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Eventually she reaches into the compartment beside her and retrieves a packet of tissues.

“You have blood here,” Anya says. She points at her own cheek.

“I suspected as much,” I say.

“Can I clean it?” Anya asks.

I hesitate, then I nod. “Gently.”

She pulls out three tissues. Then apparently decides three is insufficient and pulls out approximately half the packet.

“Anya,” Kirill says.

“What?” Anya asks.

“You don’t need all of those,” Kirill says.

“There is a lot of blood,” Anya argues.

“Encouraging,” I murmur.

Anya very carefully dabs beneath the cut near my hairline. Her tongue pokes out slightly between her teeth in concentration.

I try not to wince. “You're good at this,” I tell her.

“My papa gets hurt sometimes,” Anya says.

Kirill's eyes move toward her.

Interesting.

“What does your papa do?” I ask.

Anya shrugs. “Work.”

That narrows it down.

“What kind of work?”

Anya thinks about it. “He has companies,” she says.

“Companies that involve being injured regularly?”

Kirill clears his throat.

I look at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Kirill says.

That’s very obviously not nothing.

“Are you a bodyguard?” I ask.

“Yes,” Kirill says.

“For Anya?”

“Yes.”