Questions—so many questions—stirred. I could demand answers, though I thought I had already pushed Yulia too far by the look she gave me while stabbing her needle in the pincushion like it was a voodoo doll. Gingerly, I set Lada back on the shelf and turned to the door. “Thank you, Yulia.” “Come to my room again, you will have bad luck for seven years!” “Grouch,” I muttered on my way out, only to hear a significant insult in return. “Harlot.” Ugh.
