She didn’t tell Gus about how these meetings with old men full of their own righteousness had taken place while she sat hunched over, breathing hard, thanks to cracked and broken ribs, eyes black with bruises and swollen shut.
“My grandmother and I moved away, to live with her sister, and I started working toward qualifying for university. And at night, instead of hearing stories about the pious king turned saint, my grandmother told me stories about Vasilisa the Beautiful, who yes, marries the king, but because he loves her for her skills, not just her looks. And she incinerates her enemies with a magic skull given to her by a forest witch.”
“A very timely and practical story,” Gus said with a nod.
“And Olga of Kiev,” Nikolett added. “Who ruled Kievan Rus’ and killed her enemies.”
“Is she the one who used birds to burn down a city to avenge her husband’s death?”
“That’s after burning some men alive, and locking others in a bathhouse and burning it around them.” Nikolett shrugged one shoulder. “Some say it was to avenge her husband, some say she killed them for insulting her with a marriage proposal.”
“Right, then, don’t insult Olga.”
There was another knock on the door. Nikolett was on her feet, stepping away from Gus before she realized what she was doing.
She turned back to him, mouth open to apologize, but the look on his face—both understanding and sad—had her swallowing her words.
She returned to her seat as Maxim brought in their final course: dessert. There was a fresh bottle of wine, and Gus tookit to the bar cart, opening it and pouring two glasses as Maxim switched out their plates.
“Do you need anything Adm—” Maxim caught himself. “Do you need anything,hölgyem?”
Nikoeltt made a face at him for calling her the equivalent of “ma’am.” Maxim smiled before wheeling the cart out.
She accepted the small glass of thick, gold wine Gus passed her, smiling as she did, but he wasn’t looking at her.
Whatever awkwardness had been introduced faded as they assessed the dessert options.
“Now, you can change my contact totarte tatinguy.” Gus passed her half the apple tart he’d just split.
Calling it an apple tart was like calling a Róbert Berény masterpiece just a painting. The pastry formed beautiful scallops around the edge of the golden, caramelized apples which were arranged in an angular, almost-architectural pattern.
She smiled as she accepted the plate. “No, I think I like ‘cookie guy.’”
He made an overtly disgruntled face and she chuckled.
“At least ‘braw cookie guy’?”
“Braw…what language is that?”
“English,” he assured her. “Well, Scottish English. Means handsome.” He wiggled his dark eyebrows at her.
She laughed. “Is Scottish English a different language?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“If you count Scottish English as its own, six.”
“Impressive. English, Scottish English, Hungarian…” She raised a brow.
“Spanish, French.” He tipped his head toward the window and the black sky and gold and white lights of Paris.
“That’s five.”
“Mandarin. Though I’m still learning. And my Hungarian and French aren’t fluent. Not sure I should count them.”
“You have a cute accent when you speak Hungarian,” she said in that language.
