Leningrad in summertime was an easy place to survive. It was easy for Anya to sweep all day and relax in the afternoon, eating a ladle of cheap street stew bought with her slim wages and still each week lay a little by for travel. She had a tin cup for her stew, a bed roll to sleep, and enough clothes that she was never too ripe. She had enough for a slice of soap every week, and the Neva was a fair enough washtub. The breezes that rolled from her banks were refreshing on warm nights.

And it was a fine life in summertime.

There was even entertainment in the mornings. Speeches in the square. Marches, sometimes, too. Decorative uniforms and sleek words. Good words. They were plain and good and Anya understood work and it's value. When she finished sweeping a street, it was cleaner. That was good, and she was paid and that was better. So she got her assignment every day and swept the street, usually in the area around the Prospekt and the square, and listened to the speeches as she did her work.

And if the man giving the speeches sometimes lingered when he looked at her, well, that was nothing to be concerned about. As long as he only looked, though worse fates had been suffered and occasionally enjoyed in the course of her treks, though not since arriving in Leningrad. Anya knew how delicate her situation was. It was enough that she had bad dreams. She did not need visitors in her patch under the bridge, too.

And thus, everything was such. A fine life. In summertime.

…

The weather hinted at change one day, and Anya needed her coat until mid morning. With winter coming, she would be able to save less- it took more food to survive and she'd need shelter some nights, though how to find it was yet to be worked out. The cold, too, brought its demons, waking her in the night with faded strains of a song full of sorrow. Images floated in the darkness, crowding her from peace with rhymes of wings and silver storms and other words not common to her speech. Ideas not safe for a simple Russian. Her nights were haunted by ghosts.

Her arms were slow to loosen that morning and, even working, it was chilly until the sun was quite bright. Even the commissar giving the morning speech had kept his great coat on. Anya was amused that there were medals on both the coat and the uniform underneath. Only the Cheka were permitted such duplication of goods, it seemed.

Even as he spoke- of a brave future, of shared work and shared rewards- his eyes followed her. But for the first time, it seemed, it was with concern. Anya looked away quickly, but had seen the way his sturdy brow knit together. Winter came fast in Russia, and without warning. The same could be said for much else, if the occasional raids that resulted in new faces on the street and in the shops she swept the doorways were of any indication.

Warmth returned again, fading the song, the ghosts, and dreams of places far from Leningrad. Anya rose refreshed and gathered Russia's dirt into piles, following her broom on her slow march across the Prospekt.

…

A pile of grit had knocked loose from a damaged concrete barrier and Anya spent her day chasing the debris. In the afternoon, nearing the time when Anya would return to the work station for pay, she stopped to survey her work.

"A good day's work, comrade."

She spun around, ready to hold off whoever had come so close without her knowledge but… it was the speech maker, his uniform glinting with medals.

"Ah, thank you. Just doing my part."

He smiled, and nodded at the smooth pavement and the tidy seams along walkways. "And an excellent contribution. Russia is in your debt." He gave a little bow, and offered her something in his hand. When she shied away, he unwrapped the package a bit. "Russia may not be able to offer many comforts at present, but just one will do no harm, eh?"

Crinkled white paper parted in his hand and inside was a small clutch of dried fruits and nuts. Sweets. Hardly decadent, but her mouth watered at the idea of a dried apricot, leathery and chewy and melting with sugar.

But who knew what this was? Perhaps it was a trick. Some test of loyalty or her adherence to austerity. "I shouldn't."

He gave the bag a little shake, jostling the treats around. "Well, if you just look, I'm sure you'll find something you like. Oh look! I've got one more date!" He held it out proudly.

"No. I'm just doing my job."

He looked a little defeated. "Oh. It's the uniform, isn't it?"

Anya looked down. "I can't lose this job. They're very hard to come by."

"I understand. What is your name?"

She looked up sharply. "Why? Am I in trouble?"

