
A young man rushed into the bar, jolting Ingrid from a daydream. He had a wild explosion of wiry black hair, with eyes like inkwells set between jagged cheekbones. Ingrid saw that his hands shook.“Mikhail?” She wiped the counter in front of him. “You look like you’re running from a ghost.” She had seen the young monk come in a couple of times over the last few weeks.
“He’s...