FicWad

Behind the grey fortress walls of a small town there was a spacious square. It was special, because it was the centre around which all city life revolved. The paving stones, polished by time, glittered in the sun. In the very centre of the square stood an ancient fountain, which quietly babbled, as if talking to the wind and passing on the latest news to the local sparrows.

In the mornings the square was filled with lively sounds - the cheerful laughter of children and the ringing voices of traders:

"Honey apples, sugar cherries!" the old man proclaimed, and his voice sounded like a melody. "Sweet as first love, rosy as a girl's shame!"

"Linden honey, flower honey!" the woman declared, her face glowing with enthusiasm. "In the spoon it's like a ray of sunshine, and on the tongue it's a real paradise!"

"Clay pots, painted jugs!" the man said hoarsely, and his voice sounded as if every word had been honed by many years of tradition. "Cooking porridge in such pots is like simmering in an oven, and on the table they are beauty itself!"

Children ran between the counters, scaring away fat pigeons. Old men, hiding in the shade of linden trees, told tales about distant lands, where the sea sings its lulling song, and the stars whisper to each other at night. And when spring came!

Jugglers threw colorful balls into the air, as if they were catching a rainbow. Musicians played such melodies that your feet started dancing on their own. Girls in colorful scarves whirled in a circle, and their laughter flowed like streams after rain. Even in winter, the square did not fall asleep. People warmed themselves by the fires, shared hot tea and stories, and the kids made snow giants - so huge that it seemed they could reach the moon.

"Do you remember how we built a snow giant that was taller than the bell tower?" Grandma asked one day, wrapping herself in a patterned shawl.

"Of course!" exclaimed her grandson, jumping up and down. "And then you told me how the stars sing songs at night!"

"This square remembers everything," the old woman smiled, "every laugh, every tear, every song..."

But that day the square held its breath. No cheerful shouts, no jingling of coins, no tramp of children's feet could be heard. Only heavy whispers and the anxious rustle of clothes. Even the wind had died down, caught between the cobblestones. And in the middle of the square, before a line of guards in shining cuirasses, stood a girl. Her hands were tied with ropes, her dress was torn, but she held herself with such pride as if she was wearing a brocade dress and not rags.

"You dared to break the sacred jug!" the commander thundered, and his voice rang out like a sabre falling on the stones. "You let out a light that was not supposed to shine! For this you will pay with your life!"

The girl raised her head. Her eyes burned with a quiet but unquenchable fire.

"You can take my life," her clear voice sounded, "but the light is already free. It is now in each of you."

The crowd stirred like ears of corn in the wind.

"She speaks the truth..." the young mother whispered, pressing the child to her chest. "I saw that light... It was warm, like the first sun after winter."

"Shut up!" his neighbor hissed, but he himself involuntarily clenched his calloused palms.

The commander grimaced contemptuously:

"Do you seriously think that this pathetic crowd will change anything? They are just submissive sheep, trembling with fear!

The girl smiled - not triumphantly, but as one smiles when one knows something very important.

"Look into each other's eyes," she said simply.

And people looked. And they saw that fear was melting like snow under the spring sun.

"Enough!" the commander roared. "Carry out the sentence!"

The sabre flashed in the air. The crowd froze, but no one burst into tears or ran away.

"Storm..." someone whispered.

"The storm is coming!" another one chimed in.

"THE STORM IS COMING!!!" rolled across the square.

The old blacksmith, whose hands remembered the weight of every hammer, raised his mighty hand.

"She freed the light. Now it shines from our eyes.

"But what can we do?" someone's voice trembled.

"That's it," the woman said quietly, hugging the child. "If we stop being afraid."

And then the baby in her arms suddenly laughed and reached for the sky:

"Look! The stars have become brighter!

Everyone raised their heads. And indeed, the stars were shining so brightly, as if they were gathered in a circle. And then the fortress wall shook. Cracks ran along the ancient stones. And through them poured the light - the same one that the girl had released.

"Forward!" thundered the blacksmith.

And the people moved. They didn't rush, they didn't run - they moved steadily and inexorably, like a tidal wave. The guards retreated. Even the commander, suddenly faded like a washed banner, backed away, dropping his weapon.

"You... You don't dare..." he muttered, but his words were lost in the growing din.

"We are not just people, we are a storm," the blacksmith said simply. "And the storm does not ask if it is possible!"

And the walls of the fortress collapsed with a sigh of relief - as if heavy chains had finally broken loose. And in the place where the girl had fallen, an unusual flower grew - as if woven from sunbeams. And everyone who passed by felt their chest getting warmer. Because the light, once released, can no longer be locked away. Even in the strongest jug.

...666...

The boy blinked, driving away the images of the dream, but they did not disappear immediately, they clung to him like sticky leaves: a fountain dangling in the middle of the pavement, with sparrows fussing over it, balls tossed into the air with precision, and girls whose laughter played in the wind like glass in a children's mosaic. Then - as if the sun had fallen below the horizon - darkness, the ropes on the girl's hands, the spark of a sabre, the hidden murmur of the crowd. "The storm is coming," they cried, as if she wanted to destroy the city walls with just one word.

Xander raised himself up on his elbows. His body ached from sleeping on the hard floor, and the sheet, crumpled at his side, had already cooled. He sat up, taking off his overcoat, and ran his hand over his face - his fingers were warm, but his forehead was cold. His ears were still ringing. He sat for a few moments, listening: not a sound came from the kitchen, but this did not cause alarm - his mother was probably already busy at the stove, feeding the fire and breathing noisily over the cast-iron pan.

The room was narrow, the ceiling low, and the walls bare: bare logs, sooty and darkened in places by damp. In the corner was a stool on which hung his father's caftan, sewn before his father left. Xander always hung it there, as if he might come back and put it on. On the floor nearby was a pair of felt boots, one of which had a sole, the other tied with a rope. He yawned, stretched out, stood barefoot and carefully stepped toward the door.

The crack beneath it was already visible - light and a light smell of burnt bread were coming from the kitchen. Xander stopped, listening. No voices. No steps. Only a dull thud - it was Mr.ar whether it was a drop in a vat or a spoon in a bowl. He knew that his mother didn't like it when he walked around in the morning like a ghost - 'If another draft catches you, you'll disappear!' - but he still hesitated, as if he was afraid that by opening the door he would lose something important that was still trembling in the air after sleep.

He knew who he was: a boy, the son of a cook, living in the master's house, having nothing of his own except sleep. He knew that the war was going on somewhere far away, but still close: it was in the eyes of the adults, in the newspapers that Gene York brought in from the street, in the heavy silence that accompanied the conversations in the kitchen. Xander heard his mother whispering about 'the Japanese' and 'ships' once, but he did not understand - he, essentially, did not care who was with whom. What was important to him was that the young lady had not coughed since the previous night and that the roads on Kirochnaya had become dirtier.

Xander walked barefoot on the icy floorboards, as if he were going to battalion duty, each step echoing in his chest with a hidden groan. The dream - that strange one that remained in him as if alive - did not let go. As if the petals of that color had not only sprouted in his heart, but also scattered in his body: his legs were like cotton wool, his temples were ringing. But it was not an illness, but a feeling like after a long run - heavy, but not entirely disgusting. He walked, looking around: the semi-dark corridor still breathed the silence of the night, but in the kitchen you could already hear: the dishes were rattling, the stove door was creaking, and his mother, Pelageya, was grumbling under her breath so that you couldn't make out a word, but everything was clear.

The slightly open door smelled of bread crust, milk, burnt wood chips - the morning in the Yorks' house began, as always, in the kitchen, and everything - like yesterday, like the day before. But today Xander did not want to go there - not to the brush, not to the trough, not to the damned pumpkin that you have to clean until your fingers go numb. He stood in front of the door, as if in front of the boss from whom you need to ask for a vacation. He got ready, sniffed the air, and, groaning, pushed the door.

The mother stood by the stove, hunched over, as if she had spent the whole night in the same position. In her cap, with her sleeves rolled up, her broad shoulders seemed even broader. Without turning around, she said dryly:

"Are you awake, little falcon? Go and get some water. And not the one from the barrel, but fresh from the pump."

Xander approached slowly, with a guilty face, shifting from one foot to the other. His voice trembled with notes not so much of weakness as of feigned painful babble:

"Mom, I don't feel well... There's a feeling of pressure in my chest... And my head is ringing... I spent the whole night shivering..."

The mother raised her eyebrows without turning around.

"You're shivering..." she muttered, shifting the pot. "You climbed onto the stove at night, and now you're shivering. But I'm not shivering, even though I've been on my feet since dawn."

He was silent. She turned around - there was a familiar heaviness in her face: love worn down to calluses, and weariness, like a horse under a collar. She looked at him as if she could see right through him. Then she sighed - not loudly, but stifled - and said:

"Okay. Go. You have ten minutes, and if you try to stay longer, I'll get you!.." she playfully threatened the boy with a rolling pin. "When you come, I want him to bring a bucket and peel the potatoes!"

Xander suddenly stepped towards her, hugged her tightly around the waist, as if he wasn't letting her go, but saving her, and poked his nose into her side.

"Thank you, Mom... Mom... you are the best..."

"Look at you, how tender," she muttered, but didn't push him away, just shrugged her shoulders as if brushing off snow. "Run already. If you don't come back, I won't give you any bread."

He jumped out of the kitchen with ease, as if he were not walking on the floor, but gliding through the air. The steps under his feet hummed like strings. His heart beat like a drum - not from fear, no. From anticipation. He climbed up to the second floor and suddenly stopped at the very door of the room where the master's daughter slept. The door was closed, but it seemed to him: he could hear her breathing. Or was it him? The beating of his heart thundered in his chest like a war.

He stood before the door, motionless, like a sentry at the royal gates, and looked at the dark wood, as if it concealed not a room, but a secret. It seemed to be just a door, there were many of them in the house. But behind this one hid a whole story, and memory, like a warm wind, whispered in his ear, stretching through time images of a clear May day, as if illuminated not by the sun, but by gold.

It was two years ago, and he himself was seven. The day was ringing like a glass bell. People were standing by the Fontanka River, laughing, eating pies, and the air smelled of raspberries and mown grass. He didn't notice her right away - in the crowd she seemed older, more important, almost an adult: in a light dress, with a long dark braid and a white hat with ribbons. Only her eyes gave her away - childish, huge, in which the world was reflected, as in the surface of a river.

She laughed, and then suddenly stepped back, and her heel slipped off the stone. No one screamed right away, only a splash - sharp, like a click. Xander remembered how the girl's mother screamed - the scream passed through the people like a flame through dry straw. And he himself froze, his feet rooted to the spot. But not his father. Tall, with calloused hands and a face roughened by work, he threw himself into the water as if into dust. Without words, without a command. And he pulled out the girl, wet, fragile, with her hair loose, but alive.

That day changed everything. The girl's mother, Karen, rushed to thank him: she said something quickly, with an American accent, but it was clear that she meant it from the heart. When she learned that the savior was a servant and his wife a cook, she did not retreat, did not frown, but, on the contrary, spoke to her husband. Gene York, a tall, thin American with a gentle smile, shook Xander's father's hand, then leaned toward him and said:

"You are safe in our house, boy. This is not a favor, this is justice.

From that day on, they lived on Kirochnaya Street. The room was by the stove. Work was by the kitchen. And the young lady was always somewhere nearby, but as if behind glass. Xander avoided her, not out of fear, but out of respect. He was not a silent man, but he could not find words with her. Sometimes she ran along the corridor - he only had time to look away. Sometimes she walked in the garden - he stopped with a bucket at the door and waited until she left, just so as not to disturb. It was all there - silence, politeness, boundaries.

But two months ago, it was as if she had been erased. She was sick, they said. Relapsing fever. No one was allowed to see her. No answer, no greeting. Only a lamp by the door and whispers in the hallway. And now, she was back in her room. Alive. Returned.

He raised his hand and knocked lightly, like a note on a piano. Something creaked inside. He heard a voice, quiet but friendly. He held his breath and opened the door. His heart was beating like a soldier's drummer beating out a marching rhythm, one-two, one-two, and again...

A timid and thin ray of sunlight crept through a crack between the curtains - not at once, unhurriedly, as if checking whether it was allowed to look into this room whose inhabitants had not yet fully awakened. It crawled along the floor, clinging to the threads of the carpet, in which simple geometric shapes were intertwined: either oriental symbols or the random fantasies of the weaver. The light, as if remembering childhood, played with every protrusion of the pile, dived into the grooves, jumped over the patterns and, finally, froze - like a tired traveler - on the very edge of the dressing table. There, in the very heart of the morning silence, a girl sat motionless.

Her name was Delia.

She sat slightly leaning forward, and this lean was not due to shyness or fatigue, but to that unconscious childish concentration that is impossible to feign. She was wearing a simple dress of cotton or cambric - you couldn't tell in the light scattered by the curtains. It was almost summer, as if a little late for the season, with thin sleeves, as if they had just been drawn in pencil. The dress was not fully buttoned at the back - the two top buttons, the most capricious, had not yielded to either effort or patience, and now a narrow triangle of skin gaped between the edges of the fabric: thin, childish, not yet familiar with the sun's tan.

The room was almost silent. Almost because there was sound in it. Not a voice, not footsteps, but a rustling. Barely audible, but constant, like breathing. It was the rustling of fabric, either a sleeve catching on the edge of a table, or the hem of a dress sliding along the leg of a stool. Even the air seemed to be listening: every movement of Delia's was echoed in it by a soft sound, reminiscent of a sigh.

She was fiddling with her stockings.

This task, at first glance banal, took on an almost ceremonial tone in her hands. The white stockings with thin ribbons - the ribbons sometimes fell, sometimes tied, sometimes stubbornly slid down again - became her opponents and interlocutors at the same time. She was in no hurry. No, there was neither irritation nor boredom here. Rather, Delia perceived all this as a task: as if it were necessary to solve a difficult problem or remember a forgotten line of poetry. Her fingers - thin but tenacious, slightly trembling from the tension - carefully straightened the fabric, pulled it up, adjusted the pattern, as if afraid of damaging something invisible.

For a second it seemed as if she had forgotten about the world around her. All her strength was directed at making sure that this capricious stocking finally stood up as it should - strictly on the leg, without folds, without distortions. Her cheeks, pale from the illness, turned slightly pink from the effort. It was not the blush of health - rather, it was the blush of determination, like a schoolboy before a test. At that moment her face, usually mobile, with lively, almost theatrical expressions, became surprisingly adult, almost serious. But not heavy. The childish lightness did not disappear - it simply took a step back, giving way to concentration.

Her hair was pulled back carelessly, the way those who hope for a caring mother to fix everything later do. But her mother didn't come, and a strand of hair fell out of her hairstyle - thin, slightly curly, it lay on her temple, trembling with every movement, as if it itself was participating in this fight with the stocking. One might have thought that the strand was watching the process and commenting on everything that was happening silently, like a strict but kind judge.

The stocking finally gave way. It took its place. The ribbon, still disobedient but already tired of resisting, settled into the correct fold. Delia straightened up, leaned back a little, as if she felt a sense of victory. But it was not pride. It was a quiet satisfaction, the kind that comes when everything has turned out as desired, without applause, without an audience.

At that moment the door opened slightly. Xander entered the room.

He entered without making noise, but not stealthily either. He simply found himself in a space that lived by its own laws. Delia looked up, not abruptly, not in surprise, but like a hostess who had noticed that a guest had appeared in her kingdom. Her gaze expressed neither embarrassment nor joy. It was the gaze of a person accustomed to attention, but not dependent on it.

She looked at him as if he were a man who had accidentally found himself in the wrong place, not by mistake, but by the dictates of some great, slow rhythm in which everything has its time and place. And even if no one heard this rhythm except her, she knew: now was the moment of a glance. A glance with a hint of a slight smile.

A smile flitted across her lips, not like a shadow but like a ray of sunlight reflected in a mirror. It was not malicious, no. But it had that slightly noticeable superiority that comes with those who have been allowed a little more since childhood. Not by right, but by habit. Those who are used to being in the center - not the stage, but the home - always smile a little differently: with a hint of knowledge that they are the starting point.

And the stocking, finally conquered, remained on the leg, as a sign of a small but significant victory. Victory in a world where every ribbon, every rustle and every glance has its own history.

"Oh, it's you," she said, not so much surprised as lazily, as if she had been hoping to the last that someone more cheerful would come in.

Xander froze at the threshold. He felt that he was in the way, but it was too late - retreating would have been ridiculous. He coughed into his fist, straightened up and, trying to speak sternly, as if he were not a boy but a messenger with an important message, began:

"Well... How are you... How are you, I mean, feeling? Does anything hurt anymore?"

His voice trembled slightly, but he spoke it all to the end, with emphasis on the last words, as if he were speaking on the parade ground in front of an officer.

Delia looked at his face for a moment, then nodded and replied cheerfully:

"It doesn't hurt at all anymore. Only Josephine would say: 'You jump out of bed too quickly!' and would point her finger at me, as always. But now - there's no one, you can do whatever you want."

She said this with that sly pleasure that a person experiences when he has escaped from surveillance, and, suddenly enlightened by an idea, she slapped the chest of drawers.

"Do you want me to show you my pictures? Lithographs! Dad brought them when I was lying down. About the war! About the sea! So beautiful. There are Japanese there - funny, silly!"

Xander came closer, and his heart sank. Against the snow-white sleeve of her thin arm, two barely noticeable scars were visible - as if someone had applied a wafer to her skin, thin and transparent. He turned his gaze to the pictures, just so as not to linger on this.

"These aren't 'Japs," he said sullenly, "they're damned monkeys. They need to be driven out, not pitied."

He spoke sharply, but his eyes darted about - he could still feel how close she sat, how the warmth of her breath touched his shoulder.

"You're so mean, Xander. Just like a newspaper article!" Delia said laughing and, jumping up, ran to the chest of drawers.

She rummaged through the drawer, rustling papers, and pulled out a whole handful of mismatched things, which she tipped out with dignity on the bed. The stockings on one leg remained pulled down, but Delia didn't pay attention - she was all in. She was beaming like a queen who had pulled out a chest of jewels.

"Look", she exclaimed. "These are my treasures. Here are some pebbles, I brought them from the river. And these are nuts, don't eat them! They're for playing. Like this: 'You're the king, and I'm the princess!' and a slap on the forehead! And these are wrappers, real ones! The Abrikosov factory, look - they're golden! And here are the Кrakhmalnikov's ones, they even smell!"

Xander nodded, reservedly, so as not to reveal how envious he was of all this wealth - he had never seen so many candy wrappers in his life. Then he saw several cardboard boxes with watercolor seascapes, a couple with the faces of some bearded men and one with a view of mountains. He took one, sniffed it - it smelled of dust and a stove.

"And these," he said, "you can play. Like in Odessa."

Delia blinked.

"Play? With cardboard boxes? You're so weird. How do you play with them?"

Xander sat down cross-legged on the floor, pulling his knees up, his face became serious, like a lecturer's.

"In Odessa", he began", children collect cigarette caps. Not just like that, but wisely. There is a portrait - five points. If it is an animal - one. And if, say, two houses - then already fifty, a hundred. A panorama of the city? That is a treasure! It can be up to five hundred points.

He spoke passionately, enthusiastically. His eyes sparkled. He no longer saw Delia - in front of him were the Odessa boys, fights for bottle caps, a street exchange where you could get a hundred points at once on a broken bench, if you were lucky. Delia listened with her mouth open, and it seemed she even stopped tugging at her stockings.

"Where is this... This exchange?" she asked.

"Anywhere", Xander answered importantly. "Even near a shop, under a bridge, or even near a cemetery. That's where smokers throw away their packs.

Delia frowned, but not indignantly, but rather thoughtfully.

"But I don't have any cigarettes. And anyway, this isn't real."

Xander, not wanting to miss the moment, waved his hand sharply:

"Big deal! We'll have our own. These - yours - are better than any bottle caps. They don't stink, they're beautiful. Let's say the animal is, say, your little sheep. But this guy with the beard - a hundred points, just like a general! The panorama... This one with the sea, where the yacht is - that's a thousand points!"

He spoke breathlessly, as if he were building a new world. Delia shook her head, still feigning indignation:

"This is not according to the rules..."

But Xander did not back down:

"But how great! Nobody does this. Only us."

She looked at him and suddenly smiled, all at once, as if someone inside her had clapped their hands.

"Okay then. But I go first," Delia said, deftly pulling the landscape with the lighthouse towards her.

But she didn't exactly go first - she just put the piece of cardboard down in confusion, and then she just gasped when Xander pulled out one after another - 'general', 'two horses', 'naval battle' - and laid them out in front of him like a commander with his regiments on maps. Delia tried to argue, claiming that this lady in the blue dress, she said, should be worth at least a hundred points - 'after all, she has a hat with feathers!' - but Xander, with a stony face and the voice of a judge, decided: 'Fifteen, no more. That's the maximum.'

The game didn't last long. When Xander had gathered almost all the "valuable" cards in front of him, he glanced at Delia: she was sitting with her legs tucked under her, with a gloomy face, trying to look with interest at the few "wrappers" she had left, but she couldn't resist - she snorted, and her gaze became clouded. She wasn't crying, no - Delia wasn't one of those who cried at their first loss, but some awkward resentment was shining in her eyes.

Xander was confused. He realized that the game was no longer a game. It had suddenly become something more: she wanted to win not because winning meant anything, but because she did too. He quickly gathered up his cardboard boxes, put them back in the pile, and silently handed them to Delia.

"Here," he muttered. "It's all yours. I give in."

Delia raised her eyebrows.

"Why?"

He shrugged and turned away, hiding the expression on his face that betrayed the struggle inside him: he really wanted those pictures, at least one of them, that lighthouse, that bearded admiral. He didn't have any. He didn't have anything.

"Because you're a girl," he said, deliberately rudely. "And girls are weaker. You can't be real with them. You have to give in to them."

He didn't look at her - he spoke to the window, where the white curtain barely swayed. But he heard Delia burst out laughing - not angrily, but heartily, like a child, with unexpected sincerity:

"Wow, Xander! Just like Josephine said when I couldn't braid my hair. "You're a young lady, you're supposed to have help." So what if I'm a young lady! I would have beaten you anyway!

Xander, blushing slightly, only chuckled and began to put the cardboard boxes back together - now they were not trophies, but a game, a real, cheerful one, in which Delia laughed again, and did not frown. Carefully putting the cardboard boxes back into the box, the boy raised his head, as if casually. His eyes were shining - not from the game anymore, but from some inner excitement, as if he had decided on something important. He coughed into his fist, then looked at Delia with feigned simplicity, squinting, and suddenly spoke in a thin voice, like that of the smallest boy on Kirochnaya:

"Deedle, how do you know when a person was born... Well, is it a girl or a boy? By their pants or something?"

He said this with an expression on his face, as if he was asking about the moon or why a cat has whiskers. Then he immediately added in a normal, even slightly proud voice:

"You're a scientist... You're studying at a gymnasium, there. First grade!"

Delia was taken aback, then snickered into her hand, covering her mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. But the laughter came out anyway, light and ringing like porcelain spoons, and she rocked back and forth as if from a wild thought.

"Xander! You're so stupid!" she exhaled. "'By the pants!' Just think!

Xander frowned and looked down. His ears turned pink and his cheeks flushed. He pressed his chin to his collar and began fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Delia, seeing his confusion, stopped short.

"Well, I'm sorry..." she said more quietly, moving closer. "I didn't mean to be mean. It's just... It was funny to ask."

But Xander did not raise his eyes. He suddenly felt ashamed, not so much for the question, but for having decided to ask it. After all, he had been turning it over and over in his head for so many days - thinking that maybe the schoolgirls had it written in their books, in the ones with the curlicue letters and the footnotes at the bottom of the page. And now he had blurted it out. And he had turned out to be a fool.

