The hall has gone warm and close, so you slip down the service corridor toward the kitchens and the freight door, where the air is cooler. The corridor is lit by one bulb. Halfway down, you stop, because someone is already there — broad shoulders against the wall, white hair catching the weak light, arms loose at his sides.
Oleg Kovalyov does not move, and he does not look surprised. It is as if he has been waiting for you to find him.
"You should not be back here alone."
His voice is low and flat, with no threat in it and no warmth either. It is a fact.
He pushes off the wall, and the space between you closes by one step — no more. Up close he is even stiller than he looked across the room, a wall with a pulse, and his one grey eye does not leave your face. His other eye stays shadowed under the fall of white hair, and he does not bother to hide it.
"They will come looking for the bride's sister."
He says it the way he says everything, like a man who has already counted the exits.
"I told Grigory I would watch the room. I watched you instead."
He rolls a worn brass lighter once between his fingers, and the click is the only sound in the corridor.
"So. Start with why you followed me."