Part 1. Polish and Dust
The air in that room always carried the scent of chemicals and old wood. The heavy, syrupy smell of shellac mixed with the sharp bite of solvent, creating an atmosphere where time itself seemed to have stalled. Gleb stood over a dismantled nineteenth-century secretary desk, a delicate brush poised in his hand. He was a restorer of antique furniture—a rare trade that demanded the patience of a spider and the precision of a surgeon. His long, pale fingers were used to touching mahogany and Karelian birch with a kind of reverence he had never shown to another human being.
Inna stepped inside quietly, careful not to make the floorboards creak. She had just returned from a job site, and her clothes smelled of gasoline and sawdust. She worked as an arborist, a specialist in tree care. Her hands, roughened by ropes and constant strain, looked nothing like her husband’s pampered ones. She dismantled massive hazardous poplars section by section, hanging at the height of a five-story building with a chainsaw strapped to her belt. Gleb viewed her job as dirty and unworthy of “their status,” even though it was her income that allowed him to buy expensive lacquers and gold leaf.
“The fact that your sister sold her apartment doesn’t mean she gets to live with us now,” Gleb said to his wife without even turning around.
Inna froze, one hand still on the zipper of her heavy jacket.
“What are you talking about? Galya’s fine. She bought a house outside the city. She was never planning to move in with us.”
At last, Gleb stepped away from the secretary desk. He straightened up and adjusted his spotless work apron. That familiar arrogance flickered in his eyes—the same arrogance Inna had tolerated for years, telling herself it was just part of his artistic temperament.
“I’m speaking hypothetically. So you understand the principle,” he said, grimacing as the smell of gasoline reached him. “Go take a shower. You smell like a gas station. I’m not talking about Galya. I’m talking about Lara.”
Inna frowned. Larisa, her sister-in-law, was the exact opposite of a normal person. At thirty-five, she had never really worked anywhere, preferring to call herself a “freelance lifestyle consultant,” and survived on the money their late father had left her.
“What happened to Lara?” Inna’s voice turned firm.
“Poor Lara ended up in a difficult situation. That investment she made in a cosmetics boutique… well, her partners turned out to be dishonest. She had to sell her two-bedroom apartment to settle her obligations. She has nowhere to live.”
“And?”
“She’s moving in with us. Into the guest room.”
“My office?” Inna asked. That was what they called the room where she kept her gear: carabiners, coils of rope, descent systems, helmets. It was also where she drew up pruning plans and prepared estimates.
“There’s plenty of space in there,” Gleb said dismissively, bending over the tabletop again. “Your metal junk can be thrown into the garage. Lara needs temporary peace and support. Family members are supposed to help one another. That’s an axiom.”
“An axiom, is it?” Inna stepped closer. Gleb grimaced, but he did not move back. “So you open the conversation by making it clear that my sister, who is doing perfectly well, must never even think of moving in—and then immediately install your own sister here after she blew through her apartment?”
“Don’t you dare speak about Lara like that,” Gleb said, his voice turning icy. “She’s a victim of circumstances. And besides, this house is in my name. I decide.”
That was his favorite card to play. The house had come to him from his grandmother Zoya, who was still alive but had chosen to live in a retirement home for elderly artists. Inna had poured millions into renovating the place—replaced the roof, fixed the drainage on the property—but on paper, she was nobody here.
“Gleb, I’m not letting Lara into my office. Let her rent somewhere. Did she keep any money from the apartment sale?”
“It all went to debts. Don’t be selfish. She’s bringing her things tomorrow. And yes, make a proper dinner. Uncle Vitya and Lelka—Lara’s friend—are coming to help move everything.”
Then he returned to his work, making it clear the conversation was over. Inna stared at his hunched back under that expensive shirt. She wanted to march up to him, grab him by the collar, and shove his face into the polished wood—but she held herself back.
For now.
Inside her, the anger condensed into something heavy and solid, like a stone lodged beneath her ribs.
Part 2. Crown of the Ash Tree
At twenty meters above the ground, the world looked different. People below resembled frantic ants, and problems seemed small and insignificant. Inna hung from her safety line, bracing her climbing spikes against the bark of a huge old ash tree. The tree was sick, and one dead limb stretched over a children’s playground, threatening to crash down at any moment.
The chainsaw whined as it bit into the wood. Sawdust burst outward in a spray, sticking to the visor of her helmet. Inna loved this moment: control, power, results. A tree does not argue, lie, or pretend. If you are weak, you fall. If you ignore safety, you get hurt.
After killing the saw, she lowered a massive chunk of wood down by rope through a pulley system. A man below waved at her.
