He gave a resigned sigh.
“I won’t drop and die, don’t worry,” I told him, earning a small chuckle from him. “I’ll join Greta and the others.”
And I did, despite Greta’s initial whining.
Two hours later, the whole sitting room had taken on a different look. No longer looking like the remains of a dead ecosystem, it now had some semblance of life.
We stood back to examine our handiwork, pleased with what the new space looked like.
The couch set was now gleaming as new ones had been brought to replace the torn ones. The windows were now perfect,no more plastic sheets or cracked glass. The floors were now perfectly clean.
“Chow call!” one of the workers called, and we all laughed.
“You know what? Let’s eat together,” I suggested, looking from one worker to the other.
“We appreciate the gesture, ma’am. But it could be our doom,” the same worker said, still grinning. “We escaped being caught till we finished working. We might not escape eating at the same table with you.”
“Besides, it’s actually rude. It’s not proper,” another one said.
“And again, that table can’t take us all,” Hans uttered, chuckling. “No one dares sit on the boss’s chair.”
“Right,” I agreed, looking over to the dining room.
They all eventually went to eat and freshen up in their quarters while I ate at the dining table.
“That carrot cake was something,” I told Greta after she cleared the dessert plate off the table.
“Ah,” she uttered, smiling. “I’m glad you like it. I’m good at making several snacks, but carrot cakes aren’t one of them. But, since the boss told us that we were in trouble if there was any carrot-based food we couldn’t make, Anna and I have been experimenting.”
“Why would he say that?”
“You like carrots,” she pointed out, her eyes twinkling as she grinned.
I wanted to ask how he knew that. But, she wasn’t the person to ask.
So I said, “You know how to make many snacks, hmm?”
“Yes. A lot. Russian, American, Italian, I can make most of the common snacks.”
“Wow, that’s impressive,” I commented. “Can you makeblini?”
“Yes, milady,” she answered.
“How aboutbiryani?”
“Yes. The boys were still fighting over a batch a few days before you arrived,” she answered.
“Great. Pizza?”
“Yes!” she answered, laughing.
“You are one in a million, Greta!”
“Ah, it’s nothing,” she dismissed with a small smile.
“It’severything,” I argued. “I can count all the delicacies I’m capable of making from start to finish on one finger.”
“I can’t believe that.”
