The morning in St. Petersburg was a shroud of slate grey, the kind of light that didn’t so much illuminate the world as it did expose its jagged edges. Inside the Volkov Manor, however, the air was thick with the scent of expensive floor wax, old books, and the lingering, sweet trail of the tea Martim had served an hour ago.

Viktor stood by the tall, arched window of his study, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the pink Barbie sticker Evan had placed on the back of his hand days ago. It was peeling at the edges, but he couldn't bring himself to scrap it off.