Vadim, Gleb’s younger brother.
Inna climbed down with practiced ease, unclipped her carabiner, and jumped to the ground, pulling off her helmet. Her hair, tied in a tight knot, fell loose and messy.
“Hey, queen of heights,” Vadim said with a smile, though his eyes were troubled. He worked as an auto mechanic, and his hands were always stained with grease, just as hers were with sap. In Gleb’s so-called refined family, Vadim was considered a failure, a mere working-class nobody, even though he earned more than his brother and was the only decent person in the entire clan.
“Hi, Vadik. What brings you here?”
“Was driving by, saw your Niva. I need to talk to you, Inka. It’s not good.”
They stepped over to the vehicle. Inna pulled out a thermos. Vadim refused coffee and lit a cigarette instead.
“So I heard Lara’s dropping in on you.”
“You heard already?” Inna said with a dry smile. “Gleb informed me yesterday like it was a royal decree.”
“That’s only half the problem, Inna. I stopped by Mom’s yesterday to fix the porch. They were having a meeting there—Lara, Mother, Gleb, and that parasite Uncle Vitya.”
“And?”
“They’re not just giving her a place to stay. Lara didn’t sell the apartment because of debt. Well, technically, she had debts—but minor ones. Most of the money went into some shady scheme of Uncle Vitya’s, and she hid the rest. She has money.”
Inna clenched the metal thermos cup so hard it bent slightly.
“So she’s pretending to be broke?”
“Worse. They’re trying to push you out. Gleb was complaining that you’ve become ‘rough,’ ‘too masculine,’ and that you overpower him. Uncle Vitya’s been whispering that it’s time to divorce you, but in a way that leaves you with nothing. The plan is simple: move Lara in, make your life unbearable, and wait until you snap and leave on your own. And since you paid for the renovations without receipts or contracts—just through your own crews—it’ll be hard to prove what you invested.”
“I see,” Inna said slowly, her voice dropping low and dark. “So they want me gone.”
“The truth is, they’re afraid of you,” Vadim said, crushing out the cigarette. “But they think you’ll just take it. They think you’ll stay quiet out of decency. Gleb sees himself as some aristocrat of the soul, and you as a pack horse.”
“Thanks, Vadim.”
“Just… be careful. If you need somewhere to stay, come to my place. There’s room. Or Galya’s.”
“No.” Inna looked up at the top of the ash tree, where the wind shook the last dead branches. “I’m not leaving. This is my home. I poured my soul into it, not to mention my money.”
“You can’t deal with people like that gently, Inna. They only understand force.”
“I know, Vadik,” she said. “I know very well what force is.”
Part 3. Venice Restaurant
The evening was supposed to be “reconciliatory,” as Gleb had called it. In reality, it felt more like a public trial. The entire “cream” of the family had gathered around a table in a pretentious restaurant where the portions were microscopic and the prices outrageous.
Gleb sat at the head of the table, adjusting his cuffs. Beside him was Lara—heavily made up, wearing a dress with a neckline far too deep for her swollen figure. Across from them sat Uncle Vitya, a balding man with darting eyes and the air of a provincial bureaucrat. Next to him was Lara’s friend Lelka, a thin girl with her mouth always hanging slightly open, nodding along to everything anyone said.
Inna had been placed at the edge of the table, like some poor relation no one quite wanted there.
“And that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Lara droned on, waving a fork with an oyster stuck on the end. “A space has to breathe. Gleb’s house has such heavy energy. No offense, Inna, but those ropes and saws in the office… it’s such bad taste. That room should be turned into a boudoir. Pale colors, mirrors…”
“Lara’s right,” Gleb chimed in, sipping his wine. “I’ve felt the dissonance for a long time. The home of a furniture restorer should be filled with art, not climbing gear.”
“And I believe,” Uncle Vitya cut in, pouring himself vodka while everyone else drank wine, “that a woman shouldn’t be doing a man’s job at all. It hardens her. Just look at your hands, Inna. They look like a ditch digger’s. I don’t know how Gleb tolerates them.”
Lelka giggled behind her hand.
Inna looked down at her hands. Short nails. A couple of fresh scratches. Skin thick, strong, capable. With those hands she had saved a children’s playground that very day from a ton of falling timber. With those same hands she had paid for Gleb’s antique lacquer that cost two hundred euros.
She felt no hurt. Only contempt. And a cold, crystal-clear rage. She felt like a loaded weapon.
“My hands feed us, Uncle Vitya,” she said calmly. “Unlike your little schemes, which left Lara homeless.”
Silence crashed over the table. Uncle Vitya choked.
