Since Saint Petersburg's news seemed to travel especially slowly during the frozen season
At this time, the Polish governor, Venyabetlovsky, was a romantic poet and general. When he first took office, he had not thought much of Warsaw, with its rampant plague and impoverished people.
But Poland had deep roots, after all, and lay closer to Europe's heart. Culture and art mingled here, commerce and trade flourished, and its prosperity was beyond anything the bitterly cold reaches of Russia could match.
Before long, Venyabetlovsky had fallen in love with the city. Besides his love of culture and art, money and beautiful women held just as much appeal for him.
To wake with the power of the world in your grasp and sleep drunk with a beauty at your side was no mere fantasy. As governor of Poland, he wielded absolute power, able to make life and death decisions at will. Here, he was the Tsar.
Wilanów Palace was hailed as the Versailles of Poland.
The first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the gauze curtains and fell across the man's face. Venyabetlovsky casually shoved aside the mistress sleeping soundly beside him, climbed down from the couch, and went to his desk, where he poured himself a glass of Bull's Blood.
The crimson wine was as alluring as fresh blood. Its sweet, crisp flavor slid down his throat, and he let out a long breath, staring absently at the empty glass.
(Bull's Blood was a kind of wine. You could think of it as the Red Bull of the nineteenth century; both were brands from the same country, anyway.)
Just then, a melodious voice rang out, as lovely as a lark singing at dawn.
"My lord, would you like to bathe first, or have breakfast?"
Venyabetlovsky did not answer. He simply