Her expression changes. The delight of the morning dims at the edges, and caution comes back into her eyes.
I dislike that. I dislike being the reason for it even more.
“They are not watching you,” I say.
“Good, because I was about to charge them for the privilege.”
A smile touches my mouth before I can prevent it. “You’re safe with them.”
“That’s not the same as saying I’m safe with you.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s not.”
She studies me in the cold, and for a moment, I think she’ll ask the question directly.What are you? What kind of man needs guards in Moscow? What did I get into when I followed you out of that airport?
Instead, she looks back toward the shop window. “I want to buy something ridiculous.”
I let the subject go because she has chosen to give me that mercy.
Inside, the shop is small, warm, and bright with painted wood, enamel, silk scarves, and glass ornaments. Katerina walks through it with careful fingers, touching almost nothing, though I can see she wants to. She pauses over a tiny red box painted with a winter scene.
“Is this handmade?”
The old woman behind the counter answers in Russian. Katerina looks to me.
“She says yes,” I translate. “She also says it’s one of the best pieces in the shop.”
Katerina’s mouth curves. “Is it?”
“No.”
The old woman hears me and scowls.
Katerina bursts out laughing. I buy the box anyway.
She protests the entire time. “I said I wanted to buy something,” she says. “Not just anything.”
“You chose emotionally.”
“That’s how souvenirs work.”
“That’s how people get overcharged.”
She tries to take the bag from me when we leave. I do not give it to her. “This is very controlling.”
“You will survive,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Will I?”
“I’m optimistic.”
“You do not seem like an optimistic man.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She looks at me, delighted. “Did you just make a joke?”
“No.”
