"Then you contract the American dream,

You never looked up once."

~ Idlewild, "American English"

1920

Toris hummed to herself as she washed the dishes, looking out of the window at the blue skies. Although the house was quiet, in the back of her mind she fancied that she could still hear the hum of New York City, the noise and the vibrancy of it all, wild and unrestrained, everything just a little too loud and a little too bright. America was like that...both the place and the man. Enthusiastic, ebullient...dizzyingly so.

She wondered if she'd ever be able to do that...to laugh with abandon or speak her mind the way he did. She wondered if she'd ever be able to walk into a dance hall and feel at home, or dress like some of those bright, dazzling women she'd seen in the streets, arm in arm, chattering gaily. Probably not, she decided, looking down at her own clothes, strange and worn and androgynous. Her hair plain and unfashionable, long and tightly braided. So thin that her form barely looked female. No...best to watch from the sidelines, to take in all of that wonder quietly, as the outsider that she would always be.

She'd been an outsider too, in Russia. But the customs weren't a million miles from her own, not by comparison, and she spoke the language with barely an accent, whereas English felt heavy and thick on her tongue. She rolled her r's too much, the vowels sounded elongated and strange and the words didn't come easily, her face turning red with embarrassment as she struggled with the pronunciation. She was getting better.

Alfred didn't seem to mind at all, though. He had no patience for learning other languages and seemed slightly in awe of anyone who had the determination to do so. He'd brushed aside her apologies with a laugh and an easy wave of his hand. He had no designs to force his culture on her, reminding her often that she was a free and independent nation, that she was there for paid work, not as a captive. She was free to leave any time, and he made sure that she knew it. She suspected that he'd been doing her a favour out of kindness when he'd allowed her to come in the first place.

That was the wonderful thing about this place. People could come here and be whatever they wanted to be. There was a giddy promise in the air, a child-like optimism, a sincerely held patriotism borne out of individualism, rather than collectivism. It was intoxicating.

Independence felt tentative, like gossamer threads and snow that would melt in the palm of her hand. She couldn't shake the feeling that, sooner or later, she'd have to go back to Ivan and even a friend as powerful as Alfred wouldn't be able to stop that, not really. But she liked to pretend sometimes. Pretend and hope that this was her life now and that when she left, she'd go back home stronger and bring all the best aspects of America with her. That she'd grow strong and vibrant again. This was exactly what she needed.

"I'm gonna be late..!" Alfred burst into the room suddenly with a clatter, his shirt half unbuttoned and his hair sticking up at wild angles.

She observed him with a calm smile and gestured to the table. "I've already made breakfast. You just have to get dressed."

He made a noise that she supposed was a thank you, as he crammed a pastry into his mouth and vanished again. She shrugged and hummed a little to herself as she carried on with the washing up.

"I don't know how you can put up with this..."

Toris looked up with a start. She hadn't expected to see Arthur standing in the doorway, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, his hair slightly rumpled. He walked to the table and grabbed a slice of toast, wrinkling his nose at the coffee on offer. It was none of her business what the two of them got up to, or why he'd been spending the night so often, but she couldn't help but smile a little. They were so badly matched that it almost made them perfect together. Ever the soul of discretion, she ignored the fact that Arthur's shirt was untucked and the fact that his union jack boxer shorts were visible through his open fly and the early blossom of a bruise on his collarbone. There was a word for that sort of mark, in English, that she couldn't quite remember.

"I love it here," she said, her eyes shining with quiet sincerity. With a conspiratorial smile, she pulled out the teapot and a small tin of teabags that Alfred would never admit to owning. "Tea? The kettle's just boiled."

Arthur arched one of his wild eyebrows. "Thank you. Yes." As she made the tea, he ate in silence, before inhaling sharply. "He's not here, you know. You can be honest."

She poured the tea. "When you've lived with Feliks...and then Ivan..." She shrugged. "Trust me, this is a good life."

"You don't miss him, then?"

"Feliks?" Toris was being deliberately evasive. "Sometimes. He's exhausting, you know. And irresponsible. But his heart's in the right place."

"No. Your ex." Arthur replied bluntly. "Or at least, that's what he's calling himself. I got the impression that he wasn't too happy with me for finding you this...ah...arrangement. Of course, who can tell, really? He's an odd fellow."

"Yes." She nodded, her face neutral. "He is."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You didn't answer my question."

"No," she agreed quietly. "I didn't."