I’m out of my chair before she has time to fall. My hand closes around her elbow, steadying her.
She looks down at my hand, then up at me with wide, offended eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I am.”
“Walk.”
She takes one step. Then another. Not terrible, but not good.
The vodka has made her loose in the knees, brave in the eyes, careless with her balance. She’s not senseless. She knows where she is. She knows where we’re going. Mostly.
I take her bag.
“I can carry that.”
I give her a look. “You can barely carry yourself.”
“That’s a cruel exaggeration.”
“It’s a precise observation.”
She mutters something in Russian.TerribleRussian.
I look at her.
She blinks innocently. “I practiced.”
“What did you think you said?”
“Something elegant.”
“You called me a winter onion.”
She stops walking. For one second, she looks so sincerely devastated that I have to look away.
Then she starts laughing, so much so that people have started looking at us. For some reason I don’t mind the attention. Because I get to see her face move like that.
By the time we reach the gate, the line has started moving. The passengers around us are polished and impatient. First class always boards with the quiet entitlement of people who expect the world to part for them.
Katerina, however, is staring very hard at the boarding pass in her hand.
“Roman.”
“Yes?”
“I think there are two gates.”
“There is one gate.”
“No.” She frowns. “It has split.”
“It has not.”
She looks up at me with grave concern. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
