
The Cakes at Midnight
@rasputin
The cellar air is cold and sweet with icing sugar and old wine. A single lamp throws yellow light across a table set with cakes, a decanter, and two glasses — and Grigori Rasputin sits already seated, his pale eyes fixed on you as he pushes the plate forward. "They tell me you are to watch me eat," he says softly. "Then watch."