They mayor was a master at the phony, toothy grin, but it slid off his face when he spotted Sabrina and Daphne.
“What are they doing here?” he moaned.
“They found the body,” the sheriff explained.
“The sisters Grimm found the body and no one told me?” Charming said.
“You told us not to talk,” Mr. Seven said defensively.
It was late winter in Northern Rus’, the air sullen with wet that neither rain nor snow. The brilliant February landscape had given way to the dreary gray of March, and the household of Pyotr Vladimirovich were all sniffling from the damp and thin from six weeks’ fasting on black bread and fermented cabbage. But no one was thinking of chilblains or runny noses, or even, wistfully, of porridge and roast meats, for Dunya was to tell a story.