Petya Pravda’s dead. He died forty days ago, as elongated and translucent as an icon. His mother found him in the morning, and straight away set up a wail that brought in the neighbours: Pyotr! Petya! My little Petya! And they hurried in, old Kolya hitching up his belly, stinking of hangover, Mari…


The Last Eighteen Drops
The Romanovs Come to Stay