the knuckle-dusters, of course." He focused his good eye on Elaine. "And for you, Madame Elaine? Is there anything you would like?"
Elaine shook her head awkwardly.
"
C'est bien
." He stroked his mustache. "It is Wednesday today. If all goes well, we should make contact with the Bogatyrs later in the afternoon."
Leaving them just three days to find Vasilisa. It seemed impossible.
Lance returned to his seat, and Elaine watched him go.
"That is so disgusting," Billi said. "You're old enough to be his granny."
Elaine jumped, caught out. "Oi, none of your lip." She pressed the call button again. "Where is that bloody steward? I'm dying of thirst back here."
The seat belt sign came on, and they descended into Moscow.
Billi's experiences abroad were pretty limited—the odd trip to France and one rain-sodden week in Spain—but Domodedovo Airport was just like any other. Huge, glazed facade, modem and plastic with high ceilings and the usual shops. The signs were in Russian and English, and so were the announcements.
Beyond the tinted green glass walls of the airport, the landscape was obliterated by white. A hazy road crowded with traffic led arrow-straight from the doorways to the horizon. A dense wood of conifers lined it.
They bundled outside, and instantly the elements attacked. The cold snatched Billi's breath, and her eyes watered as the snow-laden air slapped her face. She'd never experienced anything like it. Despite the gloves, scarf, greatcoat, and hat, the blistering wind found and attacked every inch of exposed skin. Snowflakes froze on her eyelashes, and Billi covered her mouth and breathed though her scarf, just to stop her lips from chafing.
Jesus, how can they live in this weather
? An icy gust stung the back of her neck, and she shivered from top to toe.
Big blockbusting four-by-fours that looked more like tanks than cars were parked alongside brittle, ancient Trebants and Ladas built back in the days of the Cold War. They bore their winter tires, the rubber lined with metal studs that sounded like falling pebbles as they rolled over the grit-sprinkled tarmac. Weather like this would have frozen London solid. But the Russians took the foot-deep snowfall and minus-ten temperatures in fur-wrapped stride.
Russia would manage the volcanic winter better than others, at least to begin with. The country had vast supplies of gas, coal, and oil. Could it make its way through Fimbulwinter? Unlikely. You can't eat coal.
Lance pointed at a minivan, and the man inside beckoned to them. The interior was cloudy with cigarette smoke.
"Let's get a move on," said Gwaine as he threw his backpack in. The others followed, and Billi bagged a window seat.
Huge billboards lined the motorway, hiding many of the estates they passed en route to Moscow. The companies were all big brands Billi recognized—Microsoft, BMW—but the lettering was Cyrillic, a subtle reminder that things were different out here in Russia. The snow was piled chest high along the motorway, and wispy clouds were blown off the tops, as though the snow itself were steaming.
They had been driving toward the city for an hour when Billi saw a statue in the distance. It was a knight on a horse, with his spear stuck in a writhing dragon.
"Russians follow Saint George?" she asked.
Lance nodded. "He's the patron saint of the city. The Russians take their religion seriously. Especially after decades of Communist suppression. The government and a lot of rich patrons paid to have some of the old religious sites restored. No better way to get into Heaven than by building a church. Saint George is a big man in the city." Lance pointed at a passing church. "But he's not the only one."
The five golden cupolas of the building shone, despite the dense clouds above. The walls were covered in bright mosaics, and the building looked new. Bright as the sun, wreathed in gold, stood a winged warrior. His wings were spread out as though raised to shelter the faithful
Elaine shook her head awkwardly.
"
C'est bien
." He stroked his mustache. "It is Wednesday today. If all goes well, we should make contact with the Bogatyrs later in the afternoon."
Leaving them just three days to find Vasilisa. It seemed impossible.
Lance returned to his seat, and Elaine watched him go.
"That is so disgusting," Billi said. "You're old enough to be his granny."
Elaine jumped, caught out. "Oi, none of your lip." She pressed the call button again. "Where is that bloody steward? I'm dying of thirst back here."
The seat belt sign came on, and they descended into Moscow.
Billi's experiences abroad were pretty limited—the odd trip to France and one rain-sodden week in Spain—but Domodedovo Airport was just like any other. Huge, glazed facade, modem and plastic with high ceilings and the usual shops. The signs were in Russian and English, and so were the announcements.
Beyond the tinted green glass walls of the airport, the landscape was obliterated by white. A hazy road crowded with traffic led arrow-straight from the doorways to the horizon. A dense wood of conifers lined it.
They bundled outside, and instantly the elements attacked. The cold snatched Billi's breath, and her eyes watered as the snow-laden air slapped her face. She'd never experienced anything like it. Despite the gloves, scarf, greatcoat, and hat, the blistering wind found and attacked every inch of exposed skin. Snowflakes froze on her eyelashes, and Billi covered her mouth and breathed though her scarf, just to stop her lips from chafing.
Jesus, how can they live in this weather
? An icy gust stung the back of her neck, and she shivered from top to toe.
Big blockbusting four-by-fours that looked more like tanks than cars were parked alongside brittle, ancient Trebants and Ladas built back in the days of the Cold War. They bore their winter tires, the rubber lined with metal studs that sounded like falling pebbles as they rolled over the grit-sprinkled tarmac. Weather like this would have frozen London solid. But the Russians took the foot-deep snowfall and minus-ten temperatures in fur-wrapped stride.
Russia would manage the volcanic winter better than others, at least to begin with. The country had vast supplies of gas, coal, and oil. Could it make its way through Fimbulwinter? Unlikely. You can't eat coal.
Lance pointed at a minivan, and the man inside beckoned to them. The interior was cloudy with cigarette smoke.
"Let's get a move on," said Gwaine as he threw his backpack in. The others followed, and Billi bagged a window seat.
Huge billboards lined the motorway, hiding many of the estates they passed en route to Moscow. The companies were all big brands Billi recognized—Microsoft, BMW—but the lettering was Cyrillic, a subtle reminder that things were different out here in Russia. The snow was piled chest high along the motorway, and wispy clouds were blown off the tops, as though the snow itself were steaming.
They had been driving toward the city for an hour when Billi saw a statue in the distance. It was a knight on a horse, with his spear stuck in a writhing dragon.
"Russians follow Saint George?" she asked.
Lance nodded. "He's the patron saint of the city. The Russians take their religion seriously. Especially after decades of Communist suppression. The government and a lot of rich patrons paid to have some of the old religious sites restored. No better way to get into Heaven than by building a church. Saint George is a big man in the city." Lance pointed at a passing church. "But he's not the only one."
The five golden cupolas of the building shone, despite the dense clouds above. The walls were covered in bright mosaics, and the building looked new. Bright as the sun, wreathed in gold, stood a winged warrior. His wings were spread out as though raised to shelter the faithful
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