He muttered quietly:

"Oh well... Nobody talks anyway."

Delia, after sitting in silence for a while, placed her hand on his shoulder, lightly, in a friendly manner:

"I don't know, Xander. My mother never told me about it. Maybe it's really by the pants. Or by the name. Or they look at it somehow in church. Should we ask my father?"

Xander nodded uncertainly, but a smile was already twitching at the corners of his lips. There was a pause for a moment, and Xander, feeling that the conversation could slip into awkwardness again, rubbed his neck and quickly said:

"How do your earrings stay on?"

Delia raised her eyebrows, not in surprise, but with that light, playful reproach with which a young lady might look at an impolite gentleman. She ran her fingers through her braid, then lightly touched her ear - the earring swayed, flashing a drop of light.

"There's a hole in the ear," she said simply. "And then, boom, they put it through. Do you want to take a look?"

And before he could answer, she pushed her hair back and turned her left temple towards him. Xander slowly, as if afraid to spoil something, touched the earlobe - warm, soft, slightly swollen, like a slice of tangerine. From the touch, goosebumps ran down his palm - not from fear, but from something warm and strange, as if he had touched something very fragile, alive.

He pulled his fingers away and took a step back, as if he was frightened by himself. To distract himself, he blurted out:

"I can draw you. A portrait. I have a pencil somewhere downstairs, by the stove.

Delia laughed, her eyebrows furrowing.

"What kind of portrait is this? I'm not wearing a ballet dress and I don't even have my hair combed properly.

"No need," he interrupted quickly. "I'm not drawing from life. I'll just... remember, that's all. You have such a face that I can't help but draw it. It... It has to stay."

Delia looked at him carefully, narrowing her eyes. There was a hint of mockery in her gaze, but also something else - curiosity, interest, an almost adult understanding that there was more than just mischief hiding behind his words. The corner of her lips twitched slightly.

"Well, if so... Just don't draw her like my teacher in the Law of God. She has a nose like a teapot."

Xander snorted and sat down on the floor again, pulling the box of scraps of paper and a gnawed pencil towards him. An image was already spinning in his head - not an exact one, not a "portrait" in the true sense, but something like a memory, the smell of the morning, a slight shadow from a hat. He took the pencil between two fingers, pulled out a scrap of paper, put it on the edge of the chair and was about to make the first stroke, when he heard Delia's voice:

"Just watch out, if I end up there with a nose like a teapot or with crooked eyes, I'll make you eat this portrait. No sugar.

Xander froze, like a cat caught in mischief, and stared at her in surprise. For a second he even thought that it would be better to give up all this stupid drawing, but Delia sat down next to him, propping her chin on her hand, and watched him so attentively that he could not retreat. His chest began to pound, as if from a morning run. From her closeness - the light smell of vanilla and pharmacy drops, from the way her elbow touched his shoulder - Xander felt hot, and his hand with the pencil trembled slightly.

He swallowed, made the first outline, then another. He tried not to look directly at the face, so as not to lose focus, and at the same time he couldn't help but notice every feature: the curve of the eyebrows, the slightly squinted eyes, the uneven line of the braid. He drew with concentration, barely breathing, as if something important depended on it. Time dragged on viscous, as if it had slowed down on purpose to let him finish each line.

Finally, he put down his pencil and looked up. The paper was covered with light, uncertain strokes, but there was something real in them - in his efforts, in the black dust and crooked shape. He exhaled.

"Ready."

Delia jumped up, snatched the paper, brought it to her eyes and stared. Silently. Her forehead wrinkled slightly, her nose turned up slightly, as always when she tried to be serious. Xander froze, as if awaiting a verdict.

Her eyes first gleamed with interest, then a mischievous sparkle. She looked at him, then back at the drawing.

"Hmm," she said, drawing out the word. "I don't quite like it."

"Why?" he couldn't help but ask.

She shrugged:

"It's simple. I just don't like it, that's all. Maybe because I look... Too much like myself?

Her smile remained, but her gaze became softer, and Xander, squinting, exhaled as if giving in. He took the pencil and twirled it between his fingers, as if he was unsure what to do next, and suddenly, without looking up, muttered:

"So should I... Eat it, huh?"

The voice sounded a little quieter than usual - not scared, but hurt, with that inner tension that arises when a person wants to hide how important it is for him to be heard. Delia looked at him carefully and smiled slightly:

"No, it's not necessary."

He looked up at her, surprised. There was no longer the usual mockery in her voice. And then she, still looking at him, suddenly leaned closer and whispered:

"I... I want to kiss you."

Xander froze. His face seemed to freeze - not from fear, but from confusion. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know if he could do anything at all. He just looked at her, feeling his cheeks burn, his heart pounding in his ears. Delia slowly reached out to him, leaning closer, closer, and almost touching his cheek…

"Alexander! My God, what are you doing?!"

The door swung open and Josephine Tueson appeared on the threshold, her curls flying, a tray in her hands and an expression of busy, almost tragic indignation on her face.

"Why are you upstairs? You should be... How can I say... In the kitchen! There's Madame Pelageya alone, toute seule, comme toujours! Ouch-ouch-ouch!"

Xander shuddered, jumped up from his seat, lowered his head, trying not to look at either Delia or Josephine. Delia turned sharply to the nanny:

"Jo! Really, why did you do this... You ruined everything!"

But Josephine was already walking towards him, waving her hand like a conductor in front of the violins.

"Come on, come on, little boy! Run, run, don't sit around like a chat on a pillow! Work doesn't wait!"

Xander didn't say anything - he just nodded weakly and, with that submissive look that street boys have when they've been told what to do from an early age, he left the room.

The door slammed shut. Delia was left alone, pouting, almost angry. She turned away from the nanny and exhaled loudly, pouting her lips.

"You never take me into account!

"I've been with you since you were a baby, ma petite. What authority can I have, tell me, if you do whatever you want anyway?" Josephine grumbled, adjusting the ribbon to her comb and picking up her stockings that had slipped off the chair.

Putting her hands on her hips, she suddenly added, already looking towards the door, as if Xander was still there, behind her:

"And in general, it is unwise for a girl to let a boy into her room. C'est inconvenant! It's indecent, you are a young lady, don't forget!"

But Delia's answer was cut off in mid-sentence by a sharp ringing from the hall - short, piercing, like a gunshot. The girl turned around, her head thrown back. Josephine froze, clutching the comb in her hand like a dagger.

On the second floor, the bedroom door creaked. Gene York appeared in the doorway, in a dressing gown, with a sleepy but still serious face, like a man who has just torn himself away from his papers. He yawned, stretched, headed for the stairs, then to the front door.

"If it's the calendar seller again, I swear I'll..." he began, opening the door, but didn't have time to finish.

Jake Madison stood in the doorway, his face tense, his lips pressed together, a rolled-up newspaper clutched in his hand as if he were ready to hit with it rather than read it.

"Gene," he said by way of greeting. "Here, read this."

York, not immediately noticing the seriousness, grinned:

"Jake, my dear, you frighten me. I hope this isn't some new judicial reform that will make it mandatory for people like me to wear a judge's uniform. I confess I'm no more afraid of it than I am of my old rag robe. And the bronze chain around my neck evokes no more awe than this poor, spotted tie of mine."

But Jake didn't even smile. He abruptly unfolded the paper and pointed his finger at the column.

"Here. Read this."

York took the paper, but did not hurry to read it. He only glanced at the title. Jake spoke without waiting:

"The article reports: Admiral Togo, having learned of Makarov's death, immediately passed the news to Tokyo. And do you know what the Japanese did? They organized a funeral procession. With lanterns. Those walking in the column bowed their heads. Like at a funeral. Like at a mass."

York remained silent, his eyes expressionless, and Jake continued, more quietly:

"The author, some of ours, from Nevsky, of course, laughs - calls it 'the grimace of civilization'. But I'm not laughing. The name of Stepan Osipovich has been known there for a long time. Yamamoto, their naval minister, called him a scientist, a real theorist, a friend... And so, they mourn."

"Mm... Yeah..." was all Gene could say, staring at the lines again, as if he could read not only the text in them, but also the meaning of the enemy's actions.

There was a moment of silence in the hallway. Then Gene folded the paper, sighed softly, and, without looking at Jake, headed for the door.

"Let's go outside," he said. "We need some air, otherwise everything here smells of ink and hot wax."

They stepped out onto the porch. The boards creaked under their feet, and a draft was sucked into the house. The sky over Liteiny Prospekt was gloomy, like an old lead saucepan, heavy and gray, with ragged clouds, as if someone had tried to break through them but couldn't.

Gene raised his collar and looked thoughtfully into the distance.

"It's been a while since we've had weather like this," he said quietly. "I can't even remember the last time I hunted..."

He smiled slightly and turned to Jake:

"Isn't it time for us to go hunting?"

Jake's smile answered him immediately, as if an old, almost childish joy had awakened in him.

"But Baron Buher only sent me an invitation this morning. He wants us to visit his estate. He says the pheasants have multiplied like officials at the provincial government. The estate, he says, is waiting for a shot.

"That's great," Gene nodded, looking at the trees slowly swaying in the cool air.

For a moment they were both silent. Then Jake, still animated, asked with a question in his voice:

"But tell me, Gene... are you really so indifferent to Makarov's death? After all, he was..."

"Yes, yes," Gene interrupted. "I know who he was. But you, Jake, must remember one thing: Makarov's father was a cantonist. A real one. He served as a boatswain, a simple one, part of the half-crew. He didn't wear a uniform, didn't play checkers in the officers' club. And when Makarov got into the naval corps, when he rose through the ranks, they called him behind his back "the presumptuous cantonist."

"So...?" Jake frowned.

"That is to say," said Gene, "he was an outsider, for he was the only one who managed to break into the closed world of naval officers. They did not forgive him for that. And now that he is dead, they sympathize, yes. But do they accept him? Hardly."

He paused, then, softening a little, clapped Jake on the shoulder and nodded toward the house:

"Let's go have breakfast. Karen will be glad to see you, and Deedle even more so. Today we have fresh bread with caraway seeds, and the coffee is still hot."

Breakfast was already set at the oval table in the dining room. White tablecloth, china, silver, modest but dignified. Karen sat by the window, quietly wiping her hands on a napkin. Delia was twirling in her chair, no longer in her morning dress, but in a more formal, schoolgirl one, but with her hair still unbraided - Josephine had just finished her hair and was now standing behind her, napkin in hand, looking quite pleased.

Gene walked in first, followed by Jake. Karen looked up and smiled reservedly.

"Jake, good morning. We thought you'd forgotten the way to our bread.

"More like I've been dreaming about it," Jake said, bowing slightly. "And your husband just reminded me how good it is for your morning mood."

"The mood," Delia put in importantly, "can be sunny, can be windy. And today our dad is cloudy. Very thoughtful."

Everyone sat down. Josephine quickly and deftly poured coffee, poured Karen some milk, placed a bowl of oatmeal seasoned with butter and salt in front of Jake, and was about to straighten Delia's napkin, but Delia capriciously moved away.

"Thanks, Jo. I'm not a baby."

"No, that's good," the governess muttered, rolling her eyes and heading towards the tray of bread.

The men ate in silence, exchanging brief glances, but not saying a word about what had just been discussed. Not about Makarov, not about the Japanese processions, and especially not about Baron Buher and the pheasant invitation. Delia, watching her father, narrowed her eyes:

"And you have something in mind, right? Dad is always so silent when he thinks about something.

"We're just talking about the weather," Gene said calmly. "A cloudy sky is known to inspire philosophical reflection."

Karen just looked at him, briefly, a little more attentively than usual, but said nothing.

"Or jokes," Jake said suddenly, putting down his fork and leaning back in his chair. "By the way, I remembered one. About a midshipman and a wrestler from two continents."

Delia immediately perked up and leaned forward, Karen just glanced at him with a barely noticeable smile, and Josephine quietly muttered something in French, setting out saucers on the table.

"So," Jake began, lowering his voice, as if he were telling not a joke but a spy story. "A midshipman comes to the circus. He's just sat down when he notices a German in the ring across from him, a wrestler, a champion from two continents. A chest like a trunk, a moustache like the Kaiser's. And then the German says, without looking, but so that everyone could hear: 'I,' he says, 'will feed this midshipman a Lenten dinner.' Everyone froze."

Delia snorted and Gene smiled crookedly.

"And the midshipman, not being a fool, answers calmly: "Well," he says, "I was throwing pig carcasses into the hold." The German says nothing about that. The midshipman declares: he will challenge him to a fight. But - in a mask! So that no one knows who he is."

Karen shook her head but did not interrupt.

"And so, imagine, the circus is packed. The German comes out, there's a ruckus, waving weights like a windmill. And here's the midshipman. In a mask. Modest, quiet. At first he keeps his distance, twirls, and then - he throws! The German - straight into the barrier by the box where the ladies are. The flowers spread out, the ladies faint, the stands are delighted."

"And then what?" Delia asked, a glint in her eye.

"And then", said Jake, pausing, "the next morning the midshipman is summoned to the admiral. He thinks - they'll give him an order, raise his rank. He goes, smiles, presses his hat. And the admiral looks at him sternly and says: 'Here is your reward for the victory. You are discharged from the ship. Assigned to the city of Dalniy.' [Untranslatable play on words. 'Dalniy' means 'far' in Russian.]"

Laughter rolled across the table, even Karen smiled, although she shook her head with her usual reproach. Gene, putting down his cup, stood up:

"Okay, my dears. Jake and I are leaving. We're going to Baron Buher's, a hunting invitation. I hope you don't mind, Karen?"

Karen looked down and pursed her lips.

"Of course. Of course. I'm just a wife."

Gene came up and kissed her on the forehead:

"We won't be in touch for a couple of days. Tell Deedle that if she misses me, I'll get her a pheasant feather. Or two."

Karen said nothing. He went out with Jake without looking back, and a few minutes later the door slammed shut. The driver, shouting at the horses, drove them to the station. The wheels clattered on the pavement, the bells jingled, and soon the noise of the street swallowed up their tracks.

There was a brief silence in the house. Josephine was clearing away the dishes, Karen was silently leafing through a magazine, and Delia was leaning back in her chair, tapping her empty cup with a spoon. Her eyes were thoughtful, but not sad - more like a sly one. Then she slapped her hand on her knee and turned to the nanny:

"Jo, tell Xander to get up. I want him to finish eating for me.

"Oh, mon Dieu..." Josephine grumbled, "you're not eating anything again, child! You'll be as transparent as glass!"

"So much the better," Delia replied. "I'll be like a real young lady from a novel: thin, dreamy, and with a weak pulse."

"With a weak appetite, more likely," Josephine muttered, heading for the door.

A few minutes later Xander appeared in the doorway. His hair was tousled, his shirt collar was buttoned crookedly, his face was slightly wary - he always felt awkward in the "master's" rooms. He glanced at the table, where two cream puffs and something else vaguely resembling an apple pastry were sitting on a plate.

"Come on", Delia called cheerfully. "Sit down. This is for you. I can't - you chew everything like cotton wool. And you, they say, eat everything. So you eat for two."

Xander, not knowing if he could, glanced at Karen, but she only nodded slightly, not looking up from her reading. Then he, trying not to creak the chair, sat down and carefully reached for the cake. He ate one piece - and then another, unable to restrain himself. Delia watched him with interest and some quiet pride.

"You see," she said, "they suit you better than me. They give me a belly like a fish, and your eyes are brighter."

Xander blushed, but did not stop. Crumbs fell on the tablecloth, the cream slightly stuck to his fingers, but he ate with that special concentration that hungry boys have, for whom a cake is not a delicacy, but a real treasure. Delia watched, propping her chin on her hand, and a gentle mockery flickered in her eyes.

"Well then," she said, standing up. "Now it's time for me to go. The school doesn't wait, like daddy's hunts."

She straightened the collar of her dress, took a dark hat from the chest of drawers, and, turning to Xander, suddenly said:

"You know, I don't want Jo to walk me home. She's always mumbling about shawls, handkerchiefs, buttoned-up buttons, and talking to every maid in the street as if she knew the whole town. You walk me home. Would you like that?

Xander, who still had the sweetness of the cream in his mouth, looked at her, not believing his ears, and immediately jumped up.

"Of course!" he answered. "I... I've already put on my shoes, I'll just straighten my vest now."

Delia didn't argue, but just smiled, put on her hat and winked:

"Just go quickly, otherwise I'll leave alone, and then the whole of Smolny will think that my servants are lazy."

A minute later they were already standing at the gate. The streets were still deserted, the air was invigorating, the morning was dimly gray over the rooftops. Xander walked a little ahead, occasionally turning around, as if he wanted to make sure that Delia was coming, and she walked slowly behind him, lightly tapping her heels on the pavement. The morning unfolded before them, gray but alive, in small sounds, cool air and the resounding echo of footsteps.

They turned off Kirochnaya onto a street where the houses became lower, and shop windows and signs appeared between them. Suddenly, almost simultaneously, their gazes were directed forward: in the very heart of Petersburg, a city fair was spread out, colorful as an open fan. Drums, flags, lace posters, red booths and barkers - everything was colorful, buzzing, beckoning.

Delia slowed her pace, lightly touched Xander's elbow and leaned over:

"Let's go around the square. Just a little bit. We'll still make it."

Xander, who was already turning around, ready to offer the same, only nodded. They turned, and their steps were drowned out by the noise of the fair.

On the left, the gate of a cozy restaurant with a green fence and a shady garden swung open. The sound of balls could be heard from there: in the bowling alley, hidden behind the bushes, someone was enthusiastically knocking down pins. Laughter, the clink of porcelain, the voice of a boy counting points - everything mixed into one warm noise. Tables flashed behind the trees, and behind them, ladies in colorful shawls and mustachioed gentlemen with glasses.

But Xander's gaze was already drawn to the next one - the shooting range. A wooden booth covered with colorful pictures, shooters with guns, the pop of shots. And especially one target: a Japanese battleship, painted with exaggerated precision - cannons, a flag, smokestacks. It was rocking on the tin waves of the bright green sea, attached to a wooden stand. A small circle on a stick stuck out above the waves. It was worth hitting it - and the ship would split with a roar, the halves would fall, a yellow tin fan would fly out of the hold, flashing like an explosion.

"Look!" Delia exclaimed, raising her hand. "It's Mikasa! Or maybe Asahi? How similar they are!"

"It's Japanese," Xander confirmed, frowning. "I've seen some like that at Yakov's, at the watchtower. He made them himself, from boxes. But for one with an explosion - this is the first time!"

They froze in front of the shooting range, enchanted as if in front of a theatre. A bearded shooter in a checkered jacket came out from inside, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and tin fragments poured out of the target, quickly picked up by a teenager with a bucket. Delia watched this, squinting, as if she herself was calculating how she would aim - and would certainly hit. But Xander was already tugging at her sleeve:

"Look over there!"

A little further on, at the edge of the square, there was a bright carousel. It was brand new, still smelling of fresh paint, all in blue and gold patterns, with painted boats, shiny horses in harness, and even carved dolphins on the outer circles. It had been installed while Delia was ill - and now this was the first time she had seen it with her own eyes. The canvas cover still covered the upper part, but a crowd was already gathering around it: smartly dressed gentlemen with children, young ladies with parasols, elderly matrons in colorful capes, strolling leisurely, with the languid look of people not used to haste.

"Oh my..." Delia said quietly. "I didn't even know they put it there... While I was lying there... Everything changed," she frowned slightly, as if realizing how much she had missed."

But then her face brightened. Around her were colorful tents: there was seltzer with colored glass siphons, and sellers of oriental sweets with trays of Turkish delight sprinkled with powder, and bright, like an oriental bazaar, tables with nougat, honey, churchkhela. Voices, the jingle of coins, the creaking of carts were heard everywhere. And off to the side stood automatic strength meters: huge figures of Hercules with hammers and scales, beckoning passersby to try themselves.

"In the two months I was sick," Delia said suddenly, coming to life, "everything here became somehow... Luxurious. Loud. Alive."

She took Xander by the hand and led him to the carousel, looking around with greedy interest, as if trying to make up for everything she had missed in two glances. People were scurrying back and forth, colorful candies were shimmering on the bright counters, schoolboys in uniforms were flashing among the strollers, and from the other side of the square a familiar, unpleasantly rattling voice suddenly rang out:

"Well, well, Chihuahua, are you running again? It's a pity you didn't die, everyone would have been so happy!"

Xander turned around abruptly. Standing before them, hands on hips, was Jerome Creighton, the son of that same Morris Creighton, the American attorney who had followed York's affairs with envy and malice. Jerome was known not only for his inventions, but also for embodying everything that could outrage a simple boy like Xander.

He was wearing a school uniform, tight as a straitjacket: the collar was stiff and high, pressing on his chin so that his plump cheeks were sticking out, as if they were about to escape from the embarrassment. He took off his dandy cap - and then Xander, wincing in bewilderment, caught the smell. That very smell - disgusting, greasy, obsessive, like the smell of a pharmacy smear: brilliantine. Jerome's head was shaved, and his hair was pulled into a smooth parting so tightly, as if it had been ironed. His head seemed flat, shiny, snake-like.

But his face was far worse. On his nose, which was not suitable for any fashion, sat a gold pince-nez with a spring. It glittered absurdly, giving his already prickly, pig-like eyes even more impudence and self-satisfaction. Delia recoiled at his appearance, her face lengthened, but irritation immediately flared in her eyes.

"What did you say?" she asked quietly, squinting.

"Nothing like that," Jerome shrugged with false innocence. "I just wanted to offer my condolences... Ugh, congratulations! On your recovery, of course. We thought you'd perish. That would have been fun, wouldn't it, Alexander?"

He deliberately called Xander by his full name and leaned forward a little, as if proposing a game. But Xander was silent. His hands clenched into fists. The smell of brilliantine hit his nose, and his pince-nez, golden as a magpie's eye, simply begged to be knocked out.

But Jerome, without waiting for an answer, suddenly straightened up, took a step back and assumed a pose that he had obviously been practicing in front of a mirror. Politely pushing back his bottom - tightly covered by a blue uniform, under which the folds of a prosperous life were barely discernible - he raised his chin like a young emperor on a reviewing platform, and with emphasized importance declared:

"And yesterday a general came to visit us at the gymnasium! A real general, with shoulders like a wardrobe, covered in medals, and with a moustache like Zhukov's in the portrait in the buffet. He told us such a funny story!" Jerome paused, looked around at the audience, as if he were standing on a stage. "Imagine: they are preparing for the Tsar's visit to the battleship. Everything is polished to a shine! The brass was polished, like we polish buttons for an inspection at the gymnasium. The officers are standing there, you could have carved them out of wood. The Tsar comes out onto the gangway - and then, you see, a dog!

He made a leap, like that same dog, and ran his hand over the pavement, as if on a deck:

"The ship's dog, yellow, with a stupid expression, jumps out and - straight to the Tsar! Barks, wags his tail, jumps up like a monkey. The officers are terrified. Someone almost faints. Everyone thinks: now there will be a scandal, the dog will go overboard, the commander will retire, and the fleet will be disgraced. And the Tsar, do you know what? He strokes him and says: 'Sweet little dog.'"

He repeated the last phrase with emphasis, lisping on the "r" and imitating the king's voice. Delia pressed her lips together, Xander looked at him without blinking.

"And what do you think?" Jerome continued, his pince-nez flashing triumphantly. "Right there, right there, the whole crew - from the captain to the cabin boy - are lining up... To pet the dog too! One after another, as if it were Poseidon himself in fur, and not a cur from the galley."