"No!" he said quickly. "I just… I see you every day and I wanted to say hello properly."

"By giving me candy?"

Curiously, he muttered to himself before clearing his throat and looking up again. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to do something nice. Just… just cup your hand behind you, like this." He tucked his arm to his side and made a well with his hand. "I'll walk by and your work leader won't see, if that's what you're worried about."

"It's not." But she cupped her hand by her side anyway because you don't turn down food and you certainly don't say no to someone with two sets of medals. He passed by and her hand filled with various nuts and fruits.

He turned and showed that the bag was empty, glee painted in his smile. "I'm here every day!"

She already knew that, but she stuffed the nuts and fruits in her pocket and saved most of her wages that day.

…

The next morning she woke to the chilly breath of the Neva and finished the last of the fruit as her dream song faded. Then Anya spent her day thinking about the officer. He was sweet and charming. A fine example of a man, but not for her. Surely a man like that belonged to someone.

It was almost an accident. Anya was simply sweeping but found that her path crossed his before his speech, and he tipped his head towards her as he made his way to his podium. She saw the direction he came from and noted it. If she lingered over her broom later, she was marked for her efforts, and it gave her a view to the street he walked and the row of doors he approached before she had to mind her work once more.

It took nearly a week to find out which flat was his. And it was his. Only his. Two entire rooms and a bathroom. Running water and a kitchen and a little balcony with a few potted plants. Anya scurried back to her detail and worked fast to make up the time, but kept his shy smile at the back of her mind.

…

There were soggy, shredded pamphlets in the square today. Rain and wind during the night had turned stacks of them to mulch and spread the decomposing slop across her usual work areas.

"I'm sorry, comrade."

She knew his voice well by now. He was here every day. "What for?"

"I had the pamphlets set out last night. I'd hoped to start early, but instead I added to your burdens." When she turned, he was in his coat and had his hands clasped in front of him. He looked like a confessing child. "I'm sorry. I did not think of the weather."

She shrugged. "It's work." He nodded at that, but lingered, watching her sweep the gobs of wet paper into neat piles for later collection. It was odd, his inspection of her broom's harvest. While Russians were discouraged from idle chit chat, Anya realized she had not thanked him for the sweets the other day.

"I'm Anya."

He held out his hand. "Gleb. Gleb Vaganov." When her eyes travelled to the stacked rows of medals and the thick epaulets, he tipped his head to the side with a faint grimace. "Ah, Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov."

Anya took his hand, but only then. "Just Anya."

The shy smile returned and Anya wondered what made him bashful. Was he shy or did he lack experience? Another idea to examine later in her bed roll.

"Anya. That's a good name." Gleb released her hand. "A strong name."

"It's the only one I've known."

Gleb nodded. Russia was a place where you did not ask too many questions. There were ghosts everywhere.

"May I buy you a cup of tea, Anya? For the mess?"

Her mouth nearly watered. She'd not had good tea in weeks, usually contenting herself with herbs and pine boiled in her tin cup. But the broom… her job.

He caught her hesitation. "I will send a message to your work leader."

It was just a cup of tea, and they were both here every day. And if Gleb slipped an extra biscuit onto her saucer, who was she to refuse?

…

Another day, another street full of chipped wood, sand, and… ice? Anya had dreaded it, but the first morning came when the edges of the gutters were wet with ice shards melting in the morning sun. Over the next week, the ice took longer to melt as the concrete cooled more every night, and Anya wrapped her scarf around her head and neck against the cold.

She looked up from her work as Gleb approached.

"Brisk morning, comrade!" He rubbed his hands together and clapped them. "I have risen early every morning this week and I have yet to see the first snow of the season. Tell me, my friend, have you seen snow yet?"

She laughed. "What a good Russian you are, Gleb. And no, I have not seen snow, only ice."

