“We know nothing about her.” “Her name is Vika.” Nikolai’s scar burned at the same time that the knot in his chest—that foreboding sense of kismet that had begun when he saw the Canal of Colors—tightened. “‘Though she be but little, she is fierce.’” “Quoting Shakespeare won’t sway me, Nikolai.” “Then what can I do to dissuade you from searching for the girl again or inviting her to the ball?” Pasha topped off their glasses. “You can’t.” Then he lifted his glass and toasted, “To the lightning girl. And all else that may come.”
