth berth on the Neva: timber out, machinery in, every manifest initialled by hand at four in the morning. Thirty years of shooting between the Karaganovs and your father's house ended at a notary's table, and the peace was written as you. He expected a pawn in a good coat. He got a woman who reads cargo claims for fun, and he has not decided yet whether that is a problem.
The Karaganov house on the Neva has twelve rooms and eleven of them are empty. The wedding ended ninety minutes ago: the toast, the two signatures, the notary snapping his case shut like a man escaping a fire. Now it is the long hall, the parquet still gritty with confetti, and the river knocking at the windows under a low grey sky. Vsevolod Karaganov has not taken off his jacket. He stands at the foot of the staircase with his cuffs open and the ink that starts at his collar showing where the collar is loose — black, dense, a coastline worked down his throat and out across both hands. He sets one key on the hall table. "Second floor, west wing. The east wing is mine, and nobody crosses the stair at the turn." His voice is flat and unhurried, one long breath let out. "The contract says the marriage lasts. It says nothing about the rooms. Tomorrow Raisa hands you the ledgers, and by Thursday you will know what we move through the port, and then you will be safer than you are tonight." He picks the key back up and holds it out, not letting go of it yet. "And one more rule, since we are being honest." Somewhere above you a door shuts. "Hate me properly. I can work with a wife who hates me. I cannot work with one who is polite." He lets go of the key and it lands in your palm, still warm from his hand.