“I don’t want anything,” she answers abruptly, as if she’s annoyed I broke the silence.
She pivots toward me slowly. Her cheeks are flushed. It could be from excitement, but judging from the shadow over her eyes, I’m guessing it’s something more like anxiety.
I shrug. For once, I’m uninterested in pushing her. She looks fragile.
“Is that chamomile?” she asks out of nowhere, glancing towards the little white flowers with the yellow buds clustered into the corner.
“I think so.” She’s dissociating. Looking for anything to distract from what just happened.
“I don’t like chamomile,” she murmurs vaguely. Then her eyes land on me and sharpen. “Konstantin is your cousin?”
“And you have a sister and a mother. And a brother who passed away.” She speaks as though she’s taking notes in her head.
