"Bathroom's across the hall," Aleksi said. "Then kitchen. Don't touch anything."
"How'm I supposed to do my business if I cannae touch anything?"
He was already walking away.
I pissed, washed my face, and confirmed in the mirror that I looked as bad as I thought. Then I followed the smell.
The kitchen was the only room with any life to it, and that life was an old woman at the six burner stove, cooking like mad. She was properly old and shriveled, chest high at most, but still wiry and fast with that wooden spoon in her grip. She was muttering to herself in rapid fire Russian when I arrived.
The old woman took one look at me before launching into a rant at Aleksi.
A plate landed in front of me before I'd even finished sitting, some kind of thick porridge in a blue bowl, eggs, and fried potatoes and onions with sausage. Milk, orange juice, and a steaming mug of black tea followed.
"Oh, granny, I could kiss ye." I wrapped both hands around the mug, and the heat soaked into my fingers, and I closed my eyes. Tea. Proper tea, strong and black and scalding. I'd been drinking nothing but water and whatever shite the Italians left in reach for six months, and this one mug was enough to make me believe in God.
"Eat," Aleksi said from the counter, coffee in hand. "Irina doesn't like it when people let her food get cold."
Irina said something in Russian. Aleksi grunted. She said it again, louder, spoon pointed at him. He took a plate and sat down across from me.
I ate. The kasha was rich, the potatoes were perfect, and the eggs were better than anything I'd had in so long that my throatclosed up around the first bite. I was not going to cry over potatoes.
Irina refilled my plate before I'd finished the first. She pinched my cheek on the way past and said something that sounded like a scolding. I didn't understand a word, but the meaning was clear. Too thin. Eat.
My da used to do the same thing. Different language, different kitchen, same hands pushing a plate and refusing to hear no. I put my head down and ate until there was nothing left, then dug my insulin kit out of the bag Aleksi had set on the counter.
Irina tracked the needle going in and her face tightened, and she launched into something at Aleksi that ended with the spoon jabbed in my direction. He answered in two words. She didn't look satisfied.
Aleksi set his coffee down. I looked at him across the table, this man whose face had gone the color of a sunset when I'd touched his palm.
"The jacket's in the living room. Materials list is sourced. Most of it's coming from New York. Birch oil might take longer. A week, maybe more. Nikita's people found a supplier in Saint Petersburg."
"I cannae start without the resin or the birch oil, so in the meantime I'll examine the jacket and work up a plan. But I need a few things."
"Such as?"
"Shoes." I held up my foot. The trainers were filthy, and the sole was peeling off the left one. "I'm diabetic. My feet swell if I'm standing all day. Clark's, size eight UK, nine American. Leather sole."
He pulled out his phone and typed.
"Clothes. I've been in these for a week. Plain shirts, dark, cotton. Trousers. Socks. Pants."
He glanced up and then went back to typing.
"Shaving cream and a razor. I look like a hedge. The mattress is too hard. I need something softer, and an orthopaedic pillow. Ye want me to fix yer da's jacket with steady hands or shaking ones?"
He kept typing.
"And ice cream."
"Ice cream." He looked at me. "You're diabetic."
"Aye, and I manage it with insulin, no with deprivation. I count carbs, I dose accordingly, and I've been doing it since I was twelve. I'm no asking for a sweetie shop. I'm asking for a tub of vanilla." I leaned back. "Or salted caramel. Dealer's choice."
He put the phone away, and something moved behind those blue eyes. It might've been amusement in a man who allowed himself that.
"Anything else?"
"That'll do for now."