The snowflakes outside the train window were hitting the glass like scattered grains of salt.
Yakovlev pulled out a silver nose snuff bottle from the inner pocket of his mink coat, the crisp sound of it opening and closing was exceptionally clear in the enclosed space.
"I still remember, it was the winter of 1812, I was with Marshal Kutuzov at Borodino when we met your British observers," the old man suddenly spoke in flawless French, his fingers pinching the dark brown tobacco: "Those gentlemen in scarlet uniforms always loved scribbling at the edge of the battlefield, like a flock of crows surrounding carrion."
Arthur slightly clenched his knuckles inside his deer leather gloves. The carriage was filled with the scent of ambergris and vodka, carrying a somewhat smoky smell, which reminded him of a night in London in 1832.
The old nobleman's glasses glinted coldly in the shadows, like the barrel of a gun aimed at his heart.
