Snow blanketed the gardens of Tyrol in silence, muting even the distant howls of wolves along the forest edge.
A frost had settled upon the old stones of the estate, creeping across windows, wrapping marble statues in a glistening sheen of stillness. But the cold inside was heavier still.
Bruno stood at the far end of the drawing room, his back to the fire. Its warmth did not reach him. Not tonight.
It had been less than a fortnight since he had left the Tsar's winter palace with news of the man's terminal condition. He had made no theatrical farewells, no overt displays of finality. And yet his words the previous night still echoed like church bells in Bruno's mind:
"When your father follows, I shall tell him of the man you became."
It should have been comforting. It felt like a gravestone.
