Coming in from the gardens, Sofiya set the herbs on the counter. Alone in the cottage for a few moments, she wrapped herself with its familiar warmth and let the auras of the residents, past and present, present and absent, suffuse her. As she reached for the strings to bind the herbs for drying, she touched a foreign aura, ice cold.

Keeping her back to the room, she surreptitiously reached for the gun hidden beneath the sink. It wasn’t there. She turned slowly.

He stood in the shadows opposite, the gun leveled at her. Sofiya said nothing. She tried to read him. She got only his name and a few uncorrelated facts before she was slapped.

“I have three questions for you,” he said. “One: why does a talented reader live a life of privation in the backwoods when she could be well remunerated for her skills? Two: why does she have the MP-448 that belonged to a friend of mine murdered by Ekatarina Tyurin? And three: where is Tyurin?”

“What would you say to a hot cup of tea, Leo?” she replied. “Sit.”