"One more thing," Sophia paused. "Ms. Cole spent the afternoon wandering the estate. Sir, is that permitted?"
Well, well. One curious little firecracker.
I was in a good mood. "Of course. Let her explore."
Surprise flickered in Sophia's eyes, but she said nothing more.
The dining room table tonight was set for two, facing each other at a comfortable distance—not so far you'd have to shout like at a formal banquet. Sophia's arrangement. Eighteen years as head housekeeper, she knew how to handle these details seamlessly.
Vivienne was already there.
She'd changed into something simple—dark sweater, hair half-up, sitting in her chair flipping through that Moleskine, still adding notes while waiting for the food. She didn't look up, but I noticed her ear twitch the moment I entered.
I took the seat across from her and spread my napkin. Said nothing.
Servers began bringing dishes.
First course was zakuski—cold appetizers including pickled herring and rye bread, with a small dish of caviar on the side. Second course was steaming borscht, dark red broth with a dollop of sour cream floating on top.
Vivienne set down her pen, looked at her plate, picked up something golden with her fork, and took a bite.
Her eyes lit up.
"What is this?" She looked up at me directly, fork still raised.
"Varenyky," I said. "Ukrainian dumplings. This one's potato and cheese, pan-fried in butter."
"This is incredible." She took another one, voice carrying uncontrollable satisfaction. "I've had Polish pierogi, but this is different. This is more...substantial."
"Different preparation," I said. "Pierogi are usually boiled. Varenyky are boiled then fried in butter."
She paused a second, looked at me with an unexpectedly serious expression, like she was reassessing something. Then she glanced at the bowl of dark red soup. "And this?"
"Borscht. Beet soup. This is the Ukrainian version—sweeter than Russian, less acidic."
"Is there a big difference between Ukrainian and Russian food?"
I set down my fork, considered for a second. "There's a difference, but a lot of overlap. In places where borders have been blurred for centuries, culinary cultures bleed into each other. Borscht is a perfect example—both sides claim it's theirs, each with a hundred different recipes."
"Like immigrant culture," she murmured thoughtfully, taking another varenyky. "I ate at this Polish restaurant in New York once. The owner could curse in five languages, but her pierogi only came one way—the way her mother taught her."
I didn't respond, but I kept listening.
"My dad used to cook," she paused. "He was Italian, but he didn't make Italian food at all. He'd mix everything together—tomato meat sauce with rice, pasta with mac and cheese. Totally inauthentic, but thinking back, that was still the best food."
I didn't pick up that thread. "There's a restaurant in Moscow, on a street most maps miss. You have to go through the kitchen to get in. They only make one dish—Pelmeni, Siberian dumplings, pork and beef filling with a bit of wild garlic, served in vinegar broth. That place has been open for sixty years. Never changed the recipe."
Vivienne's fork froze mid-air, eyes fixed on my face, listening intently.
"How cold does Moscow get?" she asked.
"Minus twenty-five Celsius is normal," I said. "Leave a bottle of vodka outside, it'll freeze solid in no time."
"That's so—" she suddenly looked down. "Oh! My food's getting cold."
I glanced at her, said nothing, but my mouth twitched.
She dove back into her food, then muttered something clearly meant to cover her embarrassment. "Your fault for being so distracting."
