“Bozhe moi!” Sanya sputtered, and Esperacchius was halfway from its sheath by the time he finished speaking. I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “There’s some real irony in your using that expression, O Knight of Maybe.” “Go ahead!” piped a shrill voice, like a Shakespearean actor on helium. “Draw your sword, knave, and we will see who bleeds to death from a thousand tiny cuts!” Sanya stood there with his mouth open and his sword still partly in its sheath. “It is . . .” He shook his head as if someone had popped him in the nose. “It is . . . a domovoi, da?”