He finished, satisfied with himself, watching his words settle in the air like the spray after a pop.

"I don't give a damn about your dog," Xander couldn't resist saying with undisguised irritation, as if shaking something stuck to his palm.

Jerome turned to him with feigned contempt, bowing his head and squinting like an old professor at an uninvited student:

"You, you!" he muttered, waving his finger in the air. "Lackey. Shut up. You've found someone to bark at, you mutt without a collar!

Xander flushed. His ears began to buzz, his shoulders shook. He had almost stepped forward - and at that moment Delia, squeezing his hand, pulled him sharply towards herself. Her fingers dug into his wrist with unexpected force, and Xander stopped, clenching his teeth, but not saying a word.

"Let's go," she whispered, "that's what he wants."

Jerome, sensing their retreat, chuckled contentedly, turned sharply on his heels and walked away. His uniform puffed out slightly at the back, his pince-nez flashed a farewell gleam, and his voice, already moving away, still carried behind him:

"Unwashed ladies' man without pants! Madame has taken a fancy to you, Mr. Ragamuffin!"

He laughed, delighted with himself, and soon disappeared into the stream of high school students heading towards the high gates of the brick building.

Meanwhile, at the Vitebsk station, smelling of coal, fresh newsprint and coffee from the buffet, Gene York and Jake Madison, having jumped out of a cab, slowly headed for the ticket office. Their route lay to Tsarskoe Selo, and despite the Spartan nature of the upcoming trip, both were in good spirits: Jake from the anticipation of a country feast and hunting, and Gene from the opportunity to escape, at least for a day, from the St. Petersburg whirlpool of affairs and visiting cards.

"We're not going to save the empire," said Gene, squinting, "we're just shooting partridges. But I must admit, I'd prefer these birds to the Duma sessions. At least they don't interrupt."

They approached the third-class ticket office, where there was no line. Gene, not considering it necessary to demonstrate his status, pulled out his wallet and bought two tickets to Tsarskoe Selo. Jake bowed playfully:

"This is true equality. A general, a lawyer, a high school student - all are riding in the same carriage, if they are riding without their wives.

"And most importantly, without governesses," Gene chuckled, taking a ticket. "In a carriage with governesses, the conversation isn't about pheasant, but about handkerchiefs and ladies' gossip. And here we have fresh air and Baron Buher with rifles."

They walked onto the platform, where the coal stack of a short train was already smoking under a canopy. Employees in greatcoats scurried past with teapots and newspaper stacks. Somewhere in a distant booth a barrel organ was playing. Gene and Jake climbed into the carriage and took their seats by the window. The train shuddered, lay still, and a minute later, smoothly but steadily moved forward, breaking away from the platform like a man who had decided to have a long conversation.

The carriage rocked rhythmically, and the heavy rhythm of the wheels, as if coming from the very earth, lulled the passengers, but did not allow them to fall silent. There was a smell of felt boots, uniform wool, cheap tobacco and - barely perceptible - the scent of women's scarves, although there were no women in the carriage. The officials, having taken off their gloves, rubbed their palms and, lounging on the seats, carried on a conversation, not so much among themselves as for themselves, in a half-voice, but with the expectation of being heard. Someone drank tea from a travel mug, someone chewed dried toast, fishing crumbs out of his pocket.

"The Count had a special gun back then, I remember," one of them said, crumpling a handkerchief in his hands. "A French one, with an engraving, a gift... Either from the Duke or from the Minister. And everything would have been fine, but there was a meaning to it - like a stick in a swamp. You know, he went out to the edge of the forest, thinking - now it's going to hit. And the snow was falling, like in the story - no den, no trace. The huntsman said to him: "Your Excellency, wait, we'll go around now and have a look." And the Count said: 'No,' he said, 'I feel it. Here it is, the beast.'"

The officer with the moustache, who had been listening in silence until then, nodded.

"So he shot at the pine tree. They say that tree sap splashed his collar, and he later told everyone that he saw the bear run away in fear. And what happened next - it was no longer a hunt, but a war. The beaters were driven from all over the area, like a recruiting party. They rode in a cart, some with pitchforks, some with shafts - as best they could. They walked for two hours, waist-deep in snow, their feet were stuck, their hands were bleeding."

"Yes, yes", the third one, with high cheekbones, in a uniform jacket without insignia, picked up. "I was in those parts then. Towards evening - there was a roar, as if an army was coming. They were shouting, blowing the whistle, shooting. They lured that bear out, but he... How can I say... He turned out to be smart. Not smart in our way. He flashed once, and that was it. Where did he go - as if through the ground. And the count at that time was already sitting by the fireplace, with Burgundy. They served him jellied meat, veal aspic, black caviar - as if at a reception. His fast, you see, was only in words."

"They caught the bear after all," someone responded from the far corner. "The next day. In the village. He came straight to the cattle barn, looking for something to eat, apparently. The peasants surrounded him, and he roared like a man, not understanding what was happening. So they shot him. Then they carried him away like a hero, on a sledge, his paws spread out, his muzzle all bloody and frosty. And the Count... Well, what about the Count? He didn't even bat an eyelid. He just raised his glass and said, "Well, finally."

"Well, finally," Gene repeated thoughtfully, as if out of place, and then, frowning, he turned to Jake: "And what did you say about Buher?"

He leaned a little closer, shielding himself from the other passengers with a half-turned shoulder, and lowered his voice, as one does when talking not about something forbidden, but about something ticklish. His lips barely moved, but there was a special tone in his voice - not condemnation, not admiration, but that strange respect that a person has for those who have managed to get along in life in spite of circumstances, and not because of them.

"The Baron", he began quietly, "you know, a figure in his own way is exceptional. He did not start with high birth. A Protestant from the Baltic Germans, and even those, they say, not of the first line. But his head is like a merchant at auction. He moved to Russia before Menshikov's resignation, made his way through the services, maneuvered, converted to Orthodoxy - and suddenly became one of them. Not right away, of course. First as a translator, then as a sworn attorney, and then he reached the noble class. But the most interesting thing is not that."

Gene didn't interrupt, he just nodded occasionally, as if prompting: continue, I'm listening.

"And the interesting thing is", Jake continued, squinting slightly, "that he set up a school. Not a simple one, but a private commercial one, with the rights of a state one. Formally, to prepare young people for trade and accounting. But in fact, it is a shelter for the offspring of those who do not want to fall, but also cannot hold on. There, they do not ask why you were kicked out of the Marine, why you were thrown out of the cadet corps. They ask one thing: do you pay for the year in advance."

"So," drawled Gene, moving away a little, "do they issue certificates?"

"Yes", confirmed Jake. "They used to laugh at court - they said that a baron's diploma was like a certificate from a pharmacy. But when one of Countess Rzhevskaya's nephews got into the ministry with it, and then wormed his way into a senator's position - the laughter quickly stopped. Everything is legal. The seal is real, the papers are in order. And how they teach there is no one's business."

There was a brief pause in the carriage. Frosted trees flashed past the windows, as if the very air trembled with the cold memory of a summer gone by. Gene leaned back, looking out the murky glass, but his eyes were looking inward, not outward.

Gene leaned back, looking into the cloudy glass, but his eyes were looking inward, not outward. Surprise flitted across his face - not a showy, theatrical look, but the kind that comes when a familiar picture suddenly cracks, revealing another, unexpected one.

"It's strange," he said slowly, not taking his eyes off the reflection. "I've never even heard his name before."

Jake, who could not stand doubts about the seriousness of his own words, straightened up and spoke with a little pressure, as if scolding a student:

"Because you only read Revue des Deux Mondes and the local news diagonally. But here in the province, they trumpet about him in almost every issue. The Baron is a notable figure. He is not just a director with the right to print: he is a philanthropist. A shelter for the widows of naval officers in Novaya Derevnya? His money. Scholarships for the talented, but 'unfortunately born' - from him. And most importantly - all accompanied by reporters. Not a single ruble of his goes without a newspaper line. And this, mind you, is not a reproach at all. He does good with such taste that he applauds himself."

Gene turned his head, a half-smile touching the corners of his lips.

"So the form is equal to the content. And his taste for charity is like that of an old dandy for cufflinks. I understand. It's like throwing a ball not for the guests, but for the reporters."

But Jake didn't catch the sarcasm, or perhaps he deliberately ignored it. He just bowed his head slightly and, rubbing his glove on his knee, spoke in the tone of a teacher introducing a lazy student to a long-discussed topic:

"So that you understand the scale: Buher's school is not just a school. It is a whole provincial story, only with sturdy bindings and bright covers. It has everything. Imagine: a boy enters there at the age of eleven, as expected, and ten years later he is still in the fifth grade. But already married. Sometimes with a child. There was a case when a father and son studied in the same building: daddy in the sixth, son in the first. And both with uniform caps, notebooks and report cards."

"It can't be," Gene chuckled, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Are you saying that this isn't a myth? That such a club of eternal students seriously exists?"

"It's as serious as it gets," Jake confirmed, narrowing his eyes. "And you're not the first one who doesn't believe it. A prosecutor I know, upon hearing about it, vowed to go on a tour to make sure there wasn't a crèche in the teachers' lounge."

York laughed, not loudly, but with that clear, liberating relief that people experience when they have kept their backs straight for a long time.

"Se non è vero, è ben trovato!"

Jake frowned.

"What? Your Latin again? Or is it in Greek now?"

"In Italian," Gene explained softly. "Take it, brother, as 'A wonderful invention.'"

Jake's expression changed: the smile faded, his gaze dimmed a little. He glanced briefly at his companion, leaned back without saying a word, and the next second, as if by an inner impulse, changed the subject.

"Okay, you know how to laugh. But do you know how wars start?" he asked, in a subdued voice, with the tone that sounds like a reproach to a friend who allowed himself to mock at the wrong moment.

York turned his head towards him without answering. And Jake, looking down at the edge of the bench, began to speak with restraint, almost sparingly:

"It was before anyone shot. Morning, winter, in Peterhof. Nikolay, our sovereign, is getting ready for an important meeting. A train of adjutants, notes, coffee. But it's not the reports that worry him. He walks around the office, strokes his moustache, and thinks about Japan. He says that Korea is teeming with foreigners, and the Japanese newspapers are all in a frenzy. And then Mr. Shtryumpel bursts in. Do you know who that is?"

Gene frowned, but nodded: the name was familiar - it had flashed through the chronicles, like an anecdote.

"He himself is neither a diplomat nor a military man. He is a tailor. But not a simple one - a great one. The States, Schleswig, London - they knew him everywhere. He dressed emperors, chose buttons for them, explained where to hang the ribbon of an order if you were the chief of some battalion in Stettin. He was respected because he did not meddle in state affairs. But he spoke about them inconsistently, as only those who are at court but outside the game can."

Jake paused, as if checking to see if his interlocutor was listening. He was.

"So. Strumpel arrived that day to teach Nikolay how to properly wear a cuirassier uniform - a Prussian one, with red cuffs and shiny linings. Everyone knew that the Tsar was listed as the chief. And so they stand, Nikolay by the mirror, Strumpel fastens his buttons, and casually says: I heard, Your Majesty, that the Japanese are grumbling - your road is not to their liking. And they even hinted, they say, that you would sell them something from the left bank of the Amur."

York raised his eyebrows but did not intervene.

"And Nikolay..." Jake continued, lowering his voice even more, "just looked at him in the mirror, settled his moustache and said: 'If they're so worried, then it's time to make a move and show who's boss here.' Without shouting, without pressure - calmly. But then - an order, mobilization, a business trip to the east. That's the beginning. No advice, no discussion. A joke in a tailcoat - and the company is on the move."

Jake's voice died away. Gene was silent. Only the wheels, as if feeling the weight of the pause, rumbled a little louder. The train shuddered one last time, as if stretching after a long nap, and braked smoothly. The buildings of the Tsarskoye Selo station appeared through the window glass - stone, weathered, with eagles on the gables darkened by winter.

On the platform, cleared to a shining dryness, a man stood out, to whom the glances of the passengers who had stepped off the steps were immediately drawn. Baron Buher stood like a monument to confidence: a massive figure in a luxurious fur coat, the buttons of which gleamed dully but with dignity, like ancient officer's orders.

In his plump hand he clutched a cigar, curved like a sickle, and the warm smoke spread near his head, not daring to obscure either his face or his gaze. The engraved ring, massive and heavy, flared up when the baron waved his hand - as if a sign that before you was not just a man, but the head of his own coordinate system.

His face, framed by neatly trimmed sideburns, exuded cheerful courtesy. There was no servility in his smile, broad, almost familiar, but there was something theatrical - like an actor playing the role of a "hospitable host" for the thousandth time, but still enjoying it.

The thick, warm aroma of a Havana cigar curled between the fur and the collar, intertwining with the subtle, confident scent of English perfume - noble, restrained, almost ecclesiastical in its heaviness. It walked ahead of the baron, like a footman with a business card.

Under his open fur coat, a tailcoat of the color of bluish-black wine gleamed, on which along the lapels a garland was visible - not of flowers, no - but of badges, medals, tokens: gifts from boards of trustees, merchant guilds, pedagogical congresses. On the plastron, dazzlingly white and stretched like a sail, pearls shimmered evenly, without insolence - like an ingratiating compliment to an old lady.

Seeing Gene and Jake, the baron headed toward them with a semi-military wave of his cigar, his boots rustling on the crust of the platform, and on his face was the same smile with which he probably greeted both the Minister of Public Education and the head of the district fire department. Servants were bustling about nearby - at least six men, all in identical short overcoats with bias-fastenings and hats with fur lapels. Two of them were holding hobbled dogs on short leather leashes - tall, predatory, with yellow eyes and pointed ears. The animals, as if understanding that serious business lay ahead, did not growl or pull, but stood there, springing, ready to rush forward at any moment.

One of the servants, young, agile, with a face not yet spoiled by service, carried the baron's rifle in his bent arms. The carved gun seemed heavy, but he carried it with respectful ease, as if he were handing over a cherished gift.

The baron opened his arms to greet the arrivals, his voice rolled over the platform, thick and sonorous:

"Gentlemen! You have arrived at the most opportune moment! The wolves - shameless, impudent bastards - have once again come out to the very edge of the Aleksandrovsky forest. They are frightening the peasants, slaughtering the cattle, even the coachmen are trembling! But we - the baron paused dramatically - we will not leave this like this! We will go where the darkness is and show the fanged bastards who is the hunter here!"

Jake chuckled briefly, and Gene was about to answer, but at that moment his gaze caught on a figure to the side, massive, with a straight, motionless posture, like a sculpture carved from a woodpile. Morris Creighton. He stood as if emerging from the ground, his arms crossed, his eyes narrow, a network of tense muscles under his skin. His face, weathered, as if wrinkled by sea salt, did not change. Only his lips moved into a thin line when he said, muffled, like spitting on a stone:

"You arrived just in time, although we would have managed just fine without you."

There was no triumph or challenge in the voice, only contempt, well-worn and unjustifiable. Gene looked back, level but attentive, not looking away until Creighton took a half-step back, turning to the side.

The Baron, not noticing or pretending not to notice either the sarcasm or the heaviness of the silence, loudly clapped his hands:

"Gentlemen, let's not argue! The wolves are not waiting for us to choose the eldest! I ask you to the crews! The weather is clear, the spirit is high, and the hunt promises to be glorious!"

The Baron strode confidently, his spurs jingling and his teeth whistling softly, as if he were commanding a battalion in peacetime. Jake and Gene walked on his right hand, holding their pace so as not to get ahead of their master - etiquette here was not a formality, but a long-practiced choreography. Behind, about ten meters away, Morris Creighton stomped along, accompanied by two officers, one of whom had a face that still bore traces of yesterday's revelry, and the other - with an expression of eternal bewilderment that young staff captains with literary inclinations suffer from.

"See him?" Gene said quietly, leaning slightly toward Jake. "Our oak friend with a face like he'd been hit over the head with a shovel all his youth."

"How could I not notice," Jake responded, "he's walking like a disgruntled monument. What, also going after the wolves?"

"The wolves, poor things, have no idea who they're dealing with. Creighton is the kind of man who, if he goes into the woods, does so with a cast-iron frying pan and a tin megaphone. Do you know where he comes from?"

Jake shook his head. Gene chuckled without looking back.

"Philadelphia. Southwest. Poor Irish neighborhood. Until the age of fifteen - barefoot, in just a shirt. Worked at the slaughterhouse: cleaned up slops and scraps - everything that went to feed the pigs. His mother kept about six, and sometimes a calf. The whole neighborhood knew 'Morris from the Gutter.'"

"This one?" Jake glanced over his shoulder. "Amazing."

"Yeah. And his name was just Morris Creighton. Then, when his mother died, he announced that he would take her name for himself. He called himself Morris Melia Creighton. A curtsy to his mother, so to speak. Poetic. Romantic. Even then I was touched. But..." Gene paused, smiling slightly - then he got an office, cuffs, a wife with a surname as long as a Persian carpet... And 'Melia' suddenly disappeared. Only 'M' remained, you would never guess what it was. In letters - just Morris Creighton. And in correspondence with the treasury - completely M. Creighton."

"I understand," Jake nodded, "it often happens: you fall in love with your wife, but you're embarrassed by your mother."

"Exactly", Gene chuckled. "Apparently, he decided: one love for life is enough. Otherwise, they will think that his heart has too many rooms, and with echoes of a pigsty."

And then, as if responding to the mockery, a drawn-out howl rang out over the edge of the forest - thin, viscous, as if the wind was choking on pain. Then a second, and a third. Then a sharp, almost croaking bark. The dogs rushed forward, pulling on their leashes, uttering short, angry growls. The baron, not having time to raise his hand, only shouted: 'Hold the line!' - but it was too late.

From behind the tree trunks, from the gray thicket, wolves seemed to emerge - not run out, not jump out, but emerge. Black, gray, one with a red tan. They moved not one by one, but simultaneously, like links in a single spring. One darted toward the dogs, the other toward the hunters' left flank. A shot rang out - one, the second - muffled, hasty, a miss. The horse neighed and reared. Someone yelled.

Creighton whirled and raised his gun, but his hand shook: the first wolf had slipped to the side, the second had jumped. Morris fired, the bullet had gone into the void. The wolf had struck him in the chest, knocking him off his feet, and both had rolled across the crust. Creighton screamed, his voice hoarse like a broken instrument. One of the officers rushed toward him, but the pack had closed in a semicircle, cutting off his path.

"Help!" came a hoarse voice through the barking and cracking of branches.

Jake turned around and instantly pulled the rifle from the nearest servant, no longer looking whose weapon it was, and ran, pressing himself against the barrels, trying to go around the circle. His face darkened, his steps were heavy but quick, like those of a cavalryman accustomed to maneuvering.

Gene remained where he was. He did not move, only pressed his lips together and looked in the direction from which the screams came. His hand was already holding the trigger, but he did not raise the weapon. His hat had slipped slightly on his forehead, a shadow fell over his eyes. The dogs were running around, the people were screaming, the bullets were tearing the bark off the tree trunks, but he stood there as if he was chained.

And Jake, pushing through the snow and the whips of the branches, could see the picture in full clarity - too clear. Morris, defeated, was struggling, thrashing, growling, his face covered in blood, his hands clawing at the air, missing their mark. One of the wolves had grabbed him by the thigh, the other by the shoulder. They worked together, with a savage, purposeful cruelty, not in rage - in craft. Another moment - and one of them tore out his throat.

"Back!" Jake roared, raising his gun, but at the same moment, ahead of him, Baron Buher, standing on the other side, a little higher, at the fork in the path, raised his weapon. His face remained calm, even, perhaps, cold, like that of a hunter who cares not for the action, but for the result.

There was a single shot, loud and heavy, like a cannon. The bullet hit the chest of the largest wolf, the one with the black mark on his forehead - he was the leader. He yelped, shot up as if struck by lightning, and immediately fell into the snow, leaving a trail of dark spots.

The pack wavered. A moment - and the wolves, without breaking into panic, but as if on command, turned and disappeared between the trees. All that remained was the cracking of branches and a hoarse silence.

Jake ran to the body. Morris was lying on his back, his arm flung out like a stage actor who had fallen in the last act. His face was bruised, his mouth was open, his eyes were glassy, frozen in reproach.

"Dead," Jake said without turning around.

The Baron slowly approached, shaking cigar ash from his sleeve.

"Alas, when a wolf marks his prey, no rank can save him," the baron concluded, examining the weapon and wincing slightly from the smell of fresh blood breaking through the cigar smoke.

Gene York emerged slowly from the forest shadows, about fifteen paces away. He took off his hat, bowed his head, and raised his shoulders slightly, as if the weight of the air were enveloping him. He crossed himself slowly, with a wide amplitude, almost theatrically, and sighed with relief, like a man who had received a letter with long-awaited news.

"Thank God," he said, looking at the body. "Someone must have heard my prayer for profit."

The Baron turned to him with a questioning look, but said nothing. Jake, straightening up, gave Gene a sharp, narrowed look - one in which skepticism is already ready to become reproach.

York caught the look. Without changing his expression, he adjusted his collar, frowned with moderate sadness, and, lowering his eyes, said with a quiet sigh:

"He crossed himself... Because... he had a poor family. He left his children orphans. His wife... A widow. It's sad. Very sad."

His voice sounded with the right hoarseness, his gaze was slightly moist - skillfully. Only Jake, who had known him for many years, saw that it was all a mask, light as a veil, pulled over relief and hidden triumph.

Especially knowing that Gene didn't care a fig about the Creightons. Morris's wife was a woman he always found pompous, and his son was a brash fellow who tried to pick on his daughter every time they met, and did so with the kind of bravado that only a rich fool can do.

...666...

But Karen didn't. Karen couldn't do that: not notice, not feel, not think. Even now, walking along the slippery pavement, she remembered how Lily Creighton had squeezed her fingers in the enfilade of the Bolshoi Theater during Giselle - as if she had found not a friend, but an anchor that could keep her afloat amidst a series of duties, poses, receptions. Too loud, yes. Too perfumed. But not angry. And certainly not ready for widowhood.

Karen walked quickly, too quickly for such shoes - several times the heel almost slipped off the cobblestones. Her hat, made of black velvet, did not protect her from the wind, only flapped its ribbons against her cheek. In the bag, which she pressed to her chest, lay Josephine's gloves - why she took them, she did not know. Just like that. Her hand reached out on its own as she walked away, as if to be sure.

He didn't answer, she thought, over and over again. Gene. No telegram, no note, no line from the servant. He was staying with Buher, with Jake, the coachman had told her when he returned without him. "The master said the hunt was too late." Yes, the hunt... When there was death in the city. When there was news in the city. When the newspapers, even the ones Gene called "yellow trash," carried the death of a man they had sat at the same table with only a week before on the front page.

Union of Pechatnikov Street was empty, as it only happens in St. Petersburg at the end of winter: as if people, like mice, were hiding in cracks until it got warm. Karen slowed her pace by the lamp, threw back her veil and looked up. The tower of St. Stanislav's Church showed through the haze, smooth and calm, like a palm raised in blessing. The snow that had stuck to the cornice melted and fell in drops to the ground - evenly, like time.

"Lord," she whispered, "what are you doing?"

It wasn't a prayer, not a challenge, just a question. Without an answer. Like a letter, folded and forgotten. She didn't know why she was going. Or rather, she knew - to talk to Father Mattson. Not as a spiritual father. As a man with a quiet voice. And to whom she could say, "I'm scared" - not out loud, but so that they would understand.

