Zoey looked up in surprise, both at his voice and the fact that he was speaking Russian. Then she noticed what he was pointing out. “Fuckstockings,” she replies, in equally perfect Russian as she quickly scribbles the correction in. “Not sure how I missed that.” She was more tired than she thought, she realised with some surprise; she always tended to stop thinking completely in English when she was tired, but she’d somehow managed to think in both Russian and Czech at once and end up with a mess of the both of them; she was seeing more mistakes now that she was looking for them.

Damn.

She needed more tea. Maybe coffee.