“It could be a self portrait in bronze” Natalya seemed confused. “But Uncle Dmitri was never this talented.”
Stepan felt his chest tighten. For a precarious instant, the magician sensed in her a flicker of comprehension. Natalya frowned, pondering, then left. Her heels faded down the corridor.
Stepan leisurely drew on his cigarette, then blew deliberately at the statue.
“You’re a fool, Dmitri” he hissed “to think your tryst with my wife could be concealed after all these years.”
A single tear welled in the vacuous eye. Stepan grinned.
“Natalya calls me Father. She cannot call us both by that name.”