"You have the translation?" he asked.
She unbolted the locks—three of them, each a different generation of security—and opened the door just enough to let the cold in, but not the man. ksenya b
He let out a short, dry laugh. "You are a difficult woman, Ksenya B." "You have the translation
He walked over to the roll-top desk in the corner, the one her grandfather had used to write love letters to a ballerina he couldn't afford. The man picked up the sheaf of papers. He didn't look at the text. He looked at the handwriting—Ksenya’s tight, angular script. "You are a difficult woman, Ksenya B
She picked up her pen, pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her, and began to write. Not a translation this time. She wrote a description of a man in an expensive coat who carried other people's secrets in his pockets like loose change.
"It has."