[a warm wind blows in the springtime]

Springtime makes her think of Paris. This is her third spring in two years, a jarring happenstance brought on due to the suddenness of her arrival, the change of time and location messing with Anya’s sense of the seasons.

This year, she’s ready for it. The peel of the bells from the churches last Sunday coupled with all of the rabbit and pastel theme paraphernalia that had populated the shops of Darrow reminded her of what was coming – Paskha.

In keeping with tradition she had cleaned their already tidy flat on Thursday before preparing to dye the uncooked eggs. She had consulted with various old women who visited the Volga House on the best way to dye the eggs with onion peels and had done her best to make patterns with the rice paper. Her efforts weren’t spectacular, were faint in comparison to the Faberge eggs that her father had gifted her mother, but Anya was proud of her efforts.

Dressed in a sunny yellow dress to harken in the springtime despite the gray nature of the day, she is putting the finishing touches on their small Easter feast. It isn’t very Soviet to make a big deal of today but it is very Russian. Adjusting the placement of the Kulich, she smiles brightly as she hears the door open just as the kettle starts to sing.

“Your timing is perfect,” she greets brightly as she sticks her head out of the kitchen to confirm it really is Gleb. “The water is ready for tea.”