At the corner, by the shop, a boy with a knapsack slid by quickly, looking askance. Karen instinctively clenched her fingers, but immediately felt ashamed - he simply walked past. Not Xander. He never ran like that. He never looked at the floor. But Jerome Creighton - yes. She remembered how he once deliberately smeared Delia's ribbons with chalk - and laughed when the governess got alarmed. "Look, the young lady has a blue tail now!" he shouted. And Delia stood there, white, clasping her hands. Not a tear. Only later, at home, she buried her face in her side and asked: "And if I don't become a lady, then he won't touch me?"

Karen stepped under the arch. The entrance to the temple was in the shadows. The door was not yet open - it was early. The service would not begin for another hour. She leaned her shoulder against the wall, searching for support. Her legs were shaking. Not from the cold. From an incomprehensible feeling - as if everything familiar had suddenly become shaky, like ice under her heels. War. Death. The silence from Gene. And something else, still nameless.

She closed her eyes. And as soon as she took a step away from the wall, she heard a light cough from the side - not rude, not intrusive, but the kind that immediately identifies a well-mannered person. Turning around, Karen saw a familiar figure: in a black coat, with a neat felt hat, from under which gray strands were sticking out. Doctor Lou Hastings, still as good-natured in appearance, with that warm, as if always slightly smiling look.

"Mrs. York?" he said, bowing his head. "I'm sorry if I startled you. I was coming from the other side, and I confess I didn't expect to see you here."

"Good morning, Doctor," Karen nodded, a little stiffly, but politely. "I... I was just walking."

"Of course, of course," he nodded sympathetically. "Like all of us. We're all going somewhere. Sometimes we even know why. Sometimes..." he paused, as if biting the thought, "we just don't want to stay in one place."

Karen nodded her head slightly in response, but said nothing. Hastings, as if sensing this, leaned forward slightly, pretending to look not at her, but in the direction of the temple:

"See, there, behind the rector's gate? There used to be a vacant lot there. And now there's a tower. A small turret, like an observation tower. It was built by Mr. Lyulyukov. Yes, yes, the same one who sits in the Ministry of Railways. How could... How could I not recognize him?"

He spoke evenly, almost cheerfully, with that special nuance that is used to tell urban tales that have stood the test of time.

"He built that tower about five years ago. And he put a telescope on top - a monstrous one, imported, almost ordered from London. The servants say: it stands on stilts, like on chicken legs, and the lens is the size of a gymnastics hoop, no smaller. He would sit there until dawn. When he got tired of everything earthly, he would order a tray - sprat, herring, a loaf of black wine and a glass - and look. Not out the windows, no. At the planets. Either he was running away from work, or from himself."

Karen listened in silence, not giving in to either a smile or sympathy. She still held her bag tightly to her chest, as if the one she was looking for here was not behind the temple door, but under her gloves, hidden in her heart.

"And just recently", the doctor continued in the same tone", he invited three friends from the detective department. Well, you know, those who like to admire the structure of the earth at the same time. They brought a bottle or two with them, sat down - and it was cramped in there, and frozen. And someone, they say, touched the tripod with his elbow. Bang - the glass went. Burst. Now instead of Mars there is fog."

He spread his hands with a slight smile:

"Here are all stars."

Karen nodded slightly, but her face did not change. Everything that would have caused a slight smile in others, in her pulled the thread inside even tighter. At such moments it seemed to her that the whole of Petersburg - with or without a telescope - did not see the main thing. Everyone looked up, but the trouble was right there, underfoot.

Karen was silent for another minute, looking down at the wet pavement. Then, unexpectedly even for herself, she laughed briefly, dully, but quite sincerely - as if she had forced herself to push aside a heavy, chilled blanket.

"Excuse me, Doctor," she said, looking up. "But why are you telling me all this? The story... Well, excuse me, it's just like a joke. Although, you must be a good storyteller.

Hastings narrowed his eyes, grinned, but shook his head seriously:

"A joke? Oh, madam, this is not a joke at all. Unfortunately. All this is sad everyday life. You see, I am treating Mrs. Lyulyukova, the wife of this very heavenly caretaker."

He paused, as if searching for the right expression, and then continued with the tired condescension with which an old teacher explains the obvious to an uncomprehending pupil:

"She is a capricious, haughty lady, and... And completely healthy. Her heart is like a factory supervisor's. Her stomach is like a horse's. Nerves? Well, maybe my husband's nerves, and that's due to my oversight. But alas. Mrs. Lyulyukova loves to be ill. To be ill in the highest class. Consultations, prescriptions, procedures... She loves to be looked after, discussed, looked at sympathetically and said: "Oh, what a sensitive nature!" And we, doctors..." he spread his hands", we make things up.

Karen looked at him slightly reproachfully, but remained silent. Hastings, noticing this, sighed:

"Yesterday there was another consultation. My colleagues, luminaries, all of us - we gathered as if in an opera. With expressions on our faces like angels at the last sound of the trumpet. And I, in the role of an archangel, made a diagnosis: exacerbation of imperial melancholy with a transition to climatic asthenia. Don't be alarmed - this means that madam needs a rest. A long one, at least six months. In Yalta. Or in Carlsbad. Or in Geneva, if you really want to be godlike."

He chuckled, but his eyes remained serious.

"Do you know what she said?" he leaned a little closer. 'My God, Doctor, it's almost like being sentenced... To rest!' and she clasped her hands, as if this was the most comforting news all winter. But her husband, Mr. Lyulyukov..." here the doctor's voice became soft, almost mocking, "he, on the contrary, almost went grey. After all, a six-month vacation is not, you know, tea and bagels. These are special expenses. Particularly unaffordable. We'll have to, as they say, dip our paw into the government purse. Deeper. Seriously. Up to the shoulder, if not up to the ear."

He shrugged, as if apologizing for his cynicism, and added:

"So, Mrs. York, this is not a joke. This is a chronicle. Only without a moral.

Karen, who had been silent until then, suddenly stepped sharply to the side, as if a chill had run down her shoulder blades. Her eyes flashed, but her voice remained restrained, almost indifferent - and therefore especially firm:

"Forgive me, doctor, but what you just described... This is not medical practice. This is a comedy. Not even funny. How can you indulge such a fool? Why not tell her straight out that she is healthy? Why waste your time, your knowledge, your - forgive me - dignity on her?"

Hastings did not flinch. He listened calmly, his head slightly bowed, as if listening to the echo of a long-familiar melody.

"You know, Mrs. York," he said after a pause, "people will do a lot for the sake of vile metal. Not all of them, but many. And sometimes even those who didn't think they would. I'm not telling you this as a hero of a novel, but as a person who knows how much it costs to cure a child if he has no pedigree or connections."

Karen looked at him with a heavy gaze. Nothing moved on her lips, but it was as if a curtain had fallen in her eyes.

"Forgive me," she said quietly. "But it's still... It's shameful. Both to hear and to know. I thought you weren't one of those. After all, you're an intelligent person. Honest. I... I'm ashamed of you."

The doctor smiled slightly, not defiantly, but with weariness.

"Thank you for your trust," he said calmly. "But practice, Mrs. York, is where a doctor's strength lies. The more patients, the more mistakes. And the sooner he learns not to make them. A young doctor after university, forgive me, knows less than a paramedic. Someone who has been at a bedside for five years is no longer a theoretician. He knows when to say "healthy," and when it's better to remain silent. For the sake of the family. For the sake of the home. For the sake of peace in the house. Sometimes - even for the sake of that fool's husband."

He spoke quietly, without pressure, as if he knew in advance that his words would not find a response.

Karen was silent. No surprise, no answer. She only took a deeper breath, as if from damp air, and again turned her gaze to the temple door, still locked.

"You should go to Vyborg Side for real knowledge, doctor," she said, still looking ahead. "There are no ladies with telescopes there. There are children with fever and mothers who don't remember the last time they ate. That's where your real practice is, if you want to know."

Hastings nodded slightly, not offended - more like a man who had heard this before.

"Of course, Mrs. York. But here's the problem: the patients there can't even afford a bandage, let alone belladonna extract or laudanum tinctures. And when medicine is a luxury, they don't go to me, but to those who brew from bark and herbs. Healers, chiropractors, 'mothers' from near Narvskaya - they don't ask for prescriptions, but they do ask for a copper coin. Cheap, simple and... And most often useless."

Karen turned to him, her voice reproachful, her eyes demanding:

"But a doctor can also come with medicine. Not empty-handed."

"Maybe," Hastings said calmly. "But you, Mrs. York, try going up to a chemist and saying, 'Please give me ten bottles of the mixture for free - I'll take them to the sick.' He'll nod politely... And raise the price on the other twenty."

"But you're a doctor," Karen persisted. "You're not a shopkeeper. Can't you treat people like that for free?"

"I can treat," he replied. "But the medicine doesn't come out of thin air. I'll tell you more: treating the poor for free is not nobility, but a path to the abyss. If every doctor buys it himself, he won't last long. And in the end, the same poor man again, only without a doctor. No, Mrs. York. For a real, sustainable practice, money is needed. Only money that doesn't smell of rot."

Karen looked down. The doctor's words did not sound brazen or cruel - rather, with that cold reasonableness that makes you feel ashamed that you hadn't thought of the obvious before.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I... I didn't think about it."

Dr. Hastings smiled slightly, but not ironically, rather with weary understanding.

"And I, Mrs. York, have thought it through very well. I have thought it all out long ago. I fly here - yes. I treat idlers, those who suffer, as they think, from obesity, nervous exhaustion or 'heartache'. I write them diagnoses that are scary to hear, but harmless in essence. They get scared, thank me, take out their wallets. And I - take them."

He turned slightly sideways to her, looking not at her face, but at the gray sky, as if his confession could be justified there:

"I don't save this money. I throw it away like leaves. On the Vyborg side. Where there is real need. Where people are really sick, Mrs. York. Where a child with measles lies on a torn mat, and his mother smears him with lard - because there is nothing else. I bring at least a little light there. At least a little sense. At least a drop of real medicine."

Karen listened, her gloved hands clenched, not responding. He continued:

"Conscience? No, it doesn't hurt. Because I deceived the lady, who was sure that her liver had become heavy from wine and hazel grouse? So be it. It's not even a deception - it's an exchange. They give me the opportunity to save others. Real ones. Those who live not on the pages of the society columns, but on the edge."

He suddenly raised his eyes and looked straight ahead, calmly, but there was something harsh in his voice:

"Believe me, Mrs. York, it is these people who will one day turn everything upside down. Not us, not them - they. Those who are silent now. They are still sleeping. But when they wake up... Oh, how the chandeliers will crack over their heads."

He was silent for a moment, then, as if shaking himself, added more softly:

"And I... I'm already starting. Little by little. At least this way - I'm tearing them out of the hands of charlatans. I teach. I help. Not as I would have dreamed, but as best I can. And, you know... Sometimes that's enough.

Karen was silent for another moment, but then said firmly:

"And sometimes it's too dangerous. You're walking a fine line, Doctor. With such a double life, you can end up between two stools. You'll be rejected by the rich when they realize you're fooling them, and by the poor if they suspect you're not one of them. I couldn't do that. Not a step to the left, not to the right. Only forward. I always go straight to the goal. The shortest way.

Hastings chuckled and shook his head, looking towards the heavy, impenetrable clouds:

"A straight line is beautiful... In drawing. In geometry, on paper, in logarithmic tables. But in life, Mrs. York, the straight path is often the most crooked. Only it is not a path, but a ridge of hills, ravines and tricks. And whoever follows it stumbles just as much as he who winds."

He turned to face her:

"But what about it? If you succeed, I am sincerely glad. Really. The world rests on those who can walk straight. And also on those who know how to go around a swamp without drowning in it", Hastings said, and bowed slightly in a farewell gesture, moving to the edge of the sidewalk.

Karen didn't respond. She only gave a brief nod, avoiding eye contact, and stepped toward the temple door, subtly quickening her pace - as if trying to outrun the doctor's words before they sank too deep. The door creaked, and the cool dimness of the vestibule enveloped her, like a sharp change in the air.

She paused beneath the stone vault, hesitating before moving further, her gaze worn and fixed on the floor. The temple smelled of incense, cold stone, and old books. The silence here wasn't just the absence of sound - it hummed. Tall stained-glass windows, their colored panes forming stern saintly faces, let in scant light, casting a mosaic of red and blue patches on the floor. In the corner of the vestibule, near a side altar, a few people whispered, their voices swallowed by the echoing hum, while the scent of wax and damp clung to their clothes.

"Why does he treat the poor?" The thought struck her suddenly.

Hastings was one of them. An American. Like Jean. Like Jake. Like the late Morris Creighton. All of them outsiders here. But why would he - a doctor, an educated man who knew the value of his time - choose the Vyborg side? Treating those who could barely pronounce his name. Who brought neither money nor gratitude, and often never returned.

Was it not medical generosity? Did he have a motive? Connections? In Russia, pity too often masked something else. And then Karen flinched at her own thought: What if he's a spy?

Not just a spy - but someone tied to those… what were they called… Essers? Or Bolsheviks? Yes, that sounded right. Though she wasn't entirely sure who was who - were they the ones throwing bombs, or the ones wanting to seize factories from their owners? Or perhaps they were all the same? Anarchists. Chaos and dust on the streets. She'd overheard talk in the drawing room: "Those Bolsheviks will only make things worse." Or better? Someone had argued.

"It doesn't matter," she thought. "What matters is that these are people without God, who operate through base means. Through destruction. And Hastings… maybe he was just hiding it behind his kind face?"

Karen nearly sneezed - the temple, as always, smelled of damp, candle soot, and something elusive, like old wax and rain-soaked coats, though there was no rain outside. The air was cool, almost fresh, but made her want to shiver and pull her collar higher. The stone walls echoed faintly even with her steps, and Karen, entering almost silently, still heard her own heels as if someone were walking beside her, mimicking.

She didn't pause - she knew the way. Turning sharply left from the main nave, passing a niche with the Infant's cradle and a slightly dimmed lamp, she headed toward a narrow staircase leading to the second floor. There, in a long corridor with worn tiled floors and light from oil lamps reflecting off stone walls, she noticed a novice in a cassock standing by a window, his expression somber, almost detached. Karen decided he wouldn't ask unnecessary questions.

"Where can I find Father Mattson?" she asked, keeping her voice low but firm.

The novice barely glanced at her, only waving a hand toward the staircase.

"In his room on the third floor, just past the coffins, to the right," he replied with a slight smirk, as if joking about 'coffins' in a church was routine.

Karen nodded and moved on, though the word 'coffins' sent a slight chill through her. On the third floor, however, there were no crypts - just a narrow corridor with low doors and the smell of old wood. Room thirty-seven was a small space, bathed in soft light from a single window, where Father James Mattson - the only person in Petersburg with whom she could speak without feeling every phrase had to be as calculated as a diplomatic speech - sat at a simple wooden desk.

At first she thought he hadn't noticed her. He was sitting half-turned to the window, holding a thick book in his hands, which he was apparently reading out loud to himself, because his lips were barely moving. Karen had already opened her mouth to say hello politely, when suddenly he looked up and... He giggled. Yes, he giggled, the way children laugh when they hide behind a curtain, thinking that no one can see them.

"I'm in my happy place!" he said, and, without any grace, he raised the book above his head like a shield.

Karen froze in the doorway. For a moment she wondered if it was the effects of a long fast or a secret blow to the head with incense. She blinked. The priest remained where he was, holding his book over his head and grinning contentedly, as if expecting an ovation.

"Father Mattson..." she said carefully.

"Oh, there you are!" he said suddenly in a very businesslike tone, quickly lowering the book and slamming it shut. "Come in, Karen. Please, sit down. As if nothing strange had happened, right?"

She hesitated before crossing the threshold, but then she went in, looking around to see if a chorister with a tambourine would peek out from behind the wardrobe. The room, however, was as usual: simple, cozy, even a little disorderly - on the table lay three pencils, an empty teacup, a scrap of some newspaper and a stack of letters tied with string.

"I'm sorry," she said, sitting down opposite him. "I just... You're somehow...

"Not as a respected pastor should behave?" he picked up and winked. "Well, thank God. You didn't come here for canonical restraint."

Karen had already begun to smile, although she was trying to save face. Something in this strange, almost childish prank had relieved her. The tension that had accumulated from the conversations, the guesses, from the whole morning, suddenly eased slightly - as if she had really found herself in a "house" where she could finally exhale.

"I came... to talk to you," she said.

"Very well," he nodded. "Then let's talk. I have two ears, one brain, and zero judgment. Choose where to begin."

Karen laughed softly, for real this time.

"There," Father Mattson said, stroking his chin contentedly. "That's better. Laughter, you know, is like confession. Only less sticky."

Karen settled in more comfortably, but still felt a little out of place. Not awkward, more like... More like a schoolgirl in the principal's office who suddenly started making fun of her. Her gaze slid around the room - at the papers, the candle, the windowsill where someone had left a dried flower, and suddenly stopped at the globe standing in the corner. It was old, with a worn brass axis, but carefully cleaned and polished. The globe was turned in such a way that the line glued with scarlet silk ribbon immediately caught the eye: thin as a hair, but blood-bright. It stretched from the coast of California - from San Francisco - and passed through the ocean all the way to Japan. Nagasaki. Karen, not immediately realizing what it was, suddenly felt a chill run down her spine.

"Is this... Is this the way?" she asked, nodding at the globe. "And what, in your opinion... Will there be peace?"

Father Mattson did not answer at once. He looked at the thin wax candle, swaying slightly in the draft, and his face darkened.

"Peace?" he repeated. "Oh, Karen. Peace is a pretty wrapper they give to fools at Christmas. It doesn't exist. There are only pauses between wars. Or, more accurately, forms of war that temporarily don't require guns. Everything else is just different costumes on the same actor."

Karen involuntarily rubbed her glove over her hand. The candle crackled.

"Then why the globe?" she asked, without looking at him.

"Oh, this?" the priest perked up. "I'm saying this for clarity. Sometimes it's useful to show the parishioners which way the wind is blowing. Look: San Francisco. A beautiful city. The Golden Gate, seagulls, missionaries... And tons of provisions. Now it's a transshipment base. From there, ships, loaded to the brim, go straight to Japanese ports. To Nagasaki, to Yokohama, to Sasebo. Whatever your heart desires: crackers, canned goods, fodder, bandages, even telegraph wires. Everything for the Japanese army. And all from the States."

Karen frowned.

"But... But we are neutral!"

"Neutral as a shark in a goldfish bowl," Mattson chuckled. "All under the president's protection. Our speculators, capitalists, whatever you want to call them, they're all making a fortune right now. The Japanese are buying everything up like sharks when scraps fall off a passenger liner. Only these aren't crumbs. These are whole hangars. And ours are happy to oblige."

He was silent for a second, but his voice suddenly became harsher.

"Do you know what's going on in Texas now? In the slaughterhouses? They drive herds there - cows, bulls, calves - everything. They slaughter them without counting. The workshops are awash in blood. Because they need meat. Canned, convenient, easy to transport. Millions of cans. And all for the Japanese. Our farmers are getting rich, our bankers are clapping their hands, and Japanese sailors on the front lines are unwrapping American canned goods. That's the kind of 'peace' we have."

Karen listened with her lips pressed together. She seemed to be feeling a little stuffy - although the candle had almost burned out, a thin line of soot stretched upward, trembled and disappeared in the draft. Karen sat as if under the weight of everything that had been said - small, straight, with her hands neatly folded in her lap. She was still looking at the globe, at that scarlet thread that now seemed to her not just a route - rather a vein through which poisoned blood flowed.

Father Mattson looked from her to his teapot, as if he was about to offer to make more, but then he noticed her face. Her brows were slightly furrowed, her eyes were looking away, but her lips were pressed together like a child's who had been told there was poison in the gingerbread.

"You look like I just took away your hope," he said softly.

Karen started as if she had just woken up.

"I... I'm sorry. It's just that all this..." She waved her hand towards the globe. "I found out this morning... Morris Creighton died. While hunting. They say it was an accident. But who knows. He was..." she hesitated, choosing her words", he was not the closest person to us, but... Death, so quick, sudden... Sometimes it seems like it's not just like that. That it's like... Like a harbinger."

Father Mattson listened silently. Karen, without waiting for a reaction, suddenly said:

"When I was a girl, at my aunt's house in Cincinnati, we were always told who the Antichrist was. First Napoleon, then, I remember, someone seriously talked about Peter the Great. They even joked that he introduced razors and boots, which means he was definitely Mr.an. And now I think... Can the Antichrist be, well... From just one nation? Does he have to be, say, Russian? Or Japanese? Or..." she suddenly lowered her voice, "a Jew?"

Father Mattson did not flinch or make the slightest gesture. He simply put the kettle back and folded his hands in his lap, leaning back slightly in his chair.

"The Bible," he began, as if retelling a lecture text he had long since memorized, "doesn't say anywhere that the Antichrist will be English, Arab, or Assyrian. Oddly enough," he chuckled, "God has a bad memory for flags. If it were that simple, it would be easier, right?"

Karen nodded without smiling.

"And so, evil can come from anywhere," he continued. "Even from the southern coast, or from a northern warehouse. Even in uniforms, or in robes, or in breeches."

He straightened up a little and, suddenly with mischief, added:

"You see, Karen, that's the devil's ingenuity. He works on the Rocambole principle."

"Excuse me, for what reason? - she didn't understand.

"There was a writer, Ponson du Terrail, a Frenchman. He invented the hero Rocambole, who fought evil by using decent people, because, according to him, you can't trust scoundrels - they'll betray you. But an honest person, if you convince him that he's doing good, is an ideal tool. And the devil understood this long ago. He's not looking for scum. He's looking for the best of us. Those who sincerely believe that they're doing good."

He looked at Karen seriously, no longer joking:

"Sometimes the Antichrist doesn't have horns. He's just a very persuasive reformer. Or... Or a philanthropist," Father Mattson concluded.

Karen didn't answer. She was looking into the corner where the candle was glowing dimly. The words about Rocambole, about honest people who are used by the devil, were stuck in her head like a burr.

Well, that's great, she thought, if evil can be anyone, then where to look for it?

There was no consolation. On the contrary, something cold and tenacious rose in her soul, like water in a cellar in spring. Karen tried to think logically. A look inside the family - where they usually look for the causes of drafts.

Gene... Everything comes too easy to him. Creighton died, and the firm could neatly, without fuss, intercept all his clients. It wasn't that Gene was overjoyed, but he didn't look particularly down in the morning. He said, "I feel very sorry for Morris, he was a great accountant." An accountant! An hour after the death was announced, he was already "there." As if in mourning for a broken pen.

Delia... The girl is smart, but stubborn, like a Dutch donkey. She argues all the time, doesn't listen, pesters with questions like "why don't the apostles have last names." And then there's this boy. Xander. A servant boy, and she treats him like an equal, even worse - as if he's in charge. They whisper, laugh, make up some games, drag carrots out of the kitchen like two rabbits. And what if this is already starting to... Something?

Karen shuddered. She wasn't a prude, but sharing secrets with the serfs was the beginning of something unstoppable. Then these children would grow up and start putting red flags on the table and discussing how to "destroy class differences."

Josephine... Well, there's nothing to say about that. A person who believes in spiritualists is already a danger. Especially if she wears brooches with symbols that look like they were drawn by devils with poor eyesight. She says that today she's wearing an "amulet against other people's thoughts." Well, thanks, now Karen feels like an "other person's thought." Where did she read that? There were definitely no chapters in the Gospel about how to summon Aunt Martha's spirit.

And finally, Xander. Silent. Always looking up. With a look as if he is about to reveal the secret of the universe or ask for a piece of pie. Always hungry, always barefoot (even when he has shoes on), always next to Delia. Like a shadow. And what is a shadow? The absence of light. Very symbolic.

