41

Camila

“Thank you for having lunch with me,” I say. My mother and I are sitting in a small nook split off from the main floor. I had two of the staff set up a small table with finger sandwiches, glossy eclairs, and my mother’s favorite, pirozhkis stuffed with potatoes and onions.

Mom, who has taken to dressing like the house is as cold as a cellar, is wearing a fluffy blue sweater over a pair of sleek white pants. I’ve chosen something loose—a bishop’s sleeve dress the same color as the chocolate on the eclairs.

“You say that like I wouldn’t agree,” she chides. “What mother doesn’t make time for her daughter?”

One who knows her daughter is trying to pry info from her … Putting on a big grin, I pick up a cucumber sandwich, taking a nibble. My stomach isn’t loving any kind of food with intense flavors just yet.

My mother plucks up a pirozhki. “Hm,” she muses, judging it critically. “Who made these?”

“Chef Danil did.”

“Chef?” she mocks. “Asher has a private chef? Well of course he does.”