He sighed dramatically. "A pity. I suppose we will have to find solace in this." He held out his hand. Anya had grown accustomed to his offerings. Nuts one day, an egg another. She swept her way to him and looked at the waxy paper his hand.

She could not name the memory. She had no reference for it, but she recognized the glossy brown lump peeking from the waxed paper.

"Is that… chocolate?"

Gleb closed his hand. "Shh! It took me two weeks to get it! Here." Artlessly, he took her hand and tucked the package into it. He backed away, cheeks blazing, and glanced down at his shoes. "Enjoy it later and tell me all about it!"

"Wait, don't you want-"

But he was already walking to his office.

Anya curled one corner of the paper to see, then she dented the shiny crust with her fingernail. Definitely chocolate, though she wasn't sure when the last time she'd had a taste.

He was nearly to his office on the Prospekt, and Anya watched as the door was opened for him.

She whispered to no one. "Don't you want some?"

That night, Anya broke off a piece of the cold chocolate and slipped it into her mouth. It warmed and loosened. It slid across her tongue, melted smoothly, and coated her mouth in a polished, bittersweet glow. It made her mouth water but she didn't want to swallow too often. Anything to make this last.

It didn't, but that was alright. The taste slicked her mouth and was the most luxurious thing she could remember. It was tempting, the other half, but she wrapped it tightly in the waxed paper to tuck away in a spare pocket and then tucked herself in her cold bedroll. She would save the rest for a colder night. Maybe.

…

A colder day came soon enough. The ice lasted through the morning and the sun did not come out to melt it. The sky was gray and lightened only enough to make the darkening more ominous. Anya felt the chill of heavy wet air, and it was late afternoon when the first pellets began to fall. They bounced off her shoulders, then grew sticky. Before Anya could make her way back to the meager shelter of the bridge, the cold rain had passed into ice, then rain, and back again.

In the late afternoon, back at her patch, Anya shivered violently and tried to light a few coals but her matches were wet and so was the kindling. She was shaking. There had been nothing to eat even with her few ready coins, and as much as she would have enjoyed the chocolate, it wouldn't help her tonight.

With no way to get warm and no food, Anya searched her slowing mind for options and found only one. Using her broom to keep upright in the freezing rain, she picked her way past landmarks she knew well enough to know on which side the street filth accumulated, beneath the very few lamps burning dim with fish oil, and past the Nevsky Prospekt. She stumbled past the shops she swept, and finally slogged shakily to the row of doors.

The cold was so deep in her she could scarcely stand to knock on the door. It was a kittenish knock. If he did not hear then the doorway was good enough. A little warmth seeped from the chinks around the frame.

Exhaustion dimmed her sight, and she banged her thin fist against the door once more.

"Yes! Yes! I'm coming!" The door opened a crack as shoes shuffled about on the other side. "A terrible night, comrade. Do you have a message- Oh!"

It was warm inside. Gleb was in shirtsleeves.

"Anya! You're freezing!"

She managed a weak smile. Blue-lipped, most likely. "A terrible night indeed, comrade."

The swift motion made Anya's head spin and she was suddenly inside, clutching at a wall as Gleb closed and locked his door. There was warmth but she could not feel it, not through all the wet and the crusts of ice.

"Get out of that! Here, in here." Her coat was stripped away and Gleb led her to a washroom. "I'll get you some blankets and hot water. Anya! Listen!"

She'd been cold before. Worse, maybe, and managed to live without help but she would not refuse it now. Not when she could sense heat on her face and smell the steam of a boiling kettle.

"Yes, Gleb." Once she started loosening her clothes, Gleb let her be. Her wool skirt was sodden and slapped to the floor in a heavy heap. Next her undercoat and scarf, and she could hear pots moving around and water being pumped into them. A glance in the mirror showed that she was a fright, hair plastered down and her lips white. Her blue eyes were too bright in her pale face with no warmth for balance.

"Towels are there in the cabinet. Here," he set a steaming tea kettle by the door and took her clothes. "You can use this."

