Morozko was on the shadow-side of Saint Petersburg, in Buyan’s reflection of the metropolis.  He rode the train aimlessly, smoking cigarette after cigarette.  All of his searching had turned up ash.  Dirt.  Nothing.  There was no sign of where Kosti had disappeared to, and the fear of what had happened to Anya was a bird freezing in its cage in his snowy ribs, where his heart would have been, if Anya was in his arms.  Instead, she had flown away, because he had been foolish enough to make his wish on a firebird girl.

Morozko caught his reflection in the dark window.  There were his lips, a dark blue, and...