The Diamond Eye

by Kate Quinn

“Eyes on our bushes,” I ordered. Last night in Lyonya’s dugout, Vartanov and Kostia and I had crammed in to make six decoy bushes, wiring long juniper branches together in bunches. We look like brides making garlands, Lyonya remarked, pitching in to help, but with more khaki. Kostia fired back with You’re the ugliest bride I ever saw, Kitsenko, and I’d plunked myself down between them before they could start trying to arm-wrestle among the bushes, scolding You two! as Lyonya kissed my neck and Kostia lobbed a juniper frond at me. Lyonya had hugged me goodbye on the dugout steps at three in the morning when I set out, then more formally returned my salute when we stepped into the open. It was always like that: the minute we put a toe over the dugout threshold we were no longer lovers. We were regimental comrades who gave each other a formal farewell and a call of “Good hunting.”