Natalya had spent years in an underground bunker in the middle of the American heartland, but she had never partaken of Thanksgiving in that time, at least not really. They had marked the day- the Hartle twins had dressed up their rations, and they'd had plenty of stuff made out of corn, God knew, but it hadn't ( Read more... )

Natalya stood in the compound kitchen, watching her tea steep and winding her still wet hair into a coil against the back of her head. She slipped three bobby pins into it to hold it there before moving to retrieve a spoon from a drawer. Her hair hadn't been so long in, probably, ten years. Until she'd been recruited, she'd worn it in a straight ( Read more... )