“Exactly what the Cossack asked, at which point the old man pulled out a beautiful, shining sword. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is an enchanted sword, capable of smiting anything you command it to smite, of its own power. With this sword at your side, you can never lose a battle.’ To prove it, he commanded the sword to fell the grove of trees near at hand, and off it flew, chopping down each and every one.”

Claire frowned again and moved to open the door so she could sweep her little pile of dust and dirt outside. “If he had this, why was he a beggar?”

Evgeni sighed. “You ask too many questions, Claire.”

“It is a reasonable one! With a sword like that, he could have taken over a kingdom of his own!”

“I suppose the old fellow wasn’t that smart. But the Cossack was. He knew exactly what to do. He made the deal with the old man and gave him the cask—”

“The princess’s father would probably have something to say about that.” She swept the debris into the street and closed the door again.

He ignored her. “And he took the sword. Well, the moment it was in his hands, he told the sword to cut down the old man, and of course it did. So he took the sword and the cask and went back to claim the princess as his wife.”

Claire came to a halt, her hand still on the door. “You must be joking! The hero is now not only incapable of making his own choices, but he is a cold-blooded murderer of old men?”

Evgeni straightened. “He saw the way forward to all he ever wanted, and he took it.”

“What a terrible story.” Looking genuinely put out, she stomped around the counter and leaned the broom into its corner. “I thought the old beggar character in a folktale was supposed to be a test to the main character. That he would prove himself a true hero by treating him nicely, or be stripped of everything if he scorned him. If this is instead the sort of tale your people tell, it is a wonder you do not all go around murdering each other and stealing from each other.”

Evgeni sighed. He didn’t have time to get into an argument with her about whether a story was a good one. Better to laugh it off. “Well, we were ruled by the Huns for several hundred years. Blame it on their influence, marauders as they were.”

Her movements jerky, angry, Claire pulled out a few supplies she’d tucked away and then stormed back into the store proper. “Give me just a moment to gather you a bit more.”

“Claire.” He trailed her to the shelves of canned meats. “Why are you so upset? It is just an old story.”