Anya used the basin to wash and wrapped her hair in a towel. It wasn't much, but she was warmer and certainly cleaner than she'd been in days. It was dangerous to wash when the weather was turning.

She accepted a robe and a quilt he slipped through the door. The robe was warm and whole, and the blanket was soft with age and had places where the mismatched fabrics were cut by the threads that held it together. Surely an officer would have better finery?

In her bare feet and clutching his robe around her, Anya opened the washroom door and caught Gleb arranging food on a plate, her clothes carefully hanging near the stove to dry.

"I'm sorry, I interrupted your supper."

"No! No, I already ate. I had some extra. Come and eat." Anya did, eating her fill until her stomach warned her to stop. Gleb fussed over her, tucking the quilt over her legs, then went to the cooker, heating potfulls of water and his kettle again. "I'll, uh, make tea."

He left for the washroom and returned a moment later, his hair suspiciously smooth and combed. "How did you get caught in this storm, Anya?"

She shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess."

"It's not a joke," Gleb turned stern. Perhaps a touch fearful. "The first storms can be the most dangerous. People aren't ready and don't realize how long they can last."

Stern did not suit him; not without the medals, at least. Anya thought back to one morning in the square. "I thought you did not think of the weather."

Whatever severity had been there, relief swept away. "You frightened me." A small smile. The one he offered when he had a treat. "You must be feeling better if you can tease me." He set a cup of tea in front of her and Anya immediately cupped her hands around it.

"I think I should tease you no matter how I felt."

Gleb looked away quickly and took his tea with him to stand by a window. He looked out and shook his head. "I can't let you go back out tonight, even when your things are dry. I'll only need a blanket or two and I can sleep by the stove."

"I can't take your bed, Gleb."

"You need it. You need to keep warm tonight."

After Gleb washed the few dishes and put things away, he went to fetch blankets from the chest in his bedroom and wash up for bed. Anya sat by the warm stove and stretched her toes, no longer wax-white from the cold. Her face was warm too, so she would not look so haunted. The ghost who walked across Russia only to risk freezing by the Neva.

Anya ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it into something acceptable. If Gleb had made an effort, so could she. He gave her a shy smile and laid out a small rug, then stacked a few blankets on a chair next to Anya. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be out of the way in a few minutes." He took a pot of hot water into the washroom and moments later Anya heard water splashing.

Experience had taught her that a meal before sleep kept bad dreams away. It also taught her that few things were as generous as a shared hearth and food. While Anya was hardly a woman of loose morals, she was not immune to generosity. Morality had little to do with it anyway; when your goal was survival, the means hardly mattered, and comfort was as valuable as food.

Still chilled, but warmer than she'd felt in days, Anya waited until there was a pause in the splashing. Gleb deserved her consideration, so it was only when she heard tapping on the sink and the sounds of his things being reordered that she set the quilt aside and approached.

The door was well oiled and did not squeak when she opened it.

"Anya!" Gleb was toweling his face when he saw her and startled. The edges of his cuffs were wet. "Did you need something?"

In the mirror, she caught sight of herself. Pale lips, but warm cheeks. Eyes bright with purpose. "No, I am very well. Don't let me interrupt."

He was lean in the way soldiers were. Strong and economical. Able to miss a meal or two without weakness, but had obviously known hunger. Everyone had. There were ghosts everywhere and that was why a little comfort went further than coin these days.

She stepped closer to him. Close enough to see where the shirt clung to him. "Your shirt is wet, Gleb."

His breathing was louder. It bounced off the tiled walls. "I put it back on. I didn't want to offend you."

The fabric was translucent where it was wet and Anya lightly plucked at it. "It's cold. You shouldn't wear wet things to bed." He was warm and the shirt would be dry soon, but that was not the point.

Gleb had gone very still but for his rapid breaths and his dark, searching eyes. Eyes that watched her so often from across a square watched her now in the glass, peeping at his edges, her head by his shoulder.

