“Is it?”
Oleg sat up straight. Trying to discuss art with his brothers was like trying to dance with a moose. “There is a dinner at Pavel’s house after this?”
“Yes, I believe his chef has prepared an unexpected dish,” Rudov murmured. “Maybe it is to please the Poshani. I do not know.”
“What is it?”
“Pigeon.”
Rudov stoodin the center of the dining room, a crystal goblet of blood-wine raised in a toast. “To our knyaz, our brother, and his honorable bride.”
“To Oleg and Tatyana!” The company responded with gusto before the silver cloches over their plates were removed to reveal a whole roasted bird sitting on a bed of black rice, wilted greens, and figs cut in half.
Oleg sat at the head of the massive table with Tatyana on the other end. No doubt, she was trying to find any excuse to not eat the small bird in the center of her plate.
Others in their company—both Poshani and Russian—did not seem to have the same qualms, cutting into the feast that Pavel’s servants had brought for each guest.
Pavel was seated at his right, his social secretary next to him. The woman was flush with victory, glancing every now and then over at Oleg, likely wary about him causing a scene again.
“Do you not care for squab, brother?” Pavel was cutting into the small bird in front of him.
“Squab?”
“It’s young pigeon,” Rudov said on his left. “I told you.”
Oleg poked at the bird, moving it around his plate with the pointed knife in his right hand. “It’s quite… unusual.”
“Unusual is not bad,” Pavel said. “It is commendable to try new things.”
Ivan grunted. “Are you going to therapy or something?”
All Oleg could see was the little wings curled up, twisted under the heat of the oven. “You must forgive me.” He offered Pavel a slight smile. “I drank deeply at dusk. I did not realize we would have a full meal after the play.”
“My chef is new and was excited to have a banquet,” Pavel said. “He is French. Yelena hired him.”
Yelena—the secretary—was dressed far more like a date than an employee, but Oleg had no objection to that. That would make him the worst kind of hypocrite considering his history.
He leaned forward and spoke to Pavel’s secretary. “Do you know that Lady Tatyana once worked for SMO International—my shipping conglomerate—as a bookkeeper?”
She looked down at her plate, and her cheeks flushed a little bit. “I know of her only as the terrin of the Poshani, Lord Oleg.”
He liked Yelena’s voice. It was quiet but firm.
Oleg continued, “The newest lady of the Kievan Rus is quite brilliant and very hardworking. I will make sure you have an opportunity to meet her.”
“Thank you, Lord Oleg.”
Rudov muttered, “Who knows? Perhaps someday Pavel’s secretary will ascend astonishingly quickly into immortal leadership as well.”
Ivan chuckled.
Oleg cut his eyes toward Rudov. “I am sure it would be Pavel’s loss.”
The wide-eyed Yelena said nothing, but she placed her hands in her lap and stared ahead, clearly uncomfortable.
“Forgive my brothers,” Oleg said. “We were raised by an ancient warlord and are more accustomed to fighting each other than dining in company.”
“That is nothing but the truth.” Rudov cut into his bird, cracking the back of the small roasted creature before he popped a whole wing into his mouth.
