The Last Waltz of Montmartre
The champagne tasted like regret, which was fitting, because that was what 1923 in Paris tasted like to Sasha Petrov. He was twenty-four, a white Russian exile who had fled the revolution with nothing but a violin case and a mind that worked too fast for his own good. The other exiles called him "Sasha the Sharp" because of the way he talked—quick and clever and always three steps ahead of the...
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