“How dare you?” Lara squeaked. “Uncle Vitya is a respected man! It’s the market’s fault, the crisis! You wouldn’t understand—you can’t see beyond your trees.”
“Inna, apologize,” Gleb said through clenched teeth. “You’re embarrassing us.”
“In front of whom?” Inna let her gaze sweep across the table. “An unemployed freeloader, her clingy friend, and a con artist?”
“Shut your mouth!” Gleb slammed his palm down on the table. Nearby diners turned to stare. “You are nobody here! You live in my house by my grace!”
“By your grace?” Inna stood up. She was tall and broad-shouldered, and in that instant she seemed enormous. “Fine. I hear you.”
She did not scream in the restaurant. She did not flip the table. She simply looked at her husband in a way that made him falter for a moment. There was no trace of the usual urge to smooth things over in her eyes. Only emptiness—and behind that emptiness, a wildfire.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Gleb shouted after her as she headed toward the exit. “Come back! They haven’t even brought the bill yet!”
Inna did not turn around. She walked with the springy stride of a predator heading out to hunt.
Part 4. Hangar of Despair
Inna came home an hour later. Every light in the house was on. A truck stood by the gate, and two movers were carrying something out of the garage.
They were carrying out her workbench.
The one she had built herself, perfectly fitted to her height and needs.
Inna ran inside. The entryway was chaos. Lara’s suitcases, shoe boxes, and shopping bags from boutiques were piled everywhere. Laughter drifted out from what had once been her office.
She threw the door open.
The room was unrecognizable. Her shelving units full of equipment had been dumped into a pile in the corner. Champagne bottles stood on the floor—right on top of her climbing harnesses. Lara, Lelka, and her newly arrived mother-in-law, Tamara Pavlovna, were unpacking. Gleb stood in the middle of it all, directing where to hang a mirror.
“Oh, look who’s here,” her mother-in-law sneered. “Finally. Inna, clear out this junk immediately. Lara needs somewhere to hang her dresses.”
“Why are my things on the floor?” Inna asked in a very quiet voice.
“Because it’s garbage,” Gleb said, walking toward her. He had already had enough to drink to feel bold with the clan behind him. “I decided we’ll convert the garage into storage for my materials. As for your metal junk… Uncle Vitya suggested taking it to the scrapyard. It takes up too much space.”
“You took my gear to the scrapyard?” Inna felt her pulse beating in her temples. Her base system, her Japanese saws, her pulleys… It all cost a fortune, but that wasn’t even the point. It was her life. Her safety.
“Part of it,” Gleb said with a smirk. “We kept only what Vitya considered necessary. The rest is gone. Don’t look at me like that. I’m the owner of this house. I decide what stays here. And by the way…” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “Sign this. It’s a waiver giving up any claim to property in case of divorce. Uncle Vitya drafted it. Just a formality, so Lara can feel at ease.”
Inna stared at her husband and saw him clearly at last: a greedy, petty, cowardly little man hiding behind his mother and his sister. And she understood that talking was over.
Completely.
Lara drifted closer, a champagne glass in hand.
“What are you standing there for, giantess?” she said. “Sign it and go clean up after yourself. Oh, and tomorrow breakfast is at nine. I like pancakes.”
She splashed a little champagne onto Inna’s boot.
By accident.
Or maybe not.
“Oops. Sorry. Though those ugly stompers couldn’t look any worse anyway.”
A red haze came over Inna’s vision. The fury she had been swallowing for months—years of choking down insult after insult to “keep the family together”—finally tore free like a spring-loaded trap snapping open.
Part 5. Windthrow
“Pancakes?” Inna repeated. Her voice sounded strange, guttural, like the growl of a large animal.
In one sharp movement, she knocked the glass from Lara’s hand. Crystal shattered against the wall, and wine splashed across the pale wallpaper.
“Have you completely lost your mind?!” Lara shrieked.
Inna did not answer. She grabbed Lara by the shoulders, her fingers clamping down hard enough to make the other woman cry out, and hurled her onto the sofa. The strength in an arborist’s arms was monstrous—she hauled her own body through branches every day.
“Inna!” Gleb roared, lunging toward her. “Are you insane? I’ll call the police!”
He tried to grab her arm, but Inna caught his wrist first. One violent twist—and Gleb went crashing to the floor, taking the coffee table down with him.
“The police?” Inna bellowed. It was not a woman’s shriek. It was a roar. She grabbed him by the shirtfront, hauled him halfway off the floor, and shook him like a rag doll. His expensive shirt ripped open at the seam. Buttons flew in every direction.
