Tatiana arched a brow, a sly smile playing on her lips, before waving a dismissive hand.
"We'll find it, don't worry. Eastern motifs are in the back, on the right."
I trailed after her, taking in the ceiling garlands that swayed ever so slightly, the flicker of silver streamers, and other festive trinkets that glimmered under the shop's bright lights. It felt strange that such a sprawling, specialized store existed in small, quiet Ksertoni.
"How does it even stay in business?" I murmured aloud without meaning to.
"Why wouldn't it?" Tatiana glanced over her shoulder. "People will always want to celebrate. Children's parties, corporate events, city festivals—this is the only place to buy anything for them. You can even get a prom dress here if you want."
"And don't forget rentals!" Dasha chimed in. "Remember last year's talent contest? We got all our costumes here."
Tatiana nodded at each of Dasha's words as if underlining them.
"Do things like that happen often at school?" I asked.
"Mostly in spring. You'll have your chance—unless you drown yourself in homework." Tatiana threw me a wink. "Well, here we are."
The "Eastern section" turned out to be a wall ablaze with color and sparkle—tops stitched with rhinestones and glass beads, each more dazzling than the last. There were styles for every taste: flowing chiffon sleeves, shoulder-baring cutouts, and—my gaze faltered—bras masquerading as tops, cups dripping with teardrop crystals and golden chains radiating outward like sunbursts. The kind of thing I would never wear to a school disco, no matter how much Tatiana insisted. Naturally, it was the very piece she reached for.
"Fuchsia is definitely my color!" she declared, discreetly folding the price tag into the cup. "And my size, too."
My eyes flicked from her chest to the garment, biting back a smirk. Those cups were clearly built for a far more generous figure. I wasn't even sure I knew exactly what a size four looked like—but at seventeen, with barely a size two myself, I had my doubts.
"Not really my style," I said quickly, before Dasha could be tempted. "For a school event, maybe something… more restrained?"
"Where else can you show off if not at a school disco?" Dasha protested.
"Well…" Stanislav's voice drifted in from behind, and I almost forgot he was with us. "I'm with Asya. Teachers won't love the whole 'beaded bra' thing."
"And they might not even let us in," Dasha added, reluctantly conceding.
Tatiana sighed theatrically and stepped aside.
"Fine. Let Asya choose. But I call dibs on the number—I won't tolerate objections."
Stanislav gave a low chuckle. "So much for teamwork."
I set to work, flipping through hangers with growing enthusiasm. By the time I emerged with three coordinated sets, Tatiana and Dasha had vanished to investigate jars of fake blood and plastic fangs. Stanislav's choice was far simpler—a reversible velvet cloak, crimson on one side, black on the other.
At the register, I saw him reach for his wallet.
"Can't we just rent them? It'll be cheaper," I offered.
"Nonsense," he said warmly. "Call it a belated welcome gift."
"For what?"
"For coming to Ksertoni."
"Just… no farewell gift, okay?"
His brow furrowed slightly. "You planning to go back to Rostov?"
I shook my head. "Haven't decided."
By the time Tatiana and Dasha returned, conversation had shifted, but I caught a glimmer in Tanya's eyes when she kissed Stanislav's cheek in thanks. Something was brewing there—and I couldn't decide whether I found it amusing or dangerous.
We piled back into the car. The cabin was icy, the seats cold through my jacket. As the engine warmed, we discussed our performance: Dracula would be the centerpiece. I envisioned something classical, telling the story of his wives—each with her own desires, her own way of loving. Tatiana wanted a viral crowd-pleaser. Stanislav quietly sided with me, though doubt lingered in his voice.
When we dropped Dasha off, Tanya leaned forward, her breath warm between the seats.
"Great idea, Asya. Now each of us gets to dance with Stanislav. Can't wait."
"Friend," she'd called me—and the word struck harder than expected.
Her neighborhood was gated, the iron doors swinging open only after an exchange with a grim-faced guard. Stanislav drove slowly down the dim, winding streets until we stopped before a two-story brick house, warm light glowing behind its curtains.
And I couldn't help but wonder—how far did Tanya have to walk each morning just to reach school?