Yelena's expression is an inversion of his, a quick grin. "Once," she says. "When I was small. It was a good day."

(It had been a middling day at best, a show for the neighbours at a halfhearted autumn fair. But she'd been five at the time, and not particularly discerning.)

She catches the sidelong look and adds, "It's fried dough, with fruit and sugar. Maybe not a thing to eat every day, but it's delicious."