Baffled, he pushed his nose right up against the chilly glass, but that didn’t work either. Grandma Valya was snug on the sagging sofa under a sheepskin coat discarded by her eldest daughter, who just didn’t need it anymore. Whaddya mean, fire up the stove, when there’s barely enough firewood for the winter, and he wants to go firing up the stove! The cones are dry, brown, and bristly, and the children start acting up and lobbing them at each other, dashing around the table, until Grandpa yells at them, “Hush, you scamps, or no samovar for you!” The oldest grandchild is the triumphant bearer of the copper samovar tray that Grandma never lets out of her sight and keeps hidden under her bed, on the strong suspicion that it’s worth plenty.