It told him nothing that Liadov hadn't already said to his face, and yet it still soothed his ruffled insides to hear from another pair of lips.

He did not react, however. It did not become an Isaev to disclose, or to betray private emotions.

Instead he took another drink.

Irinarhov was persistent, that was surprising. The tenacity. Unexpected. Unaccounted for.

Ilarion wondered at Taras' self restraint in not reappearing yet.

His eyes traveled over Irinarhov, appraising him coolly.

He was feeling magnanimous, as he'd predicted.

"Very well," he said at last.

He nodded slowly, taking a sip of cognac.

"When you reach Leningrad, I'll set you up prettily."

Lasha held his gaze, narrow eyed.

"After that, it's up to you."