Karen sighed. Something was definitely going on. It was as if there was someone in the house... Someone else. But everyone was living as if nothing had happened. Eating porridge, arguing about the newspapers, pouring milk into their tea. And only she was walking around the rooms, like a guard in a warehouse, checking to see if the door to something scary was ajar. Everything seemed suspicious - from Gene's too cheerful morning to Xander's too deep looks. And yet, behind this tension, there remained the feeling that she was the only one walking around a stage with the lights out, while the others were playing a farce with the lights on.

At that moment Father Mattson suddenly perked up, as if he had remembered something funny. He turned to her, narrowed his eyes, and with the same half-smile with which he had just lifted the book above his head, said:

"But maybe the Japanese are right."

Karen raised her eyebrows.

"Excuse me, in what?"

"In the way they laugh at our devil. Well, just think about it", he leaned back in his chair, as if anticipating a joke, "in other religions evil is presented... Well, at least with dignity. Some snake goddess, or a cunning spirit with a thousand eyes, or a dancing demon with a head on fire - scary, mysterious, in general, serious. And ours? Half-ram, half-satyr, with goat legs, a tail, warts and..." he hesitated, "with the character of an offended neighbor."

Karen blinked.

"Do you mean to say that... That the devil is stupid?

"Who else is he, if not a fool?" Father Mattson continued excitedly, as if he was enjoying a mental argument with someone very stubborn. "Look: a creature that for centuries supposedly controls the sins of mankind, creates intrigues, wars, temptations, and all for what? To... To spite? To scratch the soul? To take souls to the frying pan? You feel - this is not evil... It is a whim. It is as if the Queen of England declared war on a bakery for a dry cake."

Karen suddenly chuckled, involuntarily but sincerely. Her face brightened a little.

"Excuse me," she said, "but... But 'The Queen of England against the cake' sounds like a headline in the evening paper."

"Exactly!" the priest rejoiced. "You understand me. Even the Japanese, with their foxes, tengu and rain spirits, look at our devil and ask: is this, excuse me, your universal evil? This? I mean, this... Grumbling ungulate? No way. They say: if you are all-powerful, why do you behave like a person with nerves and malnutrition?"

Karen laughed, lightly, almost with relief. She suddenly felt the tension in her shoulders relax. Maybe it was true that if the devil existed, he wasn't the monster from the Bible, but the comical neighbor downstairs who scratched at night and turned on the gramophone at two in the morning. And maybe it wasn't the horns that we should be afraid of, but the invisible habits that sneaked up under the guise of common sense.

She thought: What if evil is just bad taste taken to its extreme?

...666...

While Karen sat in Father Mattson's dimly lit office, thinking about goat's legs and the Queen of England, on the other side of town, on the sun-drenched parade ground near the Tauride Garden, everything was boiling like a kettle on the fire.

The boys were gathering there - students from the Second St. Petersburg School. They all had caps on, combed hair and huge expectations for the upcoming match. Dust was already swirling over the field - not from the balls, but from the stamping: everyone was trying to warm up so that everyone could see how formidable, fast and generally the second Harry from London's Wolverhampton he was.

And along the field, on long wooden benches, as if specially placed for this great spectacle, sat the pupils of the Alexandrovskaya Girls' Gymnasium. All of them were hand-picked: in formal dresses, with ribbons in their hair, with notebooks on their knees, which no one, of course, was going to open.

Among them was Delia. She sat as expected: her back straight, her hands folded, her gaze calm. But if you looked closely - oh-oh-oh! - her eyes were jumping like birds: from one boy to another, from boots to balls, from balls to a familiar black hairdo at the edge of the field. The other girls were whispering excitedly:

"That one in the dark cap is good! He runs like a cat whose tail is on fire."

"And the one with freckles! He has caramel-colored eyes."

"Oh, and this one seems to have looked at me!"

"Of course. He looks at everyone in such a way that everyone thinks he's looking at them. His name is Grisha, and he charms everyone, even the chemistry teacher!"

The girls giggled, covering their mouths with handkerchiefs, but at the same time they glanced sideways at one boy who stood a little apart from all the fuss. It was unlikely that any of them knew his name. He was not wearing a school uniform, but a faded tunic, with rolled-up sleeves and sturdy but worn boots.

It was Xander.

He stood at the edge of the field, not trying to join any team. His face was calm, even a little stony. But there was a shadow in his eyes. He saw how the teams played out, how they shouted out names one by one, how one by one the boys went to their own. But they didn't call him. They simply didn't notice him.

Xander seemed to have shrunk in height. His shoulders slumped slightly, his hands clenched into fists. He even looked down when he heard someone whisper from the bench:

"And that one, that one over there... Who is that anyway?"

"Maybe someone's servant's brother? Look, he's wearing someone else's shoes!

"No... He's just... Not one of us."

Delia said nothing. But suddenly she turned her head slowly, so that no one would notice that she was singling someone out with her gaze. Xander was standing at the edge of the field, and their eyes met for a moment. Unsmilingly, seriously, but as if they recognized each other in the crowd.

Xander quickly looked away. He felt ashamed. For his shoes. For the socks that had come loose from his pants. For the hands that didn't have the ball. For standing there like a chair that had been forgotten.

And yet he didn't leave. He stood there like a bayonet. Silently, firmly, as only those who are not invited, but who stay anyway, can do. And all around there was already a cheerful buzz - the game had not yet begun, but the boys were in such a mood as if they had won the cup of the entire Russian Empire.

Somewhere closer to the benches, right in front of the girls, one of the schoolboys - thin, with a lively face and hands that could not find a place for themselves - slapped his palm on his knee and suddenly exclaimed:

"Gentlemen! Before we start, I'll tell you a joke. A naval one. About regulations and honor!"

The boys at the balls immediately listened, and on the girls' benches a curious murmur began to stir. Delia raised her eyebrows, but did not turn around. She simply looked ahead a little more attentively.

"So, there was one sailor..." the schoolboy began, squatting and waving his arms as if a bell was ringing. "Not just a sailor, but a naval genius! He knew the regulations down to the last comma. He could recite by heart who should salute, who shouldn't, how to stand, how to cough, how to blink an eye so that the fleet would be pleased. So they gave him permission to go out into the city - alone! But they strictly warned him: 'According to the regulations, got it? Salute whoever you meet, but don't mix them up! And don't disgrace the uniform!'"

At the words "according to regulations," several girls on the benches automatically straightened up, as if they themselves were being reprimanded. One of them even had her cheeks flushed at the thought that she was about to get a reprimand for her uneven posture. Apparently, discipline at their gymnasium is not so great either.

"And so..." the schoolboy continued with a solemn expression, "a sailor came out into the city. His jacket was polished, his boots were like mirrors, his chest was sticking out. He walked along, so importantly, his eyes narrowed like an officer's. Suddenly - a general! The sailor, as he had been taught, 'bang!' saluted."

"Is 'Bang!' according to the regulations?" one of the girls whispered, and the bench whispered back with cheerful laughter.

"In a naval style!" the narrator winked. "Next comes - a lieutenant! Again - bang! And everything is so decorous, in form, as if the whole street was a parade!"

Xander listened silently, but his face was no longer stony. He still stood to the side, but his lips were touched by the most cautious, barely noticeable smile. Not because the joke was funny, but because everything around was alive, cheerful, real. And because Delia, without turning her head, still did not take her eyes off the field.

Meanwhile, the story was gaining momentum. The high school orator, inspired by the attention, began to speak louder and more importantly, as if he were already standing on a theater stage:

"And then - imagine! - the sailor walks as if on a ruler, and suddenly... And suddenly he sees something. A man in a greatcoat, a belly like a launch, a red face, a stern look. On his head is a cap with a cockade, but it's all crooked, and some kind of order, and in general - everything is like a boss's, only suspiciously... Suspiciously wet. He walks, staggers... Well, clearly an important person!"

"Is he drunk or something?" whispered the girl in blue, dropping her handkerchief.

"Shh!" hissed her friend. "Don't interrupt. This is the climax."

"And so", the narrator continued", the sailor stood up straight - like a stick! His eyes were fixed on the spot, his chest forward, he saluted - like in a textbook. He stood there! And the "admiral" looked at him and... And muttered: 'Oh, you... Well done, greenhorn'. And with such a naval word that even a seagull would blush!"

The benches shook. The laughter didn't explode, but rolled like a wave. The schoolgirls tried to maintain decorum, covered themselves with gloves and fans, whispered "you can't", "it's uncultured", "he did salute after all". But their lips trembled treacherously.

"It's n-not proper... To laugh at military honor," said the most diligent of the girls, the one sitting almost in the center, with a perfectly tied ribbon. Her cheeks flushed like those of a guilty actress, but her eyes still sparkled. "Even if the story does cause..." here she hesitated, "...a joyful excitement."

"Yeah," nodded her friend, lowering her eyes. "Of course... Excitement," only then she covered her mouth with her glove again and snorted.

Even Delia, although she did not laugh, the corners of her lips trembled slightly. Xander, who had been watching all this from afar, suddenly felt... Not separate. He did not understand when exactly it happened - but it was as if the air around him ceased to be dense. The fun was not about him and not because of him - but he seemed to have become a participant in it. Not an observer, not a shadow, not "just standing here - but a boy who also heard a joke. And to whom, if he suddenly wanted, he could smile.

And the ending of the joke, as is expected in a good story, turned out to be so absurd that even the boys, who had been feigning seriousness up until then, burst out laughing.

"Well, and then..." the narrator announced solemnly, lifting his chin, "a real lieutenant comes out to meet our hero! With stripes, with a face like from a drill textbook. And our sailor... "here he effectively froze, "...didn't salute."

"Ouch-ouch-ouch!" the girls whispered in chorus.

"He was frozen in fear! His eyes - pop! pop! - and that's it. And the lieutenant - no fool - gave him a slap on the back of the head. Not hard, in a friendly way. But so he knew what for!"

They were laughing out loud. One boy theatrically pretended to get a slap on the back of the head and swayed like a sailor on a rocking boat. The second one dramatically clasped his hands on his chest, exclaiming: "Sorry, Comrade Commander, I made a mistake!"

"But it turned out..." the narrator did not give up, shouting over the hubbub, "the 'admiral' to whom they were saluting was not an officer at all! But a retired sailor! A doorman in a tenement house! He ordered the overcoat himself, with stripes and an eagle, such that even the staff officers would be envious!"

Here someone almost fell off the bench.

"So!" he concluded, spreading his arms", from then on our hero began to look not only at the shoulder straps, but also at the eagles, and at the braid, and even at the boots! So as not to fall for show-offs any more.

The boys immediately burst into laughter. One of them, agile and tall, leaned over slightly and pretended to give someone a slap on the back of the head. The second grabbed his head and froze in the pose of a startled sailor. The third began to parody the regulation step, comically stretching his legs forward, as if marching on a spring.

A small storm began on the benches with the schoolgirls. Even the strictest of them suddenly grabbed her side - not from pain, but from laughter. One dropped her fan and, blushing, tried to pick it up without raising her head. Another simply buried her face in the hem of her neighbor's dress in order to restrain herself a little.

Delia only smiled slightly, but her gaze softened, as if she herself agreed: yes, it was fun.

And Xander... He suddenly felt something click inside him - but not terribly, just lightly. He laughed. At first timidly, as if checking if he could. Then - a little louder. And then he even clapped, briefly, with his hands - for real. Not for show, not to be noticed, but simply because it was funny, cheerful, and he was here too. Among everyone. Among his own.

The narrator, hearing this clap, glanced at it briefly, but did not react. As if to say, so what - one clapped. There is a whole regiment of them!

But Xander didn't care. Because at that moment he felt like he was not 'on the field', but in the game. Even without the ball. He was still standing in the shade of the acacia, as before - an unwavering observer.

And at that very moment, when even the teachers standing in the distance had started laughing, something resembling a small commotion began on the field.

"What's wrong with you, Golubev?!" Jerome Creighton's voice was heard.

"I sprained it... I think..." Valentin's voice was thin and uncertain, as if his leg had suddenly become embarrassed by the attention. He sat on the edge of the field, holding his ankle and squinting, as if he was about to cry.

"Well, great!" barked Jerome, who looked especially important today: his brand new boots sparkled as if they had been polished with English shoe polish itself, and there was not a single spot on his white shirt. "No replacement, then? That's it, we can disband the teams!

"Hey, let's..." one of the boys began, looking around.

And then the red-haired Petrov, always the first to shout something sarcastic, pointed his finger behind his back:

"Out! Let this one go! This... This ladies' man, he-he!" He laughed, looking at Xander, still standing a little to the side, behind the schoolgirls.

Xander shuddered. His hand twitched involuntarily - either to hide, or, on the contrary, to step forward. He didn't know.

"Are you crazy?" Jerome said with disgust, looking at him as if someone had suggested playing with a doormat. "He's the cook's son. From the house of York. Her errand boy!"

Some of the boys gasped. The girls froze as if on command, and one, especially curious, even stood up to get a better look at the "cook's son." Xander felt his ears burn, as if they had been peppered.

"According to the rules," Smirnov, well-groomed and wearing glasses, interjected, "only high school students participate. Only. It's written down."

"It's written where? On your forehead?" drawled the lanky Yermolov, lazily rocking back and forth on his heels. He always had an expression on his face as if he were laughing at something known only to him. "By the way, the Gospel says something completely different."

"In what other Gospel?" Jerome muttered.

"In the one you apparently read backwards", answered Yermolov, not without pleasure. "Judge not, lest ye be judged. And if the boy can run, let him run. The ball is round, it does not recognize castes.

Some of the boys exchanged glances. Delia lifted her chin slightly, as if she had heard everything but was not showing it. And Xander stood there, feeling how the ground beneath his feet had suddenly ceased to be so solid: either he wanted to fall through, or, on the contrary, to run as fast as he could.

Then a squabble began.

"How can you!" one of the well-fed and confident ones was indignant. "Cooks' children in football are like a frog in tea: the moisture is the same, but everything is spoiled!

"Nowhere does it say that it's forbidden," someone muttered from behind. "There's no sign on the gate: 'No entry for plebeians.'"

"Let him play if he doesn't get in the way!" Yermolov snapped, and someone next to him nodded. "What are we doing, a tournament on aristocracy?

"No, well listen, this is a match, not... Not charity!"

With each remark the voices grew louder, like those of market traders before the rain. The girls on the benches perked up, looked at each other, and one even asked, quite loudly:

"And the cook's children run worse?"

After this phrase, the argument suddenly died down - as if someone had slapped their hand on the table. Jerome darkened, pressed his lips together and waved his hand:

"Even if he is a gypsy baron himself, let him go! Just hurry up - our score doesn't add up!"

And that's all.

Xander suddenly realized that now it was really possible. No one grabbed him by the sleeve, shouted "stop!", shook a finger. He just went. One step, one more step, and here he was - on the field. On the grass that he had just seen from afar.

His cheeks were burning like a tomato forgotten in the sun. He hardly raised his eyes to anyone - he only saw the toes of his boots, which had suddenly become unbearably crooked and dusty.

"Over here!" someone shouted and waved his hand.

They put him in the stupidest position - somewhere on the side, right at the line, closer to the fence, almost under the acacia. A position where all you can do is catch dust and dodge balls thrown from afar. All the newbies started there. And Xander knew - it was no accident. It was Jerome. He had set it all up. He was probably smiling to himself, watching how the "cook's son" would puff himself up for laughter.

But the field is big. And the ball is round. And something clicked in Xander's chest - as if a locked door had suddenly opened. But here's the problem: right behind that door there were no flowers and applause, but dust, heat, and a ball hitting him straight in the stomach.

The first minutes were just torture. The ball, as luck would have it, bypassed Xander, as if he, the leather one, knew who the newcomer was and whose son he was. Xander ran, tried to hold his position, as he saw others do, but it all looked like he was just getting in the way. Once he almost collided with his own player, and the latter hissed: "Watch where you're going, kitchen hero!"

And then Jerome made a pass, seemingly by chance. Only it wasn't a pass at all, but a well-aimed projectile, and not towards the goal, but straight into Xander's stomach. The ball hit with a dry sound, like a slap on the back of the head from fate. Xander bent over and coughed, trying to catch the air that seemed to have left him along with the remnants of his dignity.

The girls' benches gasped cheerfully, then burst into giggles and whispers, like weeds. Only Delia jumped up and shouted something angry, but either the wind carried her voice away, or the girls' hubbub drowned it out. She remained standing, clenching her fists, and her lips moved, as if she were going into battle without a weapon.

Xander straightened up. His cheeks were burning, either from pain, or from resentment, or from the fact that he wanted to wipe his eyes - but he couldn't. Never.

And Jerome grinned and, passing by, said in a low voice:

"Be careful, you cook's son. This is sport. Not ballet."

Then he winked at his friends, and they giggled. Smirnov even pretended to stagger, clutching his stomach, and falsely moaned: "Oh, mother, you've ruined my plebeian appetite!"

"Does he even know which side the ball is kicked from?" someone from the back line said out loud, and toward the benches so the girls could hear.

Xander was silent. His head was buzzing. He felt that same "click" in his chest begin to flare up - not with self-pity, not with fear, but with something else. As if someone had whispered in his ear: "Well, now you're definitely on the field. Welcome."

But everything really changed in the second half.

The sun rose higher, the shadows became shorter, the air became drier and louder. Xander stood in his usual, most dishonorable position at the line, in the dust and weeds, and felt as if he was about to get hit in the stomach again. But the ball suddenly went differently. Cleaner. Straighter. And for a moment - as if he had chosen it himself.

The pass went the wrong way. One of Jerome's players missed, and the ball rolled, losing speed, straight to him. Xander, without thinking, lunged. His legs remembered themselves - like at seven years old, when dad was still alive and they kicked a rag ball around the yard: barefoot, in the dust, with squeals, laughter and bruises. And then there were no "sons of cooks" or boots from England - only passion and dust.

"Now," he whispered. "Now."

He picked up the ball, albeit awkwardly, but precisely, precisely - as it should be! And at that very moment something clicked in his head in a new way: "In Manchuria, where they are now fighting the Japanese, soldiers are dying for their country, and I... I am here fighting with the young master for my Delia."

"For his own." He was even surprised by this thought. But it flared up like a match in the dark - and did not go out. And from this match everything else caught fire. He rushed forward. Not gracefully, not like an athlete, but like a man who needs to. Let it be choking, let it be breathing heavily - but he rushed as best he could.

And suddenly - a chance. A free partner. Their team captain, puffing but in position. Xander stopped abruptly, turned his leg and... And made a pass.

The pass was precise. Not very strong, but accurate. As if the air itself helped. The captain received it - and, without hesitation, drove the ball into the goal. Straight. Beautifully. Silently.

There was silence for a second. Then a roar, laughter, shouts, applause. Someone whistled. Someone jumped up.

Xander stood with his eyes wide open. Everything inside him was shaking like a string. He didn't believe it was him. That it had happened. That everyone had seen it.

And on the bench was Delia. She wasn't clapping. She wasn't shouting. She was just sitting. But in her eyes there was that same light he'd known since childhood: a glow of pride. Not loud, but real.

After this goal, an almost carnival-like bustle began on the field. The captain patted Xander on the shoulder (and it seemed like he didn't do it very hard on purpose), Yermolov smiled with approval, and one of the younger players, his eyes wide open, whispered: "It turns out you're no slouch, you cook's son!"

The team was delighted. In a couple of minutes, Xander turned from an outsider and unnecessary into "that guy who made the pass." Simple, football magic.

And the girls on the benches began to bustle about. Some reached closer, some began to whisper:

"Where did he come from?"

"Why not in a school uniform?"

"He seems to be one of the servants... But how he gave the ball!"

"His eyes... Are like..." and then there would be a pause, filled with three exclamation marks and four hearts.

But no one knew exactly who he was, where he was from, or why his collar wasn't starched like everyone else's. A secret hero, a football mirage.

Meanwhile, Xander quietly left the field. Not waiting for applause, hugs, or praise. As soon as the game resumed, he stepped beyond the line and went to the fence, to the very shadow from which he had appeared. As if he said to himself: "That's it. I did what I had to."

Jerome, watching this, grimaced. In his eyes - misunderstanding, irritation, and that same caustic envy that tickles the throat so unpleasantly.

"Ah! You chickened out!" he shouted, trying to sound contemptuous. "You showed yourself - and ran away! A typical plebeian!"

But even he himself heard how false it sounded. As if someone had played a false note on the piano - and the girls, as if on command, stopped looking at him. And some continued to look at the one who did not ask for applause and did not demand scenes - but did his job.

Jerome frowned. The thought was spinning in his head: 'Fall... Fall in value.' And not from a banker or a high school rector - but from the girls! From those who yesterday were still giggling at other people's ears, and today were looking not at uniforms and collars, but at who was passing the ball, and not shaking it.

And at that very moment, when Jerome, smiling tensely, tried to appear unperturbed, Delia already realized that Xander had disappeared. He was not on the sideline, nor among the substitutes, nor at the goal. He had left. Quietly, as he had come.

At first she simply stood up, as if to adjust the ribbon on her hat, then she took a step forward, but Josephine intercepted her. As always, she appeared as if from under the ground, with the face of a tutor and the gait of a governess.

"Miss! No, no! You can't just say ;aller vers les garçons' like that!" she whispered sternly, mixing French with rather lively Russian, as if the thoughts in her head were in one language, and her mouth was working in another. "Your mother will be extremely déçue... Oh, I mean disappointed!"

"But he..." Delia began, but Josephine had already built a living wall in front of her.

"Il faut être digne! A decent girl doesn't run around the gardens after boys, especially alone, and not after..." here she stopped short, not knowing how to gracefully call 'the cook's son'.

"I'll just see where he's gone," Delia said firmly, and with a cunning sideways movement, as in a fencing lesson, she dodged and slipped out from under Josephine's arm.

"Delia York!" she gasped, "I'll tell your mother!" But she was already speaking into the air - Delia was running.

The dust rose above the garden path, the boys were playing again, the girls were whispering again, and she, in a lace dress and with determination on her face, was catching up with someone who didn't even know that he was being caught.

Xander walked quickly, without looking back, with his hands in his pockets. He had almost reached the garden gate when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

"Xander!" she shouted, slightly out of breath.

He turned around. The sun was in his eyes, and for a second he didn't realize it was her. But then he recognized her - by her gait, by her look, by the way she was completely different from the others. Xander froze, as if he were back on the field and the ball was rushing towards him.

"What's wrong?" Delia exhaled, running closer. "Why did you leave?"

Xander looked down and shrugged.

"Why stay there? They didn't call me because of the game. They just needed one. Like they dragged the bench onto the field - so the players' score would match. And now they stare at me like I'm a circus dog. I played, bowed - and I'm free."

He spoke without malice, but with that dry bitterness that comes from those who have learned too early not to expect justice.

"And you too," he added, almost in a whisper, "with them. You look as if... As if nothing happened. But they, no matter how they smile, still think that I am nobody."

Delia flushed, her cheeks turning the color of a tea rose.

"It's not true!" she almost screamed. "You don't understand! I was sitting there and just waiting for you to... For you to do something. And you did! You were better than all those dandies. All they know how to do is judge each other by their collars, but you - you're the real deal!

Xander was still looking away, but his breathing became slower.

"I saw how they looked at you after the pass. Not mockingly. Respectfully. Even the captain!" She grabbed his elbow, forgetting about propriety, about Josephine, about her mother - about everything. "And now everyone knows: a simple man can be nobler than any young lord!"

Xander turned his head slightly towards her. Slowly. As if he was afraid to believe her.

"Do you really think so?"

"I know," Delia said firmly, "because you're shaking with anger and resentment, and they're laughing as if nothing had happened. You have a heart, Xander. And they only have a school emblem on a button."

He smiled for the first time all day. Just a little.

