Arthur stood at the window of Duke Golitsyn's old mansion study, gazing at the frost-covered Moscow outside.
The cigar clamped in his hand had already burned down by a quarter, yet he seemed completely unaware, his thoughts wandering between the cold winter streets and the heated political intrigues.
On the quiet morning, outside there was nothing but snow, the eight-month-long snow period in Russia had confined most people within their small cabins.
On the streets, aside from the poorest and most troubled classes, there was hardly anyone walking.
They wore shabby leather coats, staggering along the streets like winter ghosts, struggling for their scanty livelihood.
Occasionally, a carriage dashed by, stirring up wisps of ice and snow crushed by the wheels, leaving a fleeting trail that was soon covered by the wind and snow.
