and she wouldn’t disappoint him. She’d imbue and give the people something to believe in. Supported by Pa’s planning, they would destroy the regime.
Ctibor didn’t notice her approach, staring at the wall, expression strangely intent—like he was trying to remember something unpleasant.
Celka pulled out the wrought iron chair across from him, and he turned with a start. “Taking a nap?” Celka asked, hoping to lighten his mood.
“No. I mean, yes. No.” His jaw tensed and he glanced off to the side again before seeming to shake himself. “That was fast.”
“Didn’t want to keep my date waiting.”
He rewarded her with his small, private smile but, beneath it, he looked exhausted and... afraid?
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Of course not.” The exhaustion vanished beneath his circus smile. With a flourish, he folded back the napkin covering a small basket. “At least, nothing butter and sugar won’t fix.” Steam wafted from two plump loupak, their flaky, buttery tops crusted with poppyseeds. Celka’s mouth watered. Ctibor poured coffee from a metal pot and, when he offered her a little porcelain cup of cream, her jaw dropped.
“How did you afford all this? And the ration coupons?” She shook her head, unable to pour the cream into her coffee. “Are you sure?”
“The circus has my civilian ration book, but the Army let me keep my A3 book, too. Extra butter and sugar coupons, and nowhere to spend them.”
“I haven’t seen fresh cream since... I don’t know when.”
Ctibor grinned, finally genuine. “Take it all.”
“You’re sure?”
When he nodded, Celka upended the cup over her coffee. Closing her eyes to concentrate on the creamy deliciousness, she sipped.
When she opened her eyes, she found Ctibor frowning at a spray of bullet holes chipping the stone wall.
“You think that’s left over from the war?” The question sounded idiotic as soon as it left her mouth. They’d walked past plenty of rubble and even a statue of proud Bourshkanyan soldiers inside the blackened stone of a storm temple burned by the Lesnikrayan Army.
“Bludov saw brutal street fighting,” Ctibor said. “The Forty-Second Battalion tried to stall the Lesnikrayans here long enough for the rest of the Army to regroup and mount a counteroffensive.”
“Did it work?”
Ctibor shook his head. “The Lesnikrayans uncovered the plan. It was a slaughter.”
“I’m surprised they taught—” Celka caught herself before she could say something bordering on treason.
He inclined his head, silently asking the question.
Celka nibbled the corner of her loupak—it proved just as buttery and amazing as it looked—while Ctibor waited. “In school they only talked about victories. And a few heroic sacrifices.”
“It’d be poor officer training if we didn’t study defeats.”
“I’ve always wondered...” Could she ask this? She didn’t want to sound suspiciously curious. Ctibor already knew too much about her, and he would eventually put back on his uniform and become the enemy. Yet Pa had never talked about what he’d done to win the war, and if Grandfather knew, Pa must have sworn him to silence. “How did we win? What happened at Zlin?”
Ctibor’s jaw tightened. “Bloody battles recounted over loupak?” His levity sounded forced. “Wouldn’t you rather enjoy your coffee?”
She took his hand across the table’s mosaic tile top. “What is it?”
He stared down at his loupak for a long time. “My father died at Zlin.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t... We don’t have to talk about it.”
“No, it just... surprised me.”
“Were we really losing?” The history books painted Bourshkanya’s victory as a sure thing, but a sure victory didn’t require a Miracle.
“We’d been losing for months, our generals just didn’t want to admit it.” He paused, giving her a chance to divert their conversation, maybe, or rallying his strength. She nodded encouragingly. “We’d surrendered all our early gains, and Lesnikraj was pushing toward the capital. That counterattack I mentioned, the Battle of Oleshka, it was a disaster. We lost two thirds of our fighting force and—” Ctibor’s head jerked up, his gaze slipping past her.
She turned. Three Tayemstvoy marched toward them, their leader’s hand on their truncheon.
When the red shoulders neared, Ctibor asked, casual as could be, “Something we can do for you, Corporal?”
“New to town?”
“Just arrived on the circus train this morning.”
Celka stared at her loupak. The half-eaten pastry suddenly smelled of blood and gun oil. Edging into sousednia, she concentrated, forcing the circus tents back into the ground, struggling to see only an empty field that smelled like nothing. She couldn’t fight. Fighting would make this worse.
“Circus, huh?” the corporal said. “Why aren’t you performing?”
“I’m taking my friend here on a date between shows.” Ctibor