Her hands on his sides. "Let me help you, Gleb." Slowly she reached around him in a loose hug from behind. Watching in the mirror, as his eyes glazed for just a moment, her fingers reached the top button and went to slip it free.

"Anya," he said, and stopped her hands. "You don't owe me anything. I won't take from you."

He was kinder than anyone could be allowed to know. Anyone but her. Others got his scowls and speeches but she got his smiles and chocolates.

"You aren't taking, Gleb. I'm giving."

His hold on her hands remained, but was not so strong. "I didn't expect-"

"Shhh, Gleb," she whispered by his ear. They were alone, and though the walls were thick a whisper says more than a shout and travels over the skin, into the bones. Like a benevolent twin to the violent cold howling outside.

Both could rattle the nerves.

His hands fell away and the first button opened. The second, and the third. His undershirt was clean and whole. As the lower buttons gave way and she parted the shirt, Anya could feel jumps and kicks under her skimming fingertips. He was watching her in the mirror as her arms and hands wound around him. In the reflection, she pulled his shirt loose, then slipped his braces down to hang from his trousers.

She could imagine what he was feeling. His palms were probably itching to touch her, heart pounding and heat rising up his neck. Maybe there were little clenches in his middle, weakening his knees, but he kept still. She took a moment to hang his shirt and felt his eyes on her the whole time.

Maybe it was a testament to how much he liked her, or perhaps it was inexperience. Whichever it was, he did not strip while she turned her back, but waited for her. Was he savoring this, or was he still uncertain?

Anya wrapped her arms around him again and pressed her cheek to the dent between his shoulders, flattening her hands across him to feel how he flexed at her touch. Human touch was warm and yielding; so unlike the hard concrete piers and cold bedroll of her patch.

Gleb had gone still, breaths shallow and shuddering until she rubbed her cheek against his back, pushing her forehead into the pad of lean muscle between his shoulders. A deep shaky breath, then a soft exhale. A torment that eased, one that grew with need.

He covered her hands with his, one on his chest and the other just above his belt, fingers sliding over hers then between them, exploring the sensitive places between her knuckles. He did not direct her, just pressed her hands into himself, like leaving an impression.

A tempting thought, so Anya slipped a hand just under his belt. His inhale was so quick that it lifted her head from his back. A tug and the undershirt was free of his trousers, and the belt met the floor with a cold clang. Anya pushed it aside and then looked up to meet Gleb's gaze in the mirror.

He was rumpled and dark eyed. Hungry. "Please, Anya."

She opened her arms.

Once, while traveling, Anya had fallen into a river and clutched a floating branch until she reached the shore. The cold had clenched her lungs and she nearly didn't make it. The ghosts came that night, singing sadly.

Perhaps Gleb was drowning and that was why he held her the way he did. A kiss at her forehead, then her temple, then he lifted her hand to his cheek and pressed it to his lips. Anya shivered.

"You are still too cold, little sunshine," he said as he rubbed her hands between his. "Here," he went and got the quilt and laid it over the bed. A faint strip of light came from the kitchen and cut a line over the bed. Light was good. It was nice to not be lost in the dark. It was better to not be alone.

Gleb had a way of holding her that made her ache. He cupped and cradled, stroked and slid. Fabric heaped here and there alongside the bed and she buried her face in the divot at the bottom of his neck, licking at the notch in his collarbones, then over his chest, toying at the buds. When he could take no more, he flipped her onto her back and returned the favor until Anya dug her fingernails into his back, then tugged her to the edge of the bed, leaving her legs over the edge.

A kiss on her lips, slow and sucking, drawing her bottom lip between his. Then wet warmth on her chest and a bloom of heat, coaxing flame from a furnace left unlit for too long. There was no time or energy for it when you travelled until the money ran out. Gleb was warm and soft and he touched her like she was more than just convenient. Kissed her like he liked the taste.