And at that very moment the road near Tavrichesky suddenly began to tremble.

"What is it?" Delia asked, turning around.

Xander also raised his eyes.

Along the dusty alley, with a rumble and a clang, as if the military music itself had decided to ride past, a carriage appeared - luxurious, like in a picture from the Niva magazine. Gray trotters with apples, as if shaved, hooves click with such a bearing that even the bushes by the path swayed. The landau - black, like a varnished coffin, with a golden coat of arms on the door. The coachman - as if on parade, in snow-white gloves, with a straight back and an expression of complete contempt for everything that is not a carriage.

"Wow," was all Delia breathed out.

Inside sat two ladies, in sable capes, like high society lionesses. On their noses were lorgnettes, in their hands were white handkerchiefs with red crosses. Formally - mercy. But in their eyes - belladonna and boredom. Their eyebrows were drawn in a dark arc, their lips were scarlet, their earrings sparkled, and on their fingers were diamonds, such that they could have blinded half a company if the soldiers had forgotten to put on their helmets.

On the contrary, no less picturesque, are two officer-adjutants: cigarettes in their teeth, epaulettes that could be used to hammer nails, sabres like mirrors, reflecting even shadows.

"Look," Xander muttered, "they're both merciful and smart. With one eye they help the sick, with the other they take away the cadets."

One of the adjutants laughed at that moment, throwing back his head. The carriage slowed down a little, and one could even hear one of the ladies languidly singing:

"Ah, Nikolay Petrovich, you are saying horrible things again..."

And - laughter, silvery, like a spoon in a glass of champagne.

Xander was still standing there, as if under hypnosis. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, like a boy who had seen the living emperor for the first time. The crowd around him began to stir - someone gasped, someone, on the contrary, snorted. Someone even whistled from the back line - either from admiration or mischief.

Xander leaned slightly towards Delia and, almost in a whisper, still not taking his eyes off the carriage, asked:

"And who is this?"

Delia seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then her lips tightened and her voice came out quietly, but with that sharpness that can make even a sunny day seem chilly.

"This is Madame Korzhenevskaya. And her daughter. They are taking their gentlemen for a ride. They are on holiday..." she looked away for a second - in Greece. You see."

She said "in Greece" with such an inflection as if she were talking about another planet, where they get to on tears and gold. And now these ladies with crosses on their neck scarves and diamonds on their fingers are riding in the sun as if all in the world is a ball and cakes.

"And here?" Delia continued, no longer whispering. "All over Russia - there is blood. Tears. Death notices. People get bread on ration cards, and they - these! - with sables and earrings worth half a teacher's salary."

She pointed to the rings sparkling in the landau window and cried out with a passion that was unexpected for her:

"Where do you think they got such stones from? Did they dig them themselves? Yeah, right. They stole! They robbed! They took everything that others didn't get! They filled their pockets, and now they're off for a walk!"

Xander even took a step back in surprise. He had never seen Delia like this. She wasn't crying or screaming, but there was metal in her voice. A sound that made his chest ache.

"I hate them," she said quietly, but with such force, like a curse. "All that scum!"

The carriage sped on, the harness still jingling somewhere behind the trees, and in Delia's eyes burned something much brighter than the diamonds in the ladies' fingers.

But this cry - one, clear as a blow - 'I hate them, all that scum!' was enough for the following to happen.

Behind him, there was a rushing sound of footsteps, as if someone was about to take a quick march down the gravel path. And before Xander could turn around, Josephine appeared, out of breath. She was as pale as a dry-cleaning sheet, and she grabbed Delia's hand as if she wanted to save her from the burning building, not to take her away.

"Mon Dieu! Miss!" she hissed with the grace of a person who has forgotten her native language from horror. "Do you even understand what you said? Here! In front of everyone! On the street! This is not just impudence - this is... This is a real disaster!"

Delia, who had not expected anything like this, was amazed:

"But I just..."

"Only?!" the porcelain of propriety was already cracking in Josephine's voice. "You said it out loud, and anyone could have heard! Servants, provocateurs, officials, agents! And what if someone from the carriage stopped? They can have ears!

Delia stood there, confused, her mouth hanging open for a second, but then, as if something had clicked inside her, she answered:

"But I... I just told the truth."

"The awful truth must not be spoken out loud!" Josephine glanced sharply around, as if there was a spy with a notepad lurking behind every tree. "Come on! Now! Mrs. York will be furious!"

She dragged the girl away with an unyielding force, casting a glance at Xander along the way. There was no malice or condemnation in that glance, only fear. Fear - as if he and Delia had run into some dangerous game together, the rules of which they did not know, but she did. And she was very afraid of how it would all end.

Xander stood there, confused. The buzzing in his ears wouldn't go away - as if the words that had flown out of Delia were now echoing inside him: Bastards... Blood... Burial grounds...

He watched them for a long time until the figures disappeared around the bend in the garden.

...666...

Later that evening, Josephine sat in Delia's room, perched on the edge of a chair as if preparing to confess someone else's sins. She sat upright, taut as a bowstring, her fingers fidgeting with a handkerchief, her lips trembling - not from cold, but from dread. Her curls had escaped from under her bonnet, and her eyes darted around the room, filled with dolls, ribbons, and books she herself had chosen for the young lady, thinking them très innocent.

"I... I'm not talking about that... Ce garçon de cuisine! How do you say... Oh, mon Dieu, the kitchen boy!" she began, stumbling over her words, mixing French with Russian. "No, no, not him, pardon! Lord, forgive me!"

Delia sat across from her, composed, legs tucked under, her face showing no trace of remorse. Her dark eyes gleamed in the lamplight, her fingers thoughtfully toying with the hem of her dress, as if oblivious to the governess's panic.

"It's about the words, ma petite!" Josephine jabbed a finger into the air, as if the words were buzzing around like flies. "Such dreadful words! C'est scandaleux! You can't speak like that, Delia! It's... It's... A political catastrophe! Do you understand? You were talking about the Tsar, about rebellion! That's not for a young demoiselle!"

"But I only said what I think," Delia replied calmly. "Everyone says it."

"Qui?! Who is this 'everyone'?" Josephine squealed, her French tangling with Russian in her panic. "Tout le monde? What 'monde'? What's the Russian word... Crowd? People? Are you whispering with workers at the market? With those... Révolutionnaires?"

Delia shrugged, as if the conversation were about the weather.

"Well, I hear it from people. At home, in the shops, the servants talk. And..." She glanced out the window, where the April night was thickening. "It's just obvious. And I read 'The Heart of Midlothian' by Walter Scott. It's about John Porteous, the captain of the guard. He was cruel, debauched, beat his wife, mistreated his son, and crushed anyone who dared protest on duty. The people executed him for murdering the innocent. Isn't it the same here? Aren't our officials and police just like that?"

Josephine froze, as if doused with ice water. Walter Scott? 'The Heart of Midlothian'? She hadn't even opened that book! She only knew Scott wrote about knights and love - 'Ivanhoe', perhaps, or 'Quentin Durward', something romantique! She had given Delia his novels so she could dream of princesses and tournaments, not... Not mob justice! Porteous? Who was Porteous? Was that in a book about noble knights?

"Quoi? Porteous? Who's that?" she gasped. "What Porteous? I thought Scott was about... Chevaliers, love, castles! I gave you his books so you'd learn élégance, dream of balls! And you... You found executions? Rebellions? Some monster in power? C'est affreux! You're comparing that to our... our autorités? It's... Scandal!"

Delia straightened, her gaze sharp, almost adult.

"Why can't we talk about the Tsar?" she asked, her voice ringing with steel. "In the book, Porteous held power, but the people wouldn't tolerate his cruelty. He was no better than our officials. It's the same here! Look at those in the offices, the police. They're like Porteous - strange, cruel, taking bribes, crushing the poor for the slightest misstep while shielding the rich. Shouldn't the people overthrow them, like in Edinburgh? In the book, the people did what was just."

"Non, non, non!" Josephine nearly choked. "Never! Jamais! No talk of the Tsar, of rebellions! What's the word... Révolte? Oh, in Russian... Uprising? No, Delia! I didn't know those books had such horrors! I thought Scott was about princesses, valor! And instead... Executions? Mobs with axes? You want that here? C'est impossible! I wanted you to learn manners, not... not to plan an insurrection!"

"What if there's inequality in the world?" Delia met her gaze unflinchingly. "If the poor suffer more than the rich? Should we stay silent? In the book, the people didn't stay silent. They punished Porteous because he deserved it. And here? Is Russia any better? Our Porteous figures in uniforms are just the same. I read about the Scottish people, and I saw how the proletariat fights injustice. Is that wrong?"

"Par Dieu! Be quiet!" Josephine clutched her handkerchief as if it could save her. "This Scott! I didn't read his 'The Heart of Midlothian'! I thought it was all about chevaliers, amour! And you found... Rebellion! You're comparing our... Les fonctionnaires... To some villain? It's dangerous, Delia! This isn't a gentle novel! It's... Poison! I wanted you to dream of balls, and you're dreaming of... Guillotines!"

Delia's eyes blazed, but her voice remained even, tinged with defiance. "Oh, come now, Jo, everyone talks like this. Why can't I? In the book, the people were right to rise up. There's injustice all around us here too. Papa says there's inequality, and it's wrong. Mama called Korzhenevsky a pig with his lavish dinners. And..."

She hesitated, as if deciding whether to continue, then blurted out, "And Mr. Sergei told me about the Tsar..."

That was the final straw. Josephine leapt to her feet, her face white as chalk.

"Qui?! Mr. Sergei?!" she shrieked, waving her handkerchief. "Who's this Sergei? Non, non, c'est fini! No more uncles! No Sergeis, no Peters, no... No révolutionnaires! And no more Scott! Those books, I thought they were gentil, about knights, but they're... Diabolique! Porteous, the Tsar, rebellions, Mr. Sergei! It's all poison! C'est la fin!"

She grabbed her shawl, threw it on backward like a Roman centurion, and stormed out of the room. Her voice echoed through the stairwell:

"Corrompue! She's corrompue! This Scott! This Sergei! These... ouvriers with their proclamations! Or what's the word... Délégations? Mon Dieu! Porteous! Rebellion! C'est la révolution!"

Delia remained in the silence. She didn't sigh. She looked out the window, where the evening held the faint glow of a football field. On the table lay 'The Heart of Midlothian', open, and in the girl's mind echoed lines about a people who brought justice to a cruel captain who, like so many in Russia, hid behind power to perpetrate injustice.

Meanwhile, Josephine, wide-eyed, her shawl still backward, paced the hallway. Where to go? Who to tell? Delia's mother? Non, Mrs. York says questionable things herself! Father Mattson? He's a philosopher; he'd probably praise this liberté! The cook? Ne ris pas, Josephine! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! How could she, a governess who hadn't properly read Scott, think his books were innocent tales of knights and princesses? How could 'The Heart of Midlothian' plant in Delia's head the idea that the people should overthrow figures like Porteous, and that Russia was full of its own "Porteouses" in power? And this Uncle Seryozha! She had wanted to raise a lady, but instead, she had raised... A révolutionnaire!

And then her gaze fell on a figure slowly wandering down the street. Pitiful and at the same time - as strange as it may seem - majestic.

Elder Noah. A holy fool, a local landmark. Some twirled their temples, some crossed themselves, and children simply ran away. Everyone knew him, but no one knew where he was from, where he lived, or why he always smelled of candles, ram fat, and something… And something funereal.

He was stooped, with sloping shoulders and a round, bulging belly that for some reason resembled a loaf of bread hidden under his cassock. His face was covered with a red beard, disheveled and suspiciously greasy. His eyes were cloudy, fishy, like those of a cat that sees but does not look. His hair probably hadn't seen soap for years, but it stubbornly smelled of lamp oil - with an admixture of something disgustingly creamy.

Josephine froze.

"It's a sign, the omen..." she whispered. "Un vrai signe de Dieu..."

Of course. Just like in the books. Not a priest, not a professor, not a family friend - but an old man, a holy fool, a man of God, whom the Lord himself sent at that very moment. He was walking right down their street. Right now. But he hadn't been there before. Or had she simply not noticed?

"He will be the guide. He will snatch the child from the clutches of Satan. He knows the way," the thought beat in her mind, at once theatrical and desperate.

"Monsieur Noah!" she cried, running to the gate. "Wait! Arrêtez-vous! I... I... I need your... Your divine power! It's urgent! It's spiritual! It's a fille damnée! A lost child! You must..."

But the old man, without changing his expression, simply walked past. He turned his head for just a second - and his eyes, fishy and empty, met hers. What he saw there - if he saw anything - remained a mystery.

Josephine, however, decided: he accepted the challenge. And now everything depended on her. And meanwhile, if anyone from St. Petersburg said with confidence that no one knew where this strange fool nicknamed "The Holy Elder Noah" came from, then, alas, they were deeply mistaken. They knew. And how! It's just that his story was such... Well, such that not everyone would immediately tell it without bursting out laughing or crossing themselves.

The elder's real name was not The Holy Noah at all, but just Ferapont. He was born into a respected dynasty of priests - even their cat seemed to bless the bowl before eating. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather - all in cassocks, with beards and serious looks, even in photographs looking as if they were about to send you on a penitential fast.

Ferapont, of course, was destined for the clergy from childhood - he went to the theological school in Yekaterinoslav. He studied there diligently, but without joy, like someone cramming a shopping list in someone else's words. And then one day - boom! - he saw a column of infantry on the street, followed by artillerymen, and at the end - a proudly riding trumpeter, who blew his horn so that the Christmas trees in the heads of passers-by lit up. Ferapont then understood: to hell (sorry) with the catechism - 'I want to march'!

He begged his father for permission to become a cadet, his father suggested "to be patient a little longer", but "a little longer" dragged on, and soon his father even arranged an engagement for him with Arina - a kind girl, but with dreams of borscht, not guns. Furious, Ferapont ran away to Chuguev and entered a military school. There he turned out to be unexpectedly good at the liturgy (!) - and even impressed the general. But when the general asked whether he would pray or command in battle, Ferapont realized that since even the military joked about his cassock, then apparently there was no way to get rid of it.

His father found him, brought him back home, married him to Arina, and ordained him as a priest. Everything would have been fine, but life in marriage resembled the comedy 'strangers live in the same apartment': Arina cooked borscht, Ferapont read 'On Faith' and felt like he was in a sanatorium with very boring evenings. And when Arina died in childbirth along with their child, he became completely unbearable.

The culmination was the confession of a merchant who beat his worker and framed him. Ferapont, deciding to save the innocent, went to the bishop - but he declared that confession was sacred and let the victim suffer.

Ferapont took it and spat in his face. Right in his face, as is! The monks wanted to tie him up, but he ran away, tearing off his cassock, and disappeared.

Since then, a strange holy fool with the smell of lamp oil and the habits of a half-philosopher, half-madman has been wandering around Petersburg. The children of Petersburg are afraid, the tradeswomen cross themselves, and Josephine - oh, Josephine! - is sure that he was sent to her personally from heaven, and now, seeing this fallen man before her, she, led by inspiration (and slight hysteria), grabbed his hand as if she were catching a life preserver. She seemed to herself to be a prophetess.

"This is... This is the omen!" she whispered, grabbing the old man by the elbow. "Vous êtes envoyé! You are a messenger from above! From le ciel!" She almost shouted the last words, causing a passing janitor to drop his broom.

The Holy Elder Noah froze like a brown bear brought into a city store. His cloudy eyes filled with alarm, and his whiskers twitched.

"Who? What? Where?" he began to mumble, looking into her face. "I'm a saint! I myself went with the sivizdu! That's where they whispered to me... That it's time to cleanse someone, well!"

Josephine wasn't listening. Repeating "c'est la grace divine" and "allez, allez," she dragged him along the pavement, tugging at his cassock as he went, which trailed menacingly, collecting road dust and candy wrappers.

Karen caught up with them in the hallway of the house and, seeing them, gasped loudly.

"Dear God!" she breathed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Josephine, are you in a fever?! Who is this?! What is this?! And why is it in our house?!"

"He... He is... Un saint! A saint, I mean! Le plus vrai possible! Just like... Like the apostle Paul!"

The old man, pleased with this introduction, turned to Karen and bowed politely - almost falling over. Then, staring at the dusty corner by the stairs, he muttered:

"That's... What do you call me... Holy Elder... Noah... I... I cleanse with thought! Taking off all sorts of things, so that they don't stir... Uh... These, you see, devils!"

"He's mumbling," Karen said coldly. "And talking nonsense."

"It's... It's a special gift! It speaks from the spiritual side, you understand? Through... Through layers, as it were!" Josephine explained confidently. "It's... La voix de l'esprit!"

"Yes, I am... Yes, I am a saint!" Noah confirmed, raising an eyebrow. "I sanctify myself... Every morning! I mumble a prayer! First out loud, then to myself, and then... Oooh... My stomach is buzzing - that means spirituality has begun!"

Karen just blinked. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the belly sticking out under the cassock - as if the fermented spirit of Orthodoxy was really hidden there in a tin can.

"Okay," she said wearily. "Just don't let him sit down. On anything. And let him be quiet. At least for a minute."

"I'm a saint, I'm not just like that... So I'll cleanse her..." the old man mumbled", With prayer, yes... And garlic! Because Satan - he's afraid of garlic, the bastard... Even if he doesn't eat it!

Josephine beamed.

"You see! He knows the secrets! He knows everything! This is heaven! Oh, my God, I knew it! Just don't worry, madame, he will completely... Uh-uh... Transcend your daughter!"

"I hope I don't faint," Karen muttered and went into the kitchen for some valerian.

Here's a translation into English that preserves the tone, atmosphere, and Noah's distinctive speech impediment (his lisping, represented by "sh" sounds and stuttering). I've kept the dialogue natural, capturing the intensity of the scene, the characters' emotions, and the cultural nuances, while ensuring Noah's speech retains its quirky, slightly comical yet unsettling quality. The translation also maintains Josephine's French exclamations and the mix of formal and colloquial language where appropriate.

The door to Delia's room flew open. Josephine stood in the doorway, pale, clutching the wall for support, with the holy fool beside her. She didn't dare approach the girl - her former charge had become too alien, too frightening.

"Voilà!" Josephine exhaled with feigned solemnity. "This is... le saint! Do you understand, Delia? He's a holy man! He'll... purify you, sanctify you... Everything as it should be in God's house!"

Noah, clumsy as a bear, shuffled across the threshold, glancing around with wary importance. His washed-out cassock, reeking of sourness, swayed like a sail in the wind. He looked at Delia, who sat on the bed with clenched fists, and hesitantly made the sign of the cross - bottom to top, sideways, and then, for some reason, poked a finger in his ear.

"Th-th... You... Daughter of God?" he mumbled, as if chewing his words. "Now I'll... S-s-sh! With prayer, I mean! Pfft! And all the evil - whoosh! Straight to Kazan Station it'll go!"

Delia sprang up like a cat ready to pounce. Her eyes flashed, darting from Noah to Josephine.

"Have you lost your minds?!" she snapped. "Who even is this guy?! And why on earth do you think I need this... this holy fool of yours to 'purify' me?!"

Noah huffed indignantly, puffing out his belly, which seemed ready to burst through his cassock.

"I ain't no fool... I'm holy! Big-bellied, see, for holiness!" he droned, patting his stomach. "This here belly's for prayer, so it can, y'know, spread out!"

"Young lady, I beg you!" Josephine stammered, twisting the edge of her shawl. "You don't understand! You were talking... About the Tsar, about Mr. Sergei... It's all the revolution! I read it in the pamphlets! That's how it starts - unrest, rebellion, and then... The guillotine!"

"You just don't get what people are saying out there!" Delia cut her off. "And don't you dare talk about Mr. Sergei when you know nothing!"

"Aïe!" Josephine squealed, clutching her chest. "It's just like in the proclamations! Oh, God, I'll lose my reputation as a governess!"

"And I'm losing my patience," Delia hissed. "Get this... This elder out of here before I call my father!"

Noah, who had raised his hand to bless her, froze under Delia's glare like a mouse before a cat. His lips trembled, and he muttered, stumbling over every word:

"I-I... I... S-s-holy... P-p-pray, daughter... L-L-Lord, save..."

"Pray under your bench in your cell!" Delia shot back, leaping from the bed. "Holy, you say? You stink like a wine barrel! What, you sit with monks and rich men's sons at their tables, guzzling their 'elixir' while they hide contraband in the monastery?"

"Delia!" Josephine gasped, paling even further. "Qu'est-ce que tu fais?! Arrête! He's a holy man! Il est envoyé par le ciel!"

"Sent to stink and cover up contraband?" Delia took a step closer, her voice trembling with anger. "I've heard about your 'holy men' in their velvet rooms, drinking wine with merchants' sons, shuffling cards, and dividing up the church's collection plates! And you, Noah, or whatever your name is - bet you're right there, stuffing your face, while the people pray for you!"

"Non, non!" Josephine wailed, clutching the curtain as if it could save her. "He's holy! Un instrument du divin! He sees angels, he prays for us!"

"Angels?" Delia nearly laughed, but her laughter was venomous. "He sees the bottom of a bottle! And you, Jo, only see his 'holy half' because you're too scared of the truth! Your monks are hypocrites! They stash contraband in cellars, carouse with rich wastrels, then cross themselves in church and sing like saints!"

Noah, backing toward the door, choked on his words:

"I-I... L-L-Lord... H-h-have mercy, daughter..."

"I know your kind!" Delia pressed on. "Fasting and prayers in the monastery, but behind closed doors - cards, wine, and contraband! And you dare come to 'purify' me? You're filthier than the refectory floor!"

"Delia, par pitié!" Josephine pleaded, nearly fainting. "He's sacré! Sent by God!"

"Sent by the devil!" Delia snapped, grabbing a French phrasebook from the dresser.

With a furious motion, she hurled it at the wall. The book thudded, and Noah yelped, covering his head with his hands.

"Ah... F-f-forgive me... Daughter..." he wheezed, bolting for the door.

His cassock caught on the threshold, and a dried lemon rolled out from under it, skittering beneath the dresser. The elder squeaked, tripped, and stumbled out of the room, leaving behind a trail of sweat, onions, and dusty rags. Josephine slumped against the wall, whispering breathlessly:

"Seigneur miséricordieux... Quelle horreur..."

And Delia sat down slowly on the bed, her fists clenched tightly on her knees. All the trembling was gone. Only a hard, silent resentment remained.

Josephine couldn't take it anymore. Her face contorted, her mouth opened as if she wanted to scream, but no sound came out. And suddenly, like a toppled doll, she collapsed on the floor. Her face was pale, her eyes rolled back in her head. Her heart, it seemed to Karen, stopped.

"Oh no..." Karen whispered, running in. "Pelageya! Get Dr. Hastings quickly!"

Pelageya, crossing herself in fear, jumped out, knocking over a bucket of water. Delia stood by the window. She didn't turn around.

"Deedle..." Karen carefully approached closer. "What happened here?"

"Nothing." The daughter's voice was strangely even.

"Nothing?! Josephine is unconscious!"

"She brought me a stinking old man and said he would save me," Delia said, still not looking at her mother. "Like I was a leper. Like I was... Like I was the devil. And he was a saint. Who smelled like dog. Would you want a 'saint' like that to cleanse you?"

Karen didn't answer. She looked at Josephine, breathing harshly on the floor, and covered her face with her hands.

Meanwhile, the fool whom the girl had called "pathetic - and this word tore apart the fragile network of fantasies in his head in which he was a prophet, a chosen one, a sufferer in the name of God - was rushing through the streets. A veil before his eyes, a cloudy fear, like a sticky fog. 'Daughter of Satan,' throbbed in his head. 'She has exposed... She has seen... She...'

