True to his word, Emre had prepared enough food to feed a small army. Within moments, he, Aergul, and Pelin had set before us plates heaped with stuffed cabbage leaves, flatbreads fried to golden-brown, and slivers of meat still steaming from the stovetop. In small porcelain bowls, he served a rich red soup that was so spicy my eyes watered from the first sip.

Eager to change the subject and lift any suspicion, I turned to Pelin as she settled into the chair beside me. “I like your dress.”

“Thank you. I made it myself, patterned after the latest Svetskiy fashion. This style is very popular among Kosa’s nobility these days.” She looked at Mikhail as she said it. “Don’t you think?”

Mikhail choked on his tea. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I made my clothes, too,” I said, pleased we had something in common.

Pelin glanced down at my embroidered buckskin coat, madder-dyed cotton blouse, and skirt, which admittedly were in even worse condition than when I started on this journey. “I can tell.”

“Pelin is a great admirer of everything Svetskiy,” Emre said with a chuckle. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d be afraid she’d run off to join Adélard’s Emporium of Oddities for that reason alone.”

As Emre began to spoon some of the meat onto Mikhail’s plate, Vanya blocked him with a raised palm.

“If that’s meat, he won’t eat it,” Vanya said, offering the man an easy smile. “Only the best fish and roe for our tsar.”

I nearly spat out my stew. Across the table, Mikhail’s jaw came unhinged.

“That’s what we call him at least,” Vanya continued. “Meat is too common for him, so if you put it on his plate, it’ll go bad before he touches it.”

“He’s right,” I added hastily, wiping the spilled soup from my chin. “And don’t even try giving the Tsar stout.”

Vanya nodded. “By royal decree, only the grandest Svetskiy wines shall pass Tsarushka’s lips.”

Mikhail gave Vanya an icy look before turning to Emre. “Despite what my friends say, the truth is that meat gives me horrible indigestion. I wish I was the Tsar. Maybe then I’d be able to travel with some better company.”

I winced. Hopefully, that didn’t include me.

Aergul narrowed her eyes, her own bowl of soup untouched. Pelin had started eating, but between bites, she studied Mikhail with keen interest.

Emre chuckled. “Well, if you have a sensitive stomach, you may want to avoid the stew as well, my friend. But the bread and cabbage rolls are safe.”

“Thank you,” Mikhail said, and helped himself to both.

“I’d be careful with nicknames like those,” Pelin said, her jet eyes meeting mine. “I don’t imagine Fraktsiya soldiers will find it nearly as amusing as you three do.”

“Undoubtfully so,” Mikhail said.

“We’re not exactly known for making good choices,” I said, my shoulders slowly loosening. I offered Pelin a smile, but she had already turned her attention back to her plate, tearing her flatbread into small pieces which she dipped into her soup.