She doesn't clench her hands when the girl talks about dressing Koschei up in her uniform and posing him as a toy soldier, because Bianca's hands are visible, resting lightly on her thighs. She runs her consciousness along every tendon and metacarpal, a meditation mantra of her own core and construction, and she breathes deep and keeps her light, thin, smile steady. Koschei, she thinks, will owe her for this.

"So you delegated all the hard work and wear the rest as a ceremonial cape when you choose, then. So modern and independent."