That evening, Yulia is quiet and withdrawn, her gaze trained on her plate throughout most of the meal despite her brother’s presence at our table. Several times, Michael tries to engage her in conversation, but after getting only monosyllabic responses, he gives up and quickly finishes his meal.
“What’s up with her?” he mutters as I walk him to the guards’ barracks while Yulia stays behind to clean up. “Is she mad at me or something?”
“It has nothing to do with you,” I say. “She’s just worried about something.”
“What?” The boy shoots me an anxious glance. “Did something happen?”
“No.” I smile reassuringly. I’ve grown to like Yulia’s brother over the past few weeks, and I don’t want him to worry either. “She thinks it has, but she’s wrong.”
The boy frowns in confusion. “So everything i
