A Feather of Fenist the Falcon

'Paris,' says my father. 'I am flying to Paris tonight, and I want to bring back something for each of you. Whatever you want, you shall have, my daughters.' It is not an idle boast. My father is a man for whom everything is possible. A man of such wealth that nobody can say where his fortune begins and ends. A man of such influence that even our faraway Tsar of the icy eyes almost melts in his presence. A man who believes that everything is for sale and, if it is not, then it will be once the recalcitrant finds out just how much my father can offer. A man who loves his three motherless daughters in his own way but who acts as though each absence from us is his first, and not the consistent pattern of our lives. Each absence has meant an extravagant gift for each of us on his return, from the exquisite dolls of our childhood to the haute couture hauls of today. 'I want a ruby and pearl watch by Cartier and gold Louboutin heels,' says Olga, my eldest sister. 'And they must be unique, for I want no-one in the world to have the same as me.' 'Very well, my daughter, you shall have them,' says my father. 'And you, Irina?' he asks, turning to my middle sister.