“I am Russian,” she declares. “Of course I have the stomach for it.” She says this with what sounds like a slight edge of imperiousness, but her words and her tone are belied by the grin she can’t keep off her face. This is the face she wears always when she is with Rodeo, unless it is a bad day and everyone is miserable, even bright and shiny Zhenya.
She snorts. “And anyway. Like you said. I am trouble all on my own when it comes to alcohol.”
She presses the other eye, watches the blade slide back up into the wolf’s head. She puts the necklace on, letting it rest over the loose braid. Then she reaches for the bottle, taking a long drink before she hands it back. “Do you want to talk more about your problems, or just drink?”