“You bastard!” she shouted, slamming him back against the wall. Gleb hit it hard, and pure animal terror flashed in his eyes. He had never, not once, imagined she would dare. Or that she could.
“You sent my gear to the scrapyard? My life?” Inna seized an antique chair nearby—the one Gleb had spent half a year restoring—and with a brutal crack snapped off one of its legs.
Uncle Vitya, who had half-risen from his armchair trying to look imposing, dropped right back into it when he saw how easily she had broken solid beech wood.
“This is my house!” Inna snarled, advancing on them. She looked terrifying: hair loose, eyes blazing, a broken chair leg clenched in her fist like a club. “I worked myself to the bone for this place! I paid your bills! I fed your lazy ass, Gleb!”
She marched over to Lara’s boxes, grabbed one, flipped it upside down, and dumped the contents straight over her screaming sister-in-law’s head.
“Out!” she thundered. “Get out of here, parasites!”
“Inna, calm down, we can discuss everything…” her mother-in-law bleated, backing toward the door. “You’re an intelligent woman…”
“I’m not a lady right now! I’m a woman with a chainsaw!” Inna kicked Lara’s suitcase so hard it flew the length of the hall and out through the open front door.
Then she turned back to Gleb. He was pressed against the wall now, shielding himself with his hands. His face had gone white, and his trembling lips were trying to form words.
“You wanted me to sign papers?” She grabbed the remains of his shirt and yanked him forward. The fabric tore open completely, exposing his narrow chest. “You want papers?”
She pulled him close, face to face.
“Get out. Take your sister, your mother, and your crooked uncle with you. You have five minutes. If I see any of you still here after that, I might remember how to use pruning shears meant for thick branches.”
“You have no right… the house is mine…” Gleb whimpered.
“Hold it right there!” came a sharp, commanding elderly voice from the doorway.
Everyone froze.
Standing there was Grandma Zoya—Zoya Ignatyevna herself. She leaned on a cane, and beside her stood Vadim.
“Grandma?” Gleb whispered. “How are you here?”
“Vadim brought me. He called and said there were rats in the house,” Zoya Ignatyevna said, stepping inside over Lara’s scattered belongings. She took in the scene: Gleb bruised and half-naked, Lara sobbing in the corner, Uncle Vitya sunk deep into the chair.
“So the house belongs to you, does it, Gleb dear?” the old woman asked with poisonous sweetness. “Did you actually finish reading that gift deed ten years ago? There was a condition.”
Gleb blinked.
“What condition?”
“That it only takes effect after my death. And as you can see, I’m still alive. After watching this circus, I’ve decided not to die anytime soon. More than that”—she turned toward Inna—“my dear, you were magnificent. I always knew you had steel in you, but this…”
Zoya Ignatyevna pulled a set of papers from her handbag.
“This morning, while all of you were busy plotting, Vadim and I stopped by the notary. I transferred the house.”
“To whom?” Lara asked, hope creeping into her smeared mascara-streaked voice.
“To Inna,” the grandmother said crisply. “Because she is the only one who cared for this house instead of trying to sell it or mortgage it, the way you and Vitya were planning. Yes, I know all about your debts.”
A deathly silence fell over the room.
“And now,” Inna said, dropping the broken chair leg to the floor. The rage was still there, but it had turned cold and metallic. “Get out. All of you.”
“Innushka,” Gleb began, trying to smile, though on his fear-twisted face it looked pathetic. “Come on, we’re family… we all got carried away…”
Inna stepped right up to him. She was taller, stronger, and now completely free. She seized him by the collar and dragged him toward the door like a misbehaving cat. He dug in his heels, his shoes scraping helplessly over the parquet floor, but he was nothing against her strength.
“You are not family, Gleb. You’re a rotten branch. And rotten branches are what I cut off.”
She flung him out onto the front steps. Lara’s heels, Uncle Vitya’s coat, and her mother-in-law’s handbag went flying after him.
“Rats!” Vadim shouted cheerfully beside the grandmother. “Run before she goes and gets the saw!”
The whole pack stumbled over themselves, grabbing at their things as they scrambled toward the cars. Gleb tried to yell something back, but the moment his eyes met Inna’s—standing in the doorway like a goddess of vengeance, hair wild and eyes burning—he shut his mouth and bolted for his sister’s car.
Inna watched them until the red glow of their taillights disappeared around the bend. Breathing hard, she rubbed her raw knuckles.
“Well then, granddaughter,” Zoya Ignatyevna said behind her. “Tea? Or shall we start with cognac?”
“Cognac,” Inna exhaled, finally feeling the tension leave her shoulders. “And a lot of it.”