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The Streets of St. Petersburg<br />
6:48 PM<br />
Davy had been wandering the streets of St. Petersburg ever since leaving Vlad. Not only was<br />
it a beautiful city, but now that his nose had finally grown accustomed to the smell of the marsh, he<br />
found that the most enchanting vistas were those from the bridges. Heaven knows there were plenty<br />
to explore. The city was a compilation of nineteen separate islands, all connected by a series of<br />
arching bridges, spanning the ever-present Neva at regular intervals.<br />
The city is a silent place, he thought suddenly, as he stood at the arc of one of the bridges,<br />
staring down into the steel-grey water below. At first the streets had seemed noisy, noxious, and<br />
fulsome – just like the streets of London. But here, just the middle of the bridge, high over the Neva,<br />
he realized a different aspect to St. Petersburg. A silence so profound that for a moment it unsettled<br />
him.<br />
The heat had grown with the day and at some point in his walk he had removed his cap and<br />
stuffed it in his jacket. At another corner of another street he had rolled up his shirt sleeves and<br />
finally now, here on the bridge, he unclasped his collar. Such dishevelment would never be allowed<br />
on the streets of London where at any moment he might have crossed paths with someone else from<br />
the Yard or perhaps, even worse, some public citizen who knew his function there and considered<br />
him a representative of all that was proper with Queen and country. Representing the crown could be<br />
burdensome at times, especially for a man who had not yet left his twenty-first year, and Davy now<br />
rubbed his throat and neck, seeking the promise of a breeze and enjoying the freedom that came from<br />
being anonymous, just another faceless man in the streets.<br />
This is why people travel, he thought. So they can loosen their collar and roll their sleeves in<br />
every known sense of the words.<br />
A church bell rang. Even this sound was muted by the water and his elevation on the bridge but<br />
his mind automatically counted the faint bells. Seven. Dear God, he thought, jerking to attention,<br />
pulling his elbows away from the railing. He had walked for hours, he had missed teatime, and thus
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