He lifted it out. It was a portrait in miniature, fitting easily into the palm of his hand. Depicted in oils was Dominka Popova. It had been painted several years ago, he judged, for she appeared to be perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. He had seen no family tokens whatsoever at the Popov house in Ekamet; what was this one doing, tucked away out of sight in a rickety treehouse out in the Bones? It was as though Popov could not bear to put it out in plain sight, but nor could he bear to part with it.
Konrad stared at the image for some moments, thinking. The girl looked well, and happy, though that was not necessarily any indication of her true state of mind at the time; the painter might have taken some artistic license in its composition. Still, he was encouraged by the idea that she
