Dead Ice

Начало книги

Karl Gustavovich Fabergé did not look up from his work when, unheralded, Nikolai bustled through the door. He raised one hand, forestalling further interruption.

“Go outside, close the door, and knock.” Fabergé remained calm and kept his eyes on his work as he gave these instructions. His work required focus and attention to detail, and he could not allow the temerity of a foolish assistant to put him out of sorts.

“Master, someone is here to see you.”

Now Fabergé looked up. Nikolai’s interruption had been out of character, but for the young man to ignore his command, that was something else entirely. Furthermore, there was a tremor in Nikolai’s voice, and a breathy quality to his voice that was so unlike him.

Fabergé looked his assistant up and down. Nikolai’s skin was the color of new-fallen snow, and perspiration ran in rivulets down his cheeks. What had put him out of sorts? Fabergé made a placating gesture.

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