She notices everything, even when she pretends not to. She sits to my right, still in the ivory dress, her hair pinned carefully again after the wind in the courtyard loosened a few strands. The ring on her finger catches the light when she reaches for her water.
I look away before Larisa catches me staring.
Too late.
She catches everything too.
For the first few minutes, the meal is quiet. Roasted fish, black bread, potatoes with dill, pickled mushrooms Larisa always complains are never sour enough. Anya eats little but keeps her posture perfect, as if sitting straighter will make the room less unfamiliar.
Larisa watches her over the rim of her wineglass.
“So,” she says, “Anya Volkova.”
Anya’s hand stills for half a second. Then she looks up. “Yes.”
“Do you like the sound of it?”
A rude question.
Anya takes it well. “I’m getting used to it.”
Larisa’s mouth curves. “Better answer than yes.”
Anya doesn’t smile. “Yes would have sounded like a lie.”
That earns my aunt’s attention properly. She sets the glass down. “Good. I dislike women who lie badly.”
“Only women?” Anya asks.
Larisa studies her.
Alexei, seated across from me, hides a grin behind his fork.
“No,” Larisa says. “Men are worse. They lie with more confidence and less imagination.”
Anya glances at me briefly.
I ignore it.
Larisa does not.
“You were meant to marry Dmitri,” she says.
The table changes immediately.
Alexei lowers his fork.
Anya’s face closes, but she doesn’t look down. “Yes.”
“And now you have married Yaromir.”
“That is what happened.”
“Not what happened,” Larisa says. “What you chose.”
Anya’s fingers tighten around her napkin.
I should stop this, but I want to see what she does.
