No one knows it, but it is Sergei's fault that Fedor is a spoiled brat. He has always been too easy on him, too understanding, too kind. He has succeeded for them both so that Fedor may fail. He thought he was doing the right thing.

In the beginning, certainly, it was better. Better to coddle him, to hover like a protective mother, than expose him to the cold world. As if he could hold him together with the strength of his arms, the fine pale skin, unmarred, unmarked. If Sergei could be successful for his brother, maybe Fedor could be happy for them both.

Twenty-three years later, Fedor is no happier than his brother. He is lazy, dispassionate, jaded, over-loved. He believes in nothing, works for nothing, cares about nothing. He snaps like an untrained dog at Sergei's gentle guidance. And still, he cannot find it in him to utter a word of criticism or summon a hard look.

Fedor has grown up, he is a man, or should be, but he is still a baby brother in Sergei's eyes. He was the first to hold him when he was born, blinking down into the wrinkled pink face and wondering how something so small and helpless could ever become a person.

Had he been wrong, to want to shelter that tiny, fragile baby? Had he done him a disservice by protecting him? Perhaps he should have yelled and screamed like their father. Perhaps he should have met each failure with their mother's cold disappointment. Let him clean up his own mistakes. Let the blows rain down on them both. Would Fedor then have grown into a man? Would he be humble, hard working, successful, happy? Or would he be as empty inside as Sergei is?