Then he knelt on the floor and pushed at her knees. Fingers tracing up her thighs, a kiss above her knee, and the softest caress at her hip. Quaking followed his touch, radiating with more force than the touch that had brought them. How long since she'd been treated with tenderness? She didn't give it to herself, and few she'd happened across had any to spare.

"Anya?"

Gasping and beyond words, Anya slid a hand into his hair and looked long enough to see his eyes close under her touch. Then his head lowered, his hands sliding up, one wrapped around her thigh and the other roaming, stroking her side and chest. His hands made her soft, too, not the cold hard thing listening for a memory. A moan as his mouth wrapped over her, and it did not matter whose throat it was torn from.

She could not open enough. Anya raised her legs and spread her knees wide and still wished for more. She concentrated on the catches in her breath and the way her body pulsed and swelled, the way his shoulders surged with effort. Thick heat bloomed in a cold world, painted wings slashed against storms and her legs quivered, writhing.

Back arching and breath stolen by a sudden rush, her vision went white, and her hearing faded until there was only her heartbeat raging in her ears and awed grunts from between her legs.

"My beautiful sunshine, my Anya, please." Anya reached down and grabbed a shoulder and pulled. Nothing mattered but this. She was satisfied and not, needing something… a confirmation. To offer something in return. She was so soft now, like the summer crabs inside their shells. For now, just now, Anya let herself be soft and wrapped up in the moment. Soft is not safe when you're alone, but Gleb was here. He was tender and good to wrap her body around.

His first gasp was hot in her ear. She swallowed the second.

He does not rush. Whether it's because he is a man who savors things or the iron bed protests, Anya didn't know. She might care. Gleb stayed close to her, did not rise to his knees to thrust. His elbows by her head were his leverage and he rolled against her, pausing for kisses and to clutch the bedclothes in his fists, eyes shut tight.

Sweat broke on his back and chest, and his eyes were half closed and blind. His back worked as he thrust, and Anya wrapped her legs higher, grasping the bars of the bed for support, and pushed up.

Deep in his chest, Gleb moaned and clamped his hands on her hips. Her name broke into pieces from his lips and she held him as he twitched, face buried in the pillow next to her.

When his limbs were loose and heavy, he shifted away pulled the blankets over them both. He was blazing at her side, but Anya knew the chill of the room and the storm outside would overcome it soon enough. She settled with Gleb pressed against her, cradling her body with his own. He sighed, and kissed the back of her head.

Sorrow sings, but contentment sighs. That was why it was easy to miss.

He stroked her lazily, a sensation Anya had never felt.

"My sunshine," he murmured, smoothing her hair. She could feel his words against her back. How had she been cold, with this feeling in the world? How could ice cut silver across the sky when heat made an island so bright? Careful to remember that this was only for tonight, Anya relaxed under Gleb's arm and slipped into dreams.

There were no ghosts that night.

…

The next morning found her clothes stiff and dry. Anya shook them out and dressed, and after a few bites of bread with Gleb, collected her broom from the doorway.

She left first. It would not do to walk together so early, and an hour later, Anya was sweeping the square. She was a little sore, and there were little pink marks under her clothes and scarf, but the cold had not quite yet chased the warmth from her bones yet.

"A fine morning, comrade." He was bright and pink lipped despite the damp chill. Like a grin was fighting to break through the stern looks he kept for the day.

Anya smiled. Gleb's voice was never this tender when he gave his speeches.

"It is," she returned. "You should be cautious with your cheer, comrade. Someone might think you're too happy for a good Russian."

Gleb suppressed a smile now. The one he saved for her. "A good Russian loves the winter." He was about to turn when he stopped, looking back. "Will I see you again, Anya?" he asked quietly.

She pushed her broom, shifting one mess closer to another. It was early in winter, who knew what it might bring?

Anya offered a little smile. "I'm here every day."

...