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The thing which her highness doesn't think about, damn her, is the logistics of getting from Paris to Lausanne before dinner, not to mention why anyone would want to get to Lausanne before dinner.

"Maybe," Anya says through gritted teeth, "I'm sick of your cooking."

It's a possibility; Dimitri's definitely sick of his own cooking. He suggested it to Anya once, dared her to have a go herself, which was one good reason to get out of Paris before the police caught up with them.

"Dimitri," Anya says, sweet like cyanide, and she takes his wrist and places his hand firmly on her – woman parts. He's never found a sufficiently respectful euphemism. She objects loudly to cunt, quim and pussy, which is another good reason why they're leaving Paris. It's not that you can't do that sort of thing in Montmartre, but they were in Sacré Coeur. They're very close together, he reassured Anya at the time, I hear women get very confused about geography, their poor lady brains, and then she'd thumped him in the stomach.

Anya licks his jaw, which is probably a warning sign. Dimitri gets down to business and soon Anya's jolting against him for more reasons than one.

Trains, he thinks, though it's not the most rickety one he's ever been on. Still – as a violent clang throws Anya against him, shuddering – that's another thing her highness doesn't ever consider, the logistics of getting off on a train. But Dimitri's fairly certain he knows why you'd want to.

Most of the time, anyway, he thinks, and Anya bites at his throat.