Page 106 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Kathryn studies him for one long second. “You’re very strange.”

Dmitri looks toward the hallway. “Mikhail is asking where pancakes come from.”

I blink. “What?”

“He rejected Mrs. Wentworth’s answer,” Dmitri says, and for once, he looks slightly outmatched. “Then Elena’s.”

Kathryn wipes her cheeks with both hands and heads for the door. “Finally, an emergency I understand.”

Inside the sitting area, Mikhail stands beside the low table with a pancake on his plate and three adults failing him.

Elena rocks her baby with one foot. “Pancakes come from batter.”

Mikhail frowns. “Where does batter come from?”

Mrs. Wentworth folds her hands at her waist. “Flour, eggs, milk, and a bit of patience.”

“Patience is not food,” Mikhail says.

Lidiya turns away, pressing her lips together.

Near the kitchenette entrance, Dmitri watches like he’s taking the question seriously.

Kathryn drops onto the rug beside Mikhail. “Pancakes come from people who love you and own frying pans.”

Mikhail considers this.

I sit on the chair arm. “Good answer.”

Mikhail points his fork at Dmitri. “What do you think?”

Dmitri straightens. “Pancakes come from a controlled mixture applied to heat until the surface sets.”

Everyone goes silent.

Kathryn drops her head into one hand.

Elena looks at the ceiling.

Mikhail says, “No.”

Dmitri lowers the tablet. “No?”

“No,” Mikhail says, stabbing the pancake. “That’s not a pancake story.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Dmitri turns toward me like I might translate.

“You have to do better than controlled mixture,” I say.

Ten minutes later, I find him in the kitchenette with his sleeves rolled up and a mixing bowl in front of him. “You don’t have to cook,” I say.

Dmitri glances at the batter. “He asked for a pancake story.”

“You could read one.”

“I looked,” he says, picking up a whisk. “Most are nonsense.”