“That’s rude.”
I almost smile.
“Sometimes work is rude.”
She considers this with grave offense, then asks, “Are you coming back?” The question hits somewhere unprotected.
I crouch before I think better of it. Mikhail makes a small sound under his breath behind me, but I ignore him.
Sofia studies me as if she expects a real answer and will know if I lie.
“Yes,” I say.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“That means grown-up nonsense.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
She brightens, pleased with herself. “See? I knew.”
Then she leans in and lowers her voice as if sharing a great secret. “Mama is in a bad mood.”
My throat tightens around something dangerously close to tenderness.
“I noticed.”
“She gets that face when she wants to throw something.”
“That sounds difficult.”
“It is.” Sofia pats my shoulder with solemn sympathy. “You should be careful.”
Mikhail looks away. He’s either pretending not to hear or hiding amusement. With him, it can be both.
I ask, “And what about you?”
She straightens proudly. “I’m never difficult.”
From across the room, Katerina’s voice cuts through the music. “Sofia.”
The child winces. Then she whispers to me, “That’s the face.”
I should stand. I should leave. Men are bleeding at Pier Nine, and every second I spend crouched in a ballroom speaking to an almost four-year-old with her mother’s mouth is a second I may regret later.
Instead, I say, “Go back to your grandmother.”
“I like you better.”
The simple honesty of it nearly undoes me.
I smooth one hand over her hair before I can stop myself. “Go.”
She finally lets go of me and runs off, one shoe nearly slipping on the polished floor before she regains balance. Halfway back, she turns and waves.
I raise two fingers in return.
