“Probably.” Katya swallowed. “I haven’t checked recently. The electricity company doesn’t require it. Yet.”
Harper was looking between them with an expression Pav recognized—the recalibration, a reassembly of assumptions.
“We worked on a contract together,” Katya said after a moment. “Northern border. Winter. Very cold, very boring, very sudden when it wasn’t boring.” She glanced at Pav. “You remember the goat?”
He smiled. “I do.”
“There was a goat.” Katya wagged a finger at Harper. “It wandered into our observation post at three in the morning. Pav tried to remove it quietly. The goat did not wish to be removed.”
“It bit me,” Pav said.
“He bled more from the goat than from any action in the entire mission.” Katya’s mouth twitched. “I had to stitch him in the dark. While he argued with a goat.”
Harper laughed.
He watched and didn’t pretend he didn’t. The way her nose creased when she tipped her head back and let the laughter come without restraint.
He’d remember that instead of a hundred more important things.
The light through the wide windows shifted violet as the evening deepened, and they ate thick slices of apple cake scented with cinnamon and cardamom.
The tea cooled in his hands. Tiredness pulled at his muscles.
He stood. Collected his plate, his glass, his cutlery and carried them to the sink.
“I need to rest.” He said it to both of them, but he directed the meaning at Katya.I’m standing down. You’ve got the watch.
Katya dipped her chin. She pointed to a small monitor on the mantelpiece above the fire. “I have eyes outside.”
He stole a final look at Harper. The dress. Her clean hair. The flour on her cheekbone that she hadn’t noticed, and he still wouldn’t mention because it was his.
He walked back to his room. The sheets were cool and smooth, the pillow soft under his head. His body sank into the mattress, the weight of the last few days lifting by a degree.
Through the wall, the murmur of voices resumed. Harper and Katya. The clink of glasses—vodka, knowing Katya. The low conversation of two women with a bottle and the specific freedom that came from the absence of men.
Harper laughed again. Quieter this time. Katya’s voice underneath it, dry and unshakable.
He closed his eyes and listened to Harper through the wall.
It was enough for now.
Even though he knew it wouldn’t be.
33
Harper missed Pav already,but she shoved the feeling down before it took shape.
Katya wiped the table clean and covered the leftover bread with a cloth. Then she opened a cupboard above the range and pulled out a bottle.
The glass was slightly green, the label faded, and the liquid inside pale gold and faintly cloudy.
“Morkovnaya nastoyka.” Katya set it on the table. “Carrot.” She said the English word as if she knew it sounded ridiculous and didn’t care.
Harper’s eyebrows rose. “Carrot vodka?”
“My grandmother’s recipe.” Katya pulled two small glasses from the shelf and poured without asking whether Harper drank or had opinions about root vegetables as a base for spirits.
She slid the glass toward Harper. Russian hospitality. You’re offered. You accept.
