“Luckily for you, I think I’ve got something to soften the blow.” Smiling, Annushka retrieved a bottle of pale gold liquid from the shelf and filled three small cups. She transferred some slices of meat and pickled vegetables to a plate and placed them on the counter, along with a fork for each of us. “For saving the Old Quarter.”

Judging by her earlier comments, she must have been very close to him. Watching them interact so carelessly, so openly, I felt a stir of envy for something I didn’t have. Something I had only read about. I desperately wanted to be able to talk to Vanya or Mikhail that way. To have the boys talk that way to me. But what could I say? Hello, my name is Toma, and I was raised by upyri? Right. As if that would impress either of them.

“Ah, steppe grass.” Vanya picked up a cup and handed me another. “You have good taste, Annushka.”

She lifted her cup. “To our health.”

“To wrecking the grandest temple from here to Detskaya,” Vanya said, earning a few resentful glances as he downed his cup in one swallow.

Feeling out of my element, I mumbled, “To health,” and took a sip from the cup.

My eyes watered instantly. Samogon, maybe, but even more potent than the spirits Mama distilled. It had a pleasant nutty flavor at least, likely thanks to the steppe grass it’d been steeped in. When I lowered my cup, I noticed Vanya and Annushka staring at me.

“What?” I asked, mystified by their bemused expressions. “Is there something on my face?”

“Nothing.” Vanya lowered the slice of sausage that he had raised halfway to his mouth without taking a bite. “It’s just, it would go down smoother if you drank it all at once. It’s not something you sip unless you want to torch your tastebuds.”

Annushka nodded. “The steppe grass is very—” She turned to Vanya. “Shtrestkiy?”

“Harsh,” Vanya explained. “The first sips are good, but any more and it’ll pickle your tongue.”

“Oh.” I blushed, embarrassed. I had never much cared for strong spirits or the jolt of taking a single serving in one gulp. Even the stouts Mama brewed were less refreshing than cold, bubbly kvass or hot chaga tea. I hadn’t thought that my inexperience would shine through in the way I took my drinks.

Annushka turned to Vanya. “Mühre, Iohna?”

“Of course,” he said, and she splashed a little more samogon into her cup and his. I shook my head when she offered me the bottle, busying myself with the food she had brought out. The salty sausages and vinegary pickles and tomatoes cut the drink’s lingering sharpness.

When Annushka set down the bottle, her fingertips brushed against Vanya’s forearm. He shifted his hand to place it over hers. The gesture was intimate but unconscious, like the way I sometimes brushed my hand through Galina’s wispy hair without thinking about it. Except there was heat here. This was a different kind of love.