Page 62 of Beehive

I followed Will’s line of sight. The children’s clothes were worn but clean, their faces lit with joy as they squealed and chased each other. “Probably not. The war started around the time some of them were born. Most of those kids were probably born after the tanks rolled. They haven’t had a chance to know peace until now. Still, they’ve adapted. It’s what kids do.”

“Adaptation,” Will murmured. “A brutal survival mechanism, but I guess that’s part of war.”

“You’re brooding,” I said, nudging his shoulder. “Not a good look.”

“Just observing.”

“Let’s move before Boris and Sergei think we’re plotting treason against the fountain.”

We walked a few blocks before stumbling across an impromptu marketplace, its stalls crowded with goods that ranged from practical to peculiar. There were stacks of crusty bread, jars of pickled vegetables, and the occasional treasure—a hand-carved wooden toy or an embroidered handkerchief, maybe a bit of jewelry.

The air was thick with the scents of sweat and cabbage.

The hum of conversation was punctuated by the occasional bark of a vendor.

Will picked up a small statuette, its form crude but charming. “A keepsake?” he asked, holding it up.

“Not unless it comes with a side of secrets.”

“Ah, the ever-practical Herr Müller,” he teased, setting the statuette back down.

We moved through the stalls, and I focused on snippets of conversations—complaints about rationing, whispers about a neighbor who’d been taken away, the occasional praise for the Soviet regime that felt as forced as the smiles accompanying the words. We heard nothing useful, but the undercurrent of tension was unmistakable.

“Anything?” Will asked as we stopped near a stall selling old books.

“The usual,” I said, examining a tattered volume whose leather cover and gilded pages looked as worn as the city itself.

“Pity,” he said, though his tone was now light. “Move on?”

By midday, we found ourselves in front of yet another restaurant. I wondered if our lives were a series of meals punctuated by a few hours of activity. Were we put here to eat, and all the rest was extracurricular? Had we misread our assignment as humans? I chuckled to myself at my own silliness. When Will quirked a brow, I shook my head to say, “It’s nothing.”

The sign above the restaurant’s door was faded, its letters barely legible, but the aroma of freshsomethingwas enough to lure us inside. Boris and Sergei waited outside, their expressions unreadable.

“Should we ask our friends to join us? They’ve got to be hungry.”

Will snorted. “No way. It’s date day, and I’m not sharing you with a pair of goldfish.”

I smiled as the proprietor approached and showed us to our seats.

The dining room was small, its tables mismatched and chairs creaky, but it held a warmth that felt out of place—and most welcome. The woman who’d greeted us wore a broad smile that appeared genuine. I glanced down to find her hands were dusted with flour.

We ordered tea and a plate of roasted vegetables. There was no meat to be had.

The vegetables were al dente and well seasoned with a hint of garlic and an herb I couldn’t name. The tea was strong, almost bitter.

The moment was . . . a blessed moment of normalcy.

“This,” Will said, gesturing to the plate, “almost makes up for Antonov’s absence.”

“Almost,” I agreed. “Though I can’t say I miss his company.”

“Come on, he’s a sweetheart once you get to know him.”

I cocked a brow. “Do I need to take a walk later so you two can—”

“Don’t even joke about that!” Will snapped. “Besides, he’s not really my type. I bet his gun doesn’t even fire.”

I had just taken a sip, and tea splattered all over the table.

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