Boris Akunin: The Winter Queen

For a while everything was quiet, dark, and peaceful, then, from the bright daylight that stung his eyes and the dull roaring in his ears, he realized he was alive. He could see the cobblestones of the roadway, but he could not understand why they were right there in front of his eyes. The sight of the gray stone was disgusting and he tried to turn away, but that only made things worse. He saw a pellet of horse dung lying beside something disagreeably white, with two small gold circles glittering on it. Erast Fandorin sat up with a jerk and read the line written in a large, old-fashioned hand, with curlicues and intricate flourishes:

"My Sweet Boy, This is a Truly Glorious Day!"

The meaning of the words failed to penetrate the fog in the concussed youth's mind, and in any case his attention was distracted by another object that was sparkling cheerfully where it lay in the middle of the road.

Erast Fandorin did not realize what it was for a moment. The only thought that came to him was that the ground was definitely no place for that . Then he recognized it: a gold ring glittering on the third finger of a slim girl's arm severed at the elbow.

THE FOPPISHLY DRESSED but terribly slovenly young man stumbled along Tverskoi Boulevard with rapid, erratic steps, paying no attention to anyone — expensive crumpled frock coat, dirty white tie, dusty white carnation in his buttonhole. The promenading public stepped aside to make way for this strange individual and gazed after him curiously. It was not at all a question of the dandy's deathly pallor — after all, there was no shortage of consumptives in Moscow — nor even that he was undoubtedly drunk as a lord (he was staggering uncertainly from side to side). There was nothing new in that. No, the attention of those he encountered, especially the ladies, was attracted by one particularly intriguing feature of his appearance: despite his obvious youth the bon vivant's temples were a stark white, as if they were thickly coated with hoarfrost.