He flew out onto the crossroads and did not notice the carriage. The coachman screamed, but it was too late - the old man's body flew into the air, fell, tumbled and froze in a pitiful pose, as if he were praying. The carriage stopped. Someone yelled: 'The old man was hit!' But no one came up - everyone slowly dispersed, as if the place itself had become vile.

The room was silent. Only the clock ticked. Josephine groaned.

"She's alive," Karen whispered. "Thank God, thank God..."

"Glory to whom?" Delia asked suddenly. "To the one who sends people like him?" She nodded toward the door. "Or to the one who keeps quiet when the grown-ups go crazy?"

"You don't understand," the mother said quietly. "Josephine was scared... She wanted the best..."

"Me too. Only I have no saint, no spirit, no books on spiritualism. There is only me. And all of you who do not hear me. You are only afraid that I will become not what I should be.

Karen walked up to the girl and wanted to hug her, but Delia pulled away.

"I can't be angry, right? It's a sin. But that guy over there could just stink and roll his eyes, and no one would say a word to him."

"Deedle..."

"That's it, Mom, I want to sleep, please come out."

And she sat down slowly on the bed, clenching her fists on her knees. The room was already dark, only the curtains trembled with the dim glow of the lantern. The air was like after a thunderstorm, but the thunder did not rumble - it happened inside her.

...666...

And in that silence, which suddenly became ringing, as if the entire universe had taken a step back to give her time to think, someone else, in a completely different place, at that very moment, was lying awake, staring at the cracked plaster above him.

It was Sergei Zazyrin, a student with a pale forehead and black, unkempt hair, looking more like a poet than a revolutionary, and yet connected to the underground as a drop of ink is to a pen. His room in a communal apartment on Sredny Prospekt was squalid and cold: a wall in the corner leaked, and a draft blew under the window so that the candle trembled. But he lay under a blanket, not feeling the cold - his soul was warmed by memories.

Oh, how often in the twilight of consciousness he returned there - to Kolpino, to the dam, in mid-February of one thousand nine hundred and four... It was Saturday, the frost scratched his cheeks like a thin veil of ice, and the air was so transparent that one could discern distant pipes, as if drawn with a thin pencil on the white sky.

Sergei had only just begun to listen to the conversations in the university corridors, where secret leaflets were passed under notebooks and names were whispered. But that day remained forever: bright as a scar.

He was walking along a path along a frozen river, wrapped in a fur coat, burying himself in the fur of the collar, and suddenly noticed someone approaching. It was a couple - strange, uncoordinated: a young man with a suitcase in one hand and a book in the other, and a girl, beautiful, in a white scarf, buttoned at the chin. She was the first to call out to Sergei:

"Excuse me... Are you Zazyrin?"

He stopped. His heart twitched - she was not just beautiful, there was something elusively familiar about her, as if he had already met her in a dream.

The young man laughed and nodded:

"It's him. Nice. Let me introduce you, I'm Vyacheslav Griftsov, and this is Darya Mironovna. You can take her arm, I'm already as heavy as a grey gelding. And she's light, you won't overexert yourself."

Sergei, taken by surprise, did not know whether to laugh, blush, or extend his hand. He chose the latter - and when her palm rested on his elbow, it seemed to him that the whole world was nothing more than steam over a frozen river.

Then they began to hail a cab with difficulty - for horses were at a premium and the frost was growing stronger. The coveted sleigh finally rolled up, the horse with the plaques on its breastplate shook its mane, and the three of them sat down: Griftsov in front with a suitcase on his knees, Darya and Sergei - next to him, covered with one blanket. The driver touched the reins, the bell rang, and the city was left behind.

They rode for a long time - across the bridge, along the frozen Neva, past frozen barges and spires that looked up at the sky like frozen arrows. Vyacheslav talked about Smolny, then about Karamzin, but Darya, laughing, ordered them to be silent and "drink the silence - like syrup for boredom. Then all three were silent, and only the snow creaked under the runners, and the wind walked between the collars.

"What kind of air is this," Sergei whispered, "it's as if you're breathing not into your chest, but into your soul."

Darya smiled. He remembered her profile - thin, like on a silver coin, and her eyes sparkling in the frosty gilding.

"Is this your first time?" she asked him informally, looking at the snow.

"In the first one."

"Then remember. Such days never happen again."

After seven miles we reached a turn where a slanted sign stood. The bells no longer sang here, and the wind blew up near the fences, raising snowdrifts like a curtain on a stage.

"Here," said Griftsov, and, throwing up his suitcase, he stepped forward.

The village, whose name Sergei never remembered later, slept under a heavy blanket of snow. The snowdrifts were waist-deep, the roofs reached the ground, and everything resembled a country where giants lived and were silent. They walked one after another: Griftsov with a suitcase, Sergei and Darya behind. Darya laughed when the snow sank under her feet, and Sergei hurried to offer her his hand.

Soon they entered a spacious room, where the cold and snow blindness made it almost hot. The air was heavy with breath, the smell of firewood, tobacco smoke, and something spicy - cinnamon, perhaps, or just warm bread. Along the walls were benches, and in the center, as if in a round dance, about twenty people were huddled. Men, mostly young, with clear eyes and sharp features. Two girls - one in a velvet blouse, the other in a gray kerchief - stood a little to the side, but did not look strangers.

Sergei took off his fur coat. The room fell silent - he was wearing a dark blue officer's uniform with gold piping, neatly fitted, with silver buttons. He felt dozens of glances at once - some with curiosity, others with alarm, others with open disapproval.

Lyasya, the one in the velvet coat, came closer. Her chestnut braid fell over her shoulder, and her voice was ringing, slightly mocking:

"You... You are a military man?"

Sergei lifted his chin in surprise, but quickly pulled himself together. He felt a slight burning sensation on his cheeks, but answered calmly:

"No. This is my father's uniform. He served in Crimea."

"Did he fight in the Crimean War?" the girl asked again. "So it's almost a museum piece!"

Someone chuckled behind him. Someone cleared their throat. Lyasya measured him with a look that mixed everything: joke, interest, and caution.

"Why did you put it on?"

Sergei shrugged his shoulders, a little guiltily:

"I don't know... It's warm in it. And... And in it I'm not quite me. It's easier that way."

"Ah, so that's how it is", Lyasya grinned and returned to her friend, throwing out on the go: "Look, Darya, now we even have a uniform. Almost like the Japanese."

Darya Mironovna sat down by the window, turning her face towards the light - as if all this was happening without her, but when she looked at Sergei, that same old warmth with which she had given him her hand back then, in the park, flashed in her eyes.

"Don't worry," she whispered barely audibly. "Nobody eats anybody here. Only sometimes."

Sergei smiled. He didn't know what to answer, but there was no need - people in the room were already starting to talk louder, someone was serving bread, someone was pouring tea into glass cups. The uniform seemed to have stopped catching the eye. They had accepted him.

At this time, Vyacheslav, putting his boots closer to the stove and warming his feet with obvious pleasure, opened his worn suitcase. The sheets of paper were neatly laid out in it: grayish paper with a fuzzy typographic print, which smelled of typographic ink and the street. He handed them out silently - one to each, without unnecessary words. Some began to read right away, others hid them in their pockets, and still others, very young, only exchanged glances with wary excitement.

Vyacheslav sat down right next to the stove, spread his arms across the bench like an ancient Roman, and began to speak - without a piece of paper, freely, with that special fervor with which those who do not so much explain as believe speak.

"The world," he began, "is subject to laws. Everything in the world, comrades, moves according to them: whether a stone falls, steam rises, the sun sets, or the people rise against the kings.

He spoke quietly, but each word seemed to ring - because his speech was not simply learned by heart, but lived through. Soon the room became quiet, even the firewood in the stove crackled more modestly.

"We live in a society where bankers and landlords are like spiders, they devour us, pulling us out by the thread. Look at the factories, the fields, the hospitals - everywhere the same cry: 'Be patient!' And these gentlemen themselves are growing fat, like yeast. On human blood! They fear only one thing - that the people will see. That the blind will begin to see."

He leaned forward:

"And so that this doesn't happen, so that we don't unite, they foist enemies on us. Japan, they say, is threatening! But do you think it really is threatening?"

Sergei, who had been sitting silently on the edge of the bench, felt Darya's lips twitch as she sat next to him. He looked at her, but she did not take her eyes off Vyacheslav.

"All this talk about Korea, about the railroad, about some islands - it's smoke. Smoke so that we don't see the fire. Our real enemy is not in the Kwantung Army. He's here. In the offices. In the mansions. On Znamenskaya and Moika. He wears top hats, not helmets."

Lyasya clenched her fists. One of the men whispered with a formal air: "He speaks the truth." Someone crossed themselves - not from horror, but as if from fire.

Vyacheslav smiled, but there was not a shadow of lightness in this smile:

"As long as we think that we are fighting the Japanese, we will not notice how we are dying for the autocracy. For their rubles, for their palaces. For their fear - because they are afraid of us."

And suddenly he hit his knee with his palm:

"And we shouldn't be afraid!"

Zazyrin listened, spellbound. No, what was said was not news to him - he had read leaflets, caught conversations in the canteens, where black-haired guys with southern surnames sat, he already knew what 'oppression' and 'exploitation' were. But Vyacheslav did not speak in slogans - he seemed to take the world, like a clockwork mechanism, disassemble it into screws and show how everything works. Why one lives in marble, and another in a frozen closet. Why they give you a punch in the kidneys for justice. Why guns shoot not at Japan, but at the workers' consciousness.

"Why," Griftsov's voice sounded, "is a peasant, working from dawn to dusk, barely able to feed his children, while a landowner, who owns twenty souls, sleeps until noon and dozes in a chair until midnight?"

"Why," he asked, "does a worker who has all the bread in Russia in his calluses receive less than a baker for his cakes?"

"Why does a banker, who has never held a hammer, a plow, or even a simple ruler, control factories, cities, lives?"

Sergei clutched the bench with his fingers. It seemed to him that someone would say: "Enough! Shut up!" But no one spoke. Everyone listened, as if it were a prophecy.

"And why, when we raise our voices - for us, for our people, for our children - why then are we put on trains and taken to die near cold water and lead?"

He spoke softly, but his words made everything inside Sergei tighten. Darya's face was close, he could feel her breath, and he wanted to grab her hand - not out of passion, but out of desperate agreement.

"Yes, yes," pounded in his temples. He didn't know how to fight, but he knew: he had to fight.

"Isn't it because they're driving us to the slaughter," added Vyacheslav, looking somewhere past everyone, "that they're afraid to hear our voice?"

He fell silent.

Silence hung over the room, thick as steam over a boiling cauldron. The materials that Griftsov cited - figures on the incomes of landowners, chronicles of famine, stories of strikes at the Putilov factory and rumors of secret meetings of the tsar's ministers - were like sparks falling on dry grass. And a flame flared up in Sergei's soul. Until that moment he had felt that the world was unfair, but now he saw it as if under a magnifying glass: clearly, distinctly, painfully. Vyacheslav spoke not only passionately - he spoke precisely, with knowledge, as if he were reading not books, but the very heart of the era.

"War with Japan?" flashed through Sergei's mind. "This is not defending the motherland. This is a game of chess, where we are the pieces. Pawns that move forward to disappear on a field that does not belong to them."

Griftsov showed: everything is connected. War is a continuation of fear. The Tsar is afraid of the hungry, afraid of those who can go out into the street and scream. So that no one screams, it is better to send them under the bullets. This is not madness. This is calculation.

Sergei felt that the framework was collapsing. Everything that seemed solid - ranks, shoulder straps, hymns, even prayers - was shaking like tinsel in a draft. The soldier and the general were no longer two steps of a ladder for him - they were two different banks. Between them there was a gaping abyss. He, Zazyrin, had always stood somewhere in between - in an officer's overcoat, but with the eyes of a worker. Now he was falling - and he knew which bank he wanted to fall on.

"This is not just a report," whispered Darya Mironovna, leaning towards him. "This, Sergei, is an awakening."

After Griftsov's words, a hum went through the room - not a shout, not a noise, but as if a wind had rushed over the water. People looked at each other, exchanged short remarks, someone jumped up, someone sat down, as if from fatigue. One worker, broad-shouldered, in a shirt with patches, said dully:

"They cut the pay at our workshop. They say it's for the front. And they can't stack boxes after boxes. They trade - that's how they make money."

"And my brother..." began the young teacher, thin, in a headscarf. "He didn't understand anything. They gave him a coat and told him to go. But where? Why? All he said was: 'Tell your mother not to cry'."

"And the Tsar..." the student in pince-nez, thin as a taut nerve, intervened sharply, "the Tsar is not stupid. He knows how it works. He is afraid of revolution. Afraid of people like you, like us. War is morphine: while the body is being eaten away by gangrene, the pain is dulled. But then - it will be too late."

Sergei couldn't tear himself away. He recognized himself in each of them. In the tired worker - his Mr., in the girl - his mother, in the student - himself, furious, desperate, afraid of his thoughts, but unable to stop them.

They spoke - and he listened.

And he understood: he was not the only one who felt this way. They did too. This was not an accident. This was strength. This was life. And most of all, the thirst to be worthy of this life.

"And you, young man," came a sudden voice from behind the table, "are you sure you're not an officer?"

The voice belonged to Motya - Matryona Yegorovna, a short woman with a quick, sharp gaze and a thick braid tucked under a headscarf. Until now she had been silent, listening to every word, but now, propping her cheek with her hand, she looked straight at Sergei with a slight mockery.

"A real uniform, everything according to regulations," she added, nodding towards the overcoat. "What kind of student is this?"

Sergei was a little embarrassed, but his voice sounded confident:

"My father's overcoat. He fought in the Crimea. I just put it on because of the cold, not because of my rank. I have nothing to do with the officer corps. I am a law student."

Motya nodded, as if this was exactly what she was expecting.

"Well, if that's the case, then fine," she muttered, "otherwise, you know, after one lieutenant I now avoid all military men. And you, then, are against the Tsar's will?"

Sergei smiled slightly.

"I am for the truth. And the truth rarely coincides with the Tsar's will.

"Well done," Motya said quietly but with approval. "Others open their mouths and it's like a boot to the head. Aren't you afraid?"

"I'm afraid," Sergei admitted honestly, "but being afraid doesn't mean being silent."

She looked at him in surprise, then, after a little while, asked:

"Do people listen to you, students? Or do they also read and argue in pubs?"

Sergei shrugged.

"It depends. Some argue. Some are afraid. And some go to Tsarskoe Selo in winter to listen to words that warm like a stove."

"Yeah," Motya croaked and raised her glass of tea, "so that later we can go to the barracks or to Siberia, yeah?"

"It happens. But not going means approving."

She nodded silently, looking at him for a long time and attentively.

"You are serious, though. And nice-looking. Well, maybe you will come to some good."

Muffled laughter could be heard in the room. Vyacheslav, who had been silent all this time, finally smiled and, without looking at Sergei, said:

"You convinced the people, brother. And that's already something."

Zazyrin blushed slightly, but not from embarrassment - from the internal heat that flared up in his chest with renewed vigor. Motya approves, Griftsov trusts, and that means... That means he is in his place. And maybe even more needed here than at the university.

He looked again at the faces in the room - at the workers, the students, the women, at Motya. And he realized that this was where the road began, which he would perhaps walk to the very end.

And as soon as this inner thought had died down, a new, strange, almost mystical silence fell in the hotly heated room. Everyone was waiting. Darya Mironovna, the same girl with whom Sergei had once walked along the path by the frozen river, rose from the table and said with a slight smile:

"Now", she said", I will read something strange. Strange and, perhaps, still raw. It is a play... It was written by a poet, almost a boy. You don't know him, his surname is Khlebnikov."

Silence fell in the room, where Griftsov's aftertaste still swayed. Someone coughed. Someone moved. But everyone was listening.

"Someone gave it to me", she continued. "From "Znanyie". He said that Gorky read it, shook his head and rejected it. Too... Too out of character. But," Darya raised her chin, "after all, the truth often comes to us in a torn shirt, and not in a lacquered top hat!"

She unfolded the tattered sheets, covered in ink, like an ancient scroll.

"'Elena Gordyachkina'. A play. Or maybe a dream. And I will be - all the roles."

And with these words, something impossible began.

At first she spoke quietly, timidly, in the voice of a peasant girl:

"Why did you, sir, sprinkle the ground with salt? We planted roots here, not hatred..."

Then, throwing back her head, she changed her voice to the muffled, nasal voice of an old landowner:

"Your land? Ha! Yours means it's nobody's. And mine is by law. By paper. By God's will, understand?"

Everyone froze. Even the tea in the glasses seemed to have stopped cooling.

Then, with a new voice, high and hoarse, a city official appeared:

"We're here for the sake of order. You're in the way. And the paper doesn't know that you're a woman and barefoot."

Darya suddenly rushed to the stove and, as if on a platform, spoke again - in Elena's own voice, bright and clear:

"I am like a jug that will crack and light will flow. Look!"

She grabbed a copper mug and slammed it down on the floor, the sound echoing throughout the room, and for a moment everyone believed that light was really bursting out of her hands.

"Every drop is us! And we will merge into the sea! And remember - the storm is coming!"

Sergei barely breathed. He felt his heart beating in unison with her voice.

And then, as if breaking a string, she moved on to the final scene: in a hoarse, stifled voice - as if under blows:

"I'm free! Do you hear? Not a slave!" and then in a whisper: "The storm... The storm is coming..."

And that's it. Darya lowered the sheets.

The stove crackled. Someone cleared their throat. One of the workers said quietly:

"Wow..."

Vyacheslav bowed his head.

At first, the play seemed strange to Sergei. He expected something else - directness, fire, a blow to the chest, but what he got was visions, images, a poetic storm. Not a scream, but a song. And yet... And yet, the longer he peered into what he heard, the more he felt: this was it. The real thing. Fire - not from the outside, but from the inside. Like Darya's words, her ringing voice, turned into a weapon, penetrated the very heart.

"Too symbolic," he thought at first. "Far from politics, from simple slogans..."

But then, deep in my soul, something else responded: "Or maybe that's how it should be? After all, what is born from the heart does not need to be shouted - it sounds quieter, but more precise."

He sat, leaning his elbows on his knees, and looked at Darya, who was now standing with her arms hanging down, her cheeks flushed with excitement, and thought: "I am not here by chance. I am among my own. I am with them."

With each passing minute, his pride grew stronger - quiet, joyful. Pride that he was accepted. That he understood. That he heard. That here it was - the truth, to which the best generations had been moving. He felt as if he had become part of something big, ancient and new at the same time, as if the views of the Decembrists, the Narodniks, all the persecuted - through time, through the darkness - had fallen on his shoulders.

"They did not know each other - and yet they strove for one thing... Like streams - for a river, like drops - for the sea."

And at that moment he understood. Completely, clearly, deeply: there was no need for a direct cry. Darya read in such a way that her voice already contained everything - rebellion, pain, and a hymn. The jug breaking in the girl's hands and the light bursting out were the same that burns in people. And the sea into which the drops will merge - that is the people. The awakening people.

"That's how it should be," he thought. "Through words. Through music. Through images."

And, surprised, with a slight smile, as if he was saying something for the first time, he whispered to himself:

"Khlebnikov will become great. It cannot be otherwise."

Darya, as if sensing his whisper, looked at him. Not directly, not point-blank - out of the corner of her eye, from under her brows. As if she too knew - what he said found a response.

And Sergei thought: "If a great battle comes, I will go not with a gun, but with this play in my heart. The word is a weapon. Even stronger than a bullet."

The stove crackled. Someone was pouring tea. Vyacheslav, still with his head bowed, was whispering something to his neighbor. And Sergei sat silently, happy that his heart had spoken to the voice of time.

After the reading, Darya, without waiting for applause (for the audience was silent and hostile to bourgeois habits), suddenly announced:

"And now - the violin!"

Sergei, enlightened and pleased, as if after a good dinner, nodded:

"That's right. After a good play you always need a little... Well, how do you say... A snack. Musically."

"Just be quiet," Vyacheslav said, smiling crookedly. "This is not Madame Viardot's salon."

"Calm down, my dear," answered Darya, sitting down. "We're not arresting ministers here - we're relaxing."

"Until we ourselves are arrested," someone muttered from the corner.

Sergei chuckled and added:

"Well, if anything, I have a uniform. I'll say that we're here with the military commission checking... The musical mood of the population."

Darya began to play. Something lyrical, touching. It seemed to Sergei that it was Glinka. Or maybe Bach. Or Khlebnikov himself, only in notes. He nodded enthusiastically to the beat - until suddenly a sharp knock-knock-knock was heard through the window.

Everyone froze. It was a prearranged signal. 'Policemens!' whispered Motya.

It was as if something had burst: coats, books, leaflets - everything flew up, as if the house had become a chicken coop, where a fox had broken in. People were rushing about, whispering, pushing. Someone had already climbed into the stove - not to warm up, but, as it turned out later, to hide a brochure.

Sergei stood up, brushed himself off, straightened his uniform and declared:

"The officer doesn't run."

"And the young lady?" Darya asked quietly, already squeezing his hand.

"The young lady with the officer," he said with pathos.

Lyasya shouted:

"God, how stubborn!"

Motya added:

"Oh my God, how handsome..."

And they both disappeared through the door. And Darya remained with him. Pale, but stubborn. She did not let go of the violin. She stood there with it, as if it were a weapon.

When three gendarmes burst into the room with lanterns and boots shaking snow onto the carpet, the first thing they saw was an officer, a beauty and... And a suitcase with sandwiches. No leaflets, no meetings, no demonstrations.

"Ah..." the chief said, stretching out, "H-h... Hi... Hello..."

"Good day," Sergei said politely. "What's the matter, gentlemen?"

"A denunciation... Ahem... Information... We... We came to check..."

"Have you checked?" said Sergei. "In front of you is an officer, a young lady, and bread and lard. Are you spying on dinners?

"There was a denunciation," he repeated, looking at the open suitcase. "Supposedly, a meeting... Agitation... Leaflets... But I... I didn't know that... That the officer..."

"You decide," said Sergei, smiling wryly. "Either an officer or rebels. Otherwise, my dear sir, your logic is like a weather vane - now one way, now the other!"

"Forgive me... W-w-wrong denunciation, Your Honor!"

Sergei waved his hand, as if he were dismissing the infantry battalion from training:

"Go before the cold chills your vigilance."

The gendarmes, not believing their luck, backed away and poured out...

When the door slammed behind them, Darya exhaled.

"It was... It was brilliant," she whispered."

"Yeah," he muttered. "I was not only brilliant, but also hungry, and fortunately no one guessed that the suitcase didn't contain sandwiches, but..."

"Shh!" Darya laughed. "Better not say it. Let them write in the report: officer, young lady, and sandwiches. The perfect trinity."

They went out onto the porch. The snow fell lazily, as if it had forgotten where it was supposed to fall. Sergei, still holding Darya's arm, watched the last lights trembling in the forest - the participants of the meeting had disappeared there. It was as if a curtain had fallen, separating the noise and worries from the night's peace. Darya pointed to a house that stood not far from the upper room - small but sturdy, with warm light in the windows and a wooden sign "Bread and Peace" above the entrance. Sergei grinned - the inscription was clearly a joke, but that made it doubly cozy.

"Here," she said quietly. "I live here. With my nanny and my aunt."

"Alone?"

"And who is with us, Tzar?"

She laughed. And he did too. Laughter brought them closer together than their previous words.

The house was clean and smelled of bread, as it should. In the entryway they took off their shoes carefully so as not to wake the old ladies. But before they could enter, a grey, wrinkled, but lively face appeared from behind the curtain. It was the nanny.

