Vera was as perplexed as a mare with a foal that won’t walk. Ganor was behaving oddly. He kept his own company, today—did his work in near silence. Something was clearly worrying him, but he seemed entirely unwilling to talk. And that was not at all like him.
“He’s grumpy,” Olly muttered, watching Ganor with frustration.
“Any inkling why?”
Olly shook his head. His brows pulled down a bit. “Ain’t like him though.”
“If you sort any of it, drop a word in my ear,” she said. “I miss the Mr. O’Donnell who makes us laugh.”
His mouth tipped a bit. “Do I make you laugh, too, Miss Vera?”
“Laugh? You ain’t nothing but trouble, boy.”
He laughed. Olly never failed to catch when she was teasing. “A spot of trouble ain’t a bad thing.”
“No, it ain’t.” She ruffled his hair.
“Mr. O’Donnell does that too,” Olly said as he smoothed his hair again. “You two’s strange.”
You two. She liked hearing them connected that way. The afternoon and evening she’d spent with Ganor had been wonderful. He was so easy to talk with and be with. They’d shared stories from their childhoods and thoughts on current matters in the country, what it was like to be an immigrant, how that varied when one had been in a country since childhood compared to arriving as an adult. She’d learned more of his sister and wanted to meet her. She’d told him a little more of her family history, though she’d veered clear of the Petrachevsky Circle. Even having to leave that out, she’d had a more personal interaction with him than she’d had with anyone in ages.
Papa stepped inside, interrupting her reverie.
“You’ve been away quite a spell,” she said.
“And well worth it, kotik. I’ve secured a new printing order. Our largest one ever.”
“What type of printing?”
“Any number of things.” Papa fussed with his beard, not looking directly at her.
“Such as?” She found it odd that he was being evasive about something he seemed so pleased about.
“The printing is my area, Vera.” His lips flattened in a gruff line.
His sharp tone drained every ounce of breath from her. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to . . . ” She wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence, not knowing what she’d done wrong.
“You ask too many questions,” he said through tight teeth.
She hadn’t a ready answer for that. He’d not ever griped this much about her being inquisitive. Why was he so guarded about this particular job?
Olly tugged at Papa’s coat. “What does kotik mean?”
“‘Kitten,’” Papa said. “I have called Vera that since she was younger than you are.”
“I like when you speak Russian,” Olly said, tossing his gap-toothed smile at them both.
“Russian is a beautiful and powerful language,” Papa said. “You would do well to learn it, malysh.”
“I want to learn,” Olly insisted.
“The first lesson”—Papa spoke somberly, but with a twinkle in his eyes that let Vera breathe again—“‘do svidaniya.’”
Olly popped a salute and tossed out an enthusiastic, “Do svidaniya,” earning him a nod of approval from Papa.
With a dip of his head, Papa said, “Do skorovo” and, pushing his spectacles back into place, moved with a broad stride to the back room.
“That weren’t the same words,” Olly said.
“No, they weren’t.”
His little forehead creased. “But what does it mean?”
“The words he taught you or the words he just said?”
“Both.” Olly tossed his hands in the air. “He didn’t tell me what either one meant.”
“He did after a manner,” she said. “Toss it about in your idea pot. You’ll sort it.”
Olly stood rooted to the spot, a mighty pout on his face. Vera looked to Ganor, expecting to exchange amused looks. But the man kept quietly at his work. Vera didn’t for a moment think he was unaware of what was happening. The man was sharp, and he didn’t miss anything.
He might be in a bit of a sour mood, but she was willing to risk it. She wanted his thoughts on Papa’s new job. She wasn’t certain whether she was overreacting. Talking with Ganor had started to help her sort the matter of the Protector’s letter, and chatting about their pasts the evening before had given her a measure of peace and a sense of belonging.
Vera crossed to him. “We’re to have some new printing orders.”
“I heard your da say as much.” He kept his eyes on the window trim he was repairing. “He seems pleased.”
“Pleased and mysterious,” she said. “I often ask him details of the jobs he’s doing. He’s never bit off my head like that before.”
“Could be he’s not so sure of the job as he wants you to think he is.”
She shook her head. “He’s not ever tiptoed around that before. He tells me if he ain’t sure a client’ll prove a good one.”
“’Twasn’t the client he refused to talk to you about,” Ganor said.
That was true, though she’d not twigged that right away. “We talk about his printing regularly, what he’s printing, how complicated it might be, how many pages it’ll require, what type of parchment. He wouldn’t even tell me the type of job this time. No clues whatsoever.”
For the first time since she’d joined him there, Ganor looked up from his work. He didn’t look at her, though, but at the back door where Papa had exited the shop. “Maybe he’s printing something he doesn’t want you to know about.”
“What could that be, though? He ain’t one to do anything nefarious.”
He offered her a quick, half-formed smile. “Maybe he’s agreed to print a book and doesn’t want you knowing, since it’d make him a bit of a hypocrite.”
Heavens, that could be the answer. She hesitated, then lowered her voice so as not to be overheard. “A group of writers caused some difficulty in St. Petersburg when we lived there, and my papa was accused of being part of it. That set the police on our trail, and we had to make like the waves and leave Russia behind. If he’s printing books now, he’d never admit to it.”
“What sort of difficulty did these writers cause?” he asked, matching her low tone.