"Oh my God, Darya! It's so late! Who's with you?"

"The groom," Darya answered easily, without blinking. "Sergei Alekseevich."

Sergei almost choked on air.

"What?" he croaked, but Darya pinned his elbow. He realized it was too late to object.

The nanny, meanwhile, threw up her hands:

"My dear groom, oh my God... It's clear: your soul is pure!" She lightly touched his cheek and added: - You are a holy man, you'll see, everything will be fine with you."

"Well, well," he muttered, "I must admit, I collect butterflies..."

The nanny's eyes widened in delight:

"Wow! We once had a swallowtail sitting in our pantry! I thought it was a mouse, but he went - slap-slap!

But a stern voice was heard behind her:

"Who brings grooms here at night?"

An aunt came out from behind the curtain - a woman with a stern look and a folding apron. She measured Sergei with her gaze from head to toe.

"Look at him... He collects butterflies. And tell me he admires the stars through a telescope!"

"Sometimes," he admitted honestly. "I even have a collection of beetles at home..."

"Well..." the aunt drawled. "Out of his mind, then.

"Auntie!" Darya was indignant. "He's wonderful!

"Yes, I see, he is wonderful", she grumbled. "Okay, if he is a groom, let him stay. But sleep in the closet! And my maiden will have no sweetness until the wedding!

Sergei was taken aback. The closet, however, turned out to be a cozy little room with icons and a copper jug by the window. While he was changing into a nightgown (given to him, by the way, by the same aunt), he heard Darya quietly laughing in the next room.

"So the groom..." he thought. And suddenly he felt: he even liked it.

...666...

The next morning, while the aunt was still fiddling with the samovar and the nanny was saying something about "blessings according to the Easter calendar," Vyacheslav looked in on them - wearing a hat askew over one ear, with a suitcase and an eternal grin in his eyes.

"Sergei!" he called out, without taking off his shoes. "Rise! Petersburg is waiting.

"What? - Sergei emerged from the closet, disheveled, with one boot in his hand.

"On the road, my friend, on the road. There is a time for work, and an hour for war."

An hour and a half later, under the reserved gaze of the aunt and the tears of the nanny, they were already shaking in a cab to the station. Darya, seeing them off with her eyes, did not say a word, only tossed a scarf to Sergei - the one she had knitted herself in the winter.

The train started moving. The familiar forests and fields disappeared. Country roads, villages with cows on the side of the road, icy lakes flashed past the window - and then factory chimneys, black roofs, then thicker and thicker: train stations, spires, lamps, rows of houses.

At Nikolaevsky Station, Vyacheslav quickly walked forward.

"Listen", he said without turning around, "go to Mikhailovsky Garden. Sit there for about two hours. I need to go to our people. They'll understand, they'll accept me. But not right away with you - you're new, and besides..." he chuckled, "In love."

"Me?.." Sergei blushed. "Well, listen..."

"Go, go, Sergei Kirillovich. Sit in the shade. The wind will think for you.

He disappeared, like the wind and is, and Sergei shrugged his shoulders and walked past the Winter Palace, past the rumbling horse-drawn trams, through the streets where they were raking the snow with crowbars. On the corner they were selling frozen apples. He turned toward the Mikhailovsky Castle and, entering the garden, inhaled the damp, frosty air.

It was quiet. Rare passers-by walked along the paths, the snow crunched underfoot. There was a lot of snow - February held on tenaciously, and even the benches were powdered, like in a fairy tale. Sergei found the one closest to the horse chestnut, sat down, pulled off his glove - and was left alone.

"Here I am," he thought, "a revolutionary among seagulls and jackdaws, with a hat and expectation." And he looked at a real live jackdaw, which was jumping near his bench, as if it was also waiting for a miracle. The thin crunch of snow, the light steam from his breath, the frosty air filled his chest. He sat silently, without moving - for three minutes, no less. And suddenly...

"Hello!" said a thin voice.

He looked up - before him stood a girl of about eight, with long black hair and a rich, obviously English-made, fur coat with sable trim. The white fur on her collar glittered like frost. She stood with her head slightly bowed, jumping from foot to foot - just as the jackdaw had been jumping by the bench a minute ago. Zazyrin involuntarily thought: well, here she is, the jumping jackdaw.

"Have we met somewhere?" the girl asked, looking intently, a little boldly, point-blank.

Her voice sounded strange - not because it was arrogant, no, not at all - but there was an elusive accent in it, the same one that children have who are brought up to the sounds of either French or English. Zazyrin blinked, as if he had woken up, and looked closely at her sly little face, at those grey, slightly slanted eyes, at the thin lips that were now holding back a mischievous smile.

"Yes... Yes, I think so," he muttered and suddenly remembered.

The first time he saw her was in a bookstore on Nevsky, near the Book Passage. She dropped her handkerchief there and he picked it up and handed it to her, nodding and saying awkwardly, but with some inner solemnity:

"Take care of yourself, young lady."

She didn't say anything then - she just looked straight at you and nodded, like an adult does when she recognizes another as an equal.

The second time was in a bakery not far from Kirochnaya. He waited, and she came in with a nanny, tall, narrow as a reed, speaking some kind of hodgepodge of English and French. The girl stood silently by the display case, looking at the buns as if they were works of art, and then, without knowing why, he bought a fresh, fluffy, still warm bun - and, approaching them, held it out:

"You are growing, you need to eat well."

Having said this, he suddenly felt his voice tremble. He was embarrassed - and the girl took the bun, bowed her head, and, in a royally short, almost mocking manner, thanked him.

And here she is again. Like a ghost. Or like a bird returning to the hand that once fed her.

"Why are you here, young lady?" he asked his 'bird', more thinking than trying to engage in a dialogue. "Alone?"

"Not alone," she replied, sitting down next to him on the edge of the bench. "There, you see that woman in glasses standing at the entrance to the park - that's my nanny. She said I could run a little. But I saw you - and thought: how strange. We always meet somewhere."

He laughed, quietly and sincerely.

"Yes, it's strange... It's as if you did it on purpose."

"Maybe. Or maybe it's you who's stalking me?"

He raised his glove to his lips to hide his smile.

"Rather, it is you who are me. Like a jackdaw."

"What other jackdaw?"

"Well..." he pointed to an empty spot near the bench. "Just now there was a little chick here. Jumping. Just like you. In a black outfit."

She snorted:

"If I am a jackdaw, then who are you?"

He shrugged, suddenly gathered his strength and blurted out by analogy:

"Then I'm a scarecrow!"

They both laughed.

And suddenly something warm was woven into this funny, almost childish laughter. He looked at her - and could not understand: why was she here? What need did she have to approach him? In the Mikhailovsky Garden, in the frost, when the wind raises the snow dust? Could it really be fate, and this jumping jackdaw was given to him as a sign?

The girl shook her booted foot and pouted her lips - it was obvious that she was tired of waiting for him to figure out what to talk about.

"But I was waiting for you, you know?"

Zazyrin turned to her:

"Waited? For me? Why?"

"Because I want you to explain everything to me," she said as simply as if she were talking about tea with jam.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"And who are you, young lady, if it's not a secret?"

She straightened up solemnly and said:

"My name is Delia, I am the daughter of Gene York, a lawyer from New York, America."

He couldn't help but smile - it sounded so funny.

"Attorney Gene York from New York City?"

Delia immediately frowned and said angrily:

"It's not funny. Dad is a very respected man. We came here two years ago."

"Forgive me," he said with a slight bow. "It's just rare for a name and a city to coincide so well."

She softened again:

"Everyone here already knows us. Dad has a lot of clients among the local nobility, even more than when he lived in America. And I..." she thought for a moment, "I study. I watch. And listen."

"What is it that you are listening to that is so important?

"The adults," she whispered, looking into my face. "They say that Japan has attacked Russia. That there will be a war. That it has already begun. That Dad should not show up in certain places. That there will be noise. Shooting. Bombs. They say all this, thinking that I don't hear. But I hear. And I understand everything. Only... No one says why."

He fell silent. He took a deep breath. Strange girl. Strange morning.

"And you decided that I would tell you... Why?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes. Because you are not like others. Because you are serious. Because you gave me a bun. And you don't just give a bun.

He couldn't help but laugh.

"Okay. Let's say I tell you. But..." he looked back.

Only rare figures in coats and shawls were walking in the park; someone was feeding sparrows by the fountain.

"But this will be between us," he said.

"A secret?" Her eyes flashed.

"A secret. I will tell you not as an adult to an adult. But as one person to another."

He paused, peered at the snow beneath his feet. Then slowly, as if checking each word, he said:

"This war... Not for Japan. Not for its islands. Not for the railroads. This is to distract people from the most important thing. So that they don't think about why they don't have bread. Why it's cold in the villages. Why father drinks. Why mother cries. So that the fear and anger of ordinary people doesn't turn on the Tsar. So that they go to war - for something far away, something they never needed."

She listened with her head bowed.

"Is it like a fairy tale where the villain blows smoke so that the heroes can't see who's behind them?"

"Yes," he nodded. "The essence is the same."

"And... And you fight against those who burn fires that produce such smoke?"

He looked at her.

"I'm still learning. But maybe, yes."

"I want to too," she said quietly. "When I grow up. I don't want to be fooled."

He was silent. There was something majestic in the childish determination of this jumping jackdaw.

"You see... As I personally understand it... The whole point is that the workers and peasants, who are fleeced every day by landowners, bankers, and factory owners, have finally begun to raise their heads. They have begun to make noise, go on strike, write petitions. Organize strikes. And the Tsar's ministers, looking at this, panicked. How can they, such peasants, be pacified? Shoot bullets - the people will get angry. Give money - the treasury is empty. And so they came to the Tsar with a proposal: if the people's anger is accumulating, let it not be directed at us, but at someone else. At the enemy."

"To Japan?" Delia raised her head, squinting in disbelief.

"Exactly. Japan opposed the construction of a railway in Korea. They wanted to buy some land from us themselves - down there, by the sea. And so, taking advantage of this, the Tsar declared the Japanese enemies of Russia. Like, they are a threat. But in fact, this was a pretext to send those same strikers - workers, peasants, the poor - to the slaughter."

Delia's eyes widened, then... Then she burst out laughing. A real, ringing, childish laugh.

"This is nonsense! War - because of a railroad? Because of a piece of land? And what about the bright ideas? Where are the heroes? Where is the battle between good and evil?"

Sergei was taken aback, not knowing how to respond to this.

"In books," Delia continued, "they always fight for the truth. For justice. Isn't that so?"

Zazyrin looked at her for a long time, at her fur coat, at her black hair sparkling in the sun. At those clear, amazingly adult eyes.

"I'm afraid," he said quietly, "justice... Everyone has their own. Some see it in protecting wealth. Some see it in dividing up that wealth. And that's why some consider themselves right when they kill others."

"But then no one is right!" Delia jumped up. "Then everything is a lie! Then war is not heroism, but filth!"

He was silent. What could he say to her? He, who himself did not yet know how to distinguish truth from the dust of words?

"And you," she suddenly asked. "Who are you for?"

He smiled bitterly.

"I am for no one to die in vain. Not you, not me. Not that soldier who will be sent to the front tomorrow.

"And if you were a Tsar? Would you also declare war?"

"No," he said. "I would try to hear those who scream not from anger, but from pain."

She fell silent. Then suddenly she came closer, stood on tiptoe and looked into his face.

"I think you're good. Just too sad. And you can't be good and sad. It's unfair.

With these words she turned sharply, pressed her hat to her ear and ran along the snowy path.

He didn't call out to her. He just watched her go and thought: this is truly a jackdaw. So funny, so strange, so amazingly naive - but what if, in her own way, she's right?

Five minutes passed. The cold slightly nipped at his face, the snow crunched under the feet of the rare citizens passing by. Sergei had already begun to forget the funny figure of Delia, the jumping jackdaw, when suddenly Vyacheslav approached him, with a confident gait, like a man going with results. In his hand was a book in a blue, worn binding, and on his lips was a mysterious smile.

"Why is your face so flushed?" he said in a low voice, sitting down next to her. "Have you met a queen? Or fallen in love with someone?"

Sergei waved his hand, smiling:

"Rather to the city than to a person. And what about you?"

"Me?" Vyacheslav lifted the book slightly, stroking its spine, like a living creature. "Food for thought. Look here, but don't look too hard, or they'll arrest us here."

Sergei looked at the cover with curiosity. The title was missing, the letters were erased. But as soon as Griftsov opened the first page, it became clear: before them was something forbidden. It was the work of Pyotr Nikitich Tkachev, a Jacobin in spirit, an ideologist of the revolutionary minority. Without knowing it, Sergei was holding in his hands for the first time a text for which he could get a year in prison - and without a trial.

"Just listen", whispered Vyacheslav and began to read: "History belongs not to the majority that endures, but to the minority that acts. Hope is not in gradual transformations, but in shaking the foundations..."

His voice sounded low and passionate, as if he himself was speaking not lines, but truth. He turned the pages with special tenderness, like a priest turning the Gospel. And he pointed his finger at paragraphs, especially highlighting those that dealt with class antagonism, the role of the intelligentsia as the force that is obliged to lead the people, even against their will.

Sergei listened with tension, but understood with difficulty. His consciousness clung to fragments of phrases: "bourgeois ideals", "revolutionary dictatorship", "active minority"... The thought pounded in his head: is this really the way? This one?

"Slava," he asked quietly, "you... Do you believe in all this yourself?"

Vyacheslav thought for a second. He closed the book, stroked it with his palm and, without looking at his interlocutor, said:

"I don't believe in words, I believe in cracks. Do you understand? In the world, like in an old house, cracks appear. And we don't know what caused them - a storm outside or rot inside. But I know for sure that this house will collapse sooner or later. And then... Then someone will have to build a new one."

"And you want to be that builder?"

"No," he chuckled. "I may just be a laborer on this construction site. But if not us, then who?"

Sergei nodded. He suddenly felt acutely that his previous life - lectures, exams, meetings, jokes with friends - was as if in a fog. And now - everything is clearer. As if a window had opened. And the wind hit his face.

He didn't know if he was ready for the revolution. But he knew that the question was no longer: ready or not ready. It could come without asking.

Sergei sat silently for another minute, still under the impression - from the book, and from Vyacheslav's words, and from that strange conversation with the jackdaw, who, as it now seemed, had not just come, but had been sent, as if by Chance itself, in a fur coat and with a sly little face.

He exhaled and suddenly said, as if in passing:

"You know, before you... A jackdaw was talking to me here. I talked to her for maybe ten minutes - well, about what you read in the book. About the people, about the ministers, about the war..."

"WITH WHAT?!" Vyacheslav's voice cut through him. "WITH WHAT WERE YOU TALKING?!

Sergei winced. The man was looking at him with his mouth slightly open, like a man who had just been told he had stepped on a mine.

"Not with what, but with whom. With a girl, about eight years old. Well... Well, she came up. We got to talking. Smart, by the way. From America. The daughter of some lawyer...

"Oh, God!" Vyacheslav groaned and hit himself on the forehead with his palm. "What lawyer?!"

"Jack York. Or Jake. Or John. I don't remember, bro. But she said his last name was York, just like the city of New York, which is where they come from, by the way. I think they live somewhere on the English Embankment, I didn't look..."

Vyacheslav jumped up from the bench, rearing up like a man who had a bucket of ice water poured in his face.

"Are you a complete idiot, Zazyrin?" he hissed. "You gave a lecture on revolutionary theory to an eight-year-old spy in a fur coat from the duchess?! Do you even have any brains left? Didn't you think that this little jackdaw is already croaking somewhere in the office of her lawyer dad? And he - straight to the office! From there - to the police department! And then - hello, Shpalernaya and interrogation under the lamp?!"

Sergei opened his mouth, trying to get at least a word in:

"But she... She's a child! She asked me herself! I just..."

"Just?!" Vyacheslav was already waving his arms. "You just signed your own death warrant! And maybe mine too! This little jackdaw of yours - do you know what she is now? A bird of death, that's who she is!"

He roared almost theatrically, attracting the attention of the rare passers-by, and abruptly headed towards the exit of the park.

"Slava, wait!" Sergei exclaimed and rushed after him, forgetting about the gloves and - most importantly - about the blue book left on the bench.

He ran along the path, slipping on the trampled snow, shouting after them:

"She's just a child! I'm sorry! Wait a minute! I didn't mean to!"

But Vyacheslav did not stop. He walked quickly, clenched his fists, and when Sergei drew level with him, he turned around sharply, raised his hand - his fist right up to his nose:

"If they take me because of you, I'll get you even from Solovki. Together with your jackdaw. Get out!"

And he disappeared - into the crowd, into the snowy shroud, leaving Zazyrin in the middle of the road, alone, wet from the melting snow and stupid, like a man who frightened the entire revolution with an eight-year-old girl.

Zazyrin stood for a while longer under the wet snow, looking in the direction where Vyacheslav had disappeared. There was no resentment in his chest, no - rather emptiness. The wind rocked the rare, wet lanterns, as if laughing, and Sergei smiled weakly in response. He said to himself in a low voice:

"The bird of death, you say... Or maybe it's the bird of happiness?"

And, without looking back, he walked away from the garden.

...666...

His apartment was on the second floor of a gray building at the intersection of Sredny Prospekt and 8th Line. The room was in the corner, damp, but familiar. Sergei, without taking off his coat, went to the closet, on the top shelf of which his collection was kept - several boxes with beetles, butterflies, even a couple of rare dragonflies. He took the box off, ran his finger along the glass and suddenly decided: that's it, it's time.

"I haven't spoiled anything," he said out loud. "Ideas don't die from children's laughter. Maybe she'll keep it in herself. How many people remember such conversations once and for all?"

He carefully packed the box containing the collection, tied a scarf and, without a moment's hesitation, walked out into the night.

Nikolaevsky Station was noisy and crowded. Soldiers, vendors with baskets, children in bright hats. Sergei went to the ticket office, took a ticket to Kolpino and, hiding the box under his arm, took his seat in the almost empty carriage.

The train shuddered and moved. Outside the window there was darkness and snow whirlwinds. He looked at her as if into an abyss, and kept looking for Vyacheslav's face in these whirlwinds. But he was not there.

"Still, this jackdaw is strange," he muttered. "Maybe it really is a sign? Or even a bird of happiness?"

The train sped through the February darkness, and for the first time in a long time, Sergei felt his heart at peace. As if something important had been done, even if it seemed stupid at first. He closed his eyes and thought: maybe someday this girl would remember his words. And maybe she would even understand.

By evening, Zazyrin reached Darya Mironovna's house, in the dark, when smoke was already pouring out of the chimneys and the windows were glowing with a soft, yellow light.

He didn't call, he just pushed the door open as if he were one of his own. The room was warm, smelled of wax and dried herbs. Darya was sitting by the lamp with a book on her lap and, looking up at him, didn't immediately recognize him. But then she jumped up.

He said nothing. He just took off his gloves, opened the box and handed it to her - butterflies. His favorites. His best. Wonderful, colorful, the ones he had caught in his youth, when life seemed quieter, cleaner. She took the box carefully, like a relic. She was silent for a long time. And suddenly, unable to bear it, she pressed herself against his cheek and kissed him.

"You... You're a fool, Sergei," was all she said, laughing, and her eyes sparkled.

At that moment the door swung open and Vyacheslav stepped into the house. He took off his hat, shook off the snow and walked past Sergei as if he were a nobody. He spoke without looking:

"Darya... I need to go to bed. There will be big troubles tomorrow morning. Possibly serious ones."

"What?" she cried. "What happened? Where have you been?"

But he didn't hear anymore. Throwing his coat right on the floor, he went into the small room and slammed the door behind him. A moment later, the dull sound of a falling body was heard - he had fallen asleep.

Darya stood in the middle of the room, confused, clutching the box to her chest. She looked at Sergei.

"What does this mean? What did he mean?"

Sergei sighed but shook his head.

"We'll find out in the morning. Right now, Darya, you need to lie down. Please. And tomorrow... Tomorrow we'll go skiing, do you hear? Into the forest."

"Into the forest?" she whispered, as if hearing the word for the first time. "Now?"

"Not now. In the morning. Now - just sleep."

He said it quietly, but as if it was the only right choice in this scattered night, trembling with impending disaster.

...666...

In the morning we woke up early - the sun, breaking through the thin curtains, lay in golden ribbons on the floor. Snow sparkled outside the windows, as if someone had poured it with special tenderness during the night.

Sergei quietly knocked on Vyacheslav's door.

"Will you come with us?" he asked, looking in.

He, without rising from the pillow, answered in a muffled voice:

"Without me. I don't want to. My head hurts."

"Okay," Sergei nodded briefly. "Rest."

And half an hour later, he and Darya were already skiing through the sparkling morning forest. Everything around them seemed to have been painted: the trees stood, covered with frost, the air rang with frost, the sky was blue as porcelain.

"It's so quiet here," whispered Darya, "as if the whole country has frozen."

"Maybe it did. Before the storm," he responded. "Or before awakening."

They walked deeper, where the trees were more densely packed, where there was no path. Sergei deliberately looked for a corner where he would not hear a single voice.

"Wait," he said finally and stopped.

She turned around. Her cheeks were burning from the cold, her eyes were shining. He looked at her and, slowly taking a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, said:

"Can?

"Certainly.

And read:

"The storm unleashed its wild refrain,
Across the fields its fury sweeps;
The road, now cloaked in snowy chain,
Lies smooth where winter’s blanket creeps.

No trace remains beneath the snow,
The blizzard spins with dust and might;
No light can pierce the tempest’s show,
The world is lost to endless white.

Yet to a gallant heart so bold,
The storm’s no burden, fear, or plight;
He’ll forge a path through frost and cold,
If only passion fuels his fight."

He finished reading, and silence hung between them like a snowflake before it fell.

"But it's..." said Darya, as if remembering with joy. "It's Nikitin! Ivan Savvich!"

"Yes," Sergei nodded. "The great poet of the future Russia."

She laughed, lightly hitting the snowdrift with her ski pole:

"'Yet to a gallant heart so bold, the storm’s no burden, fear, or plight!'"

He laughed too, but there was something more in his voice - not just joy, but pride, a bright power. And in this laughter, and in these words, there seemed to be confidence: the road, no matter how snow-covered it was, would still be found. If you go together.

Soon they turned back, looking at their double tracks stretching across the white virgin soil. They returned home slowly, but with the feeling that somewhere deep in their chests something had started to glow - and would not go out.

They were approaching the house, and suddenly Sergei's heart sank. At the gate stood a cart, covered in frost, and next to it were gendarmes in greatcoats, with their collars pulled up. One was smoking, the other was holding a paper with an embossed seal. Vyacheslav was just being led out of the house.

He walked between two policemen, his hands cuffed, his face pale, but his lips pressed tightly together. He did not resist, did not say a word, but when he was led out into the yard, his gaze fell on Sergei - and he froze, as if he had been hit in the forehead.

This look is heavy, mute, like a brand.

Darya took a sharp breath.

"Sergei..." she whispered. "Is this... Is this for him?"

Sergei was silent, not taking his eyes off Vyacheslav. Meanwhile, on the porch, sat the old nanny and Darya's aunt. They whispered, but so that he would definitely hear.

"And the gendarmes didn't even look at your Sergei Kirillovich," said the aunt, squinting. "Your fiancé!"

"Look at how cleverly he got out of it," the nanny added with a hiss. "And yet I walked with him, laughing. Like, one is clean, the other is going to the gallows..."

Darya flared up:

"Don't you dare!" she cried, but there was fear in her voice.

Sergei said nothing. He continued to stand there, as if made of stone. Only his lips trembled when the gendarmes seated Vyacheslav in the cart. He did not turn around - only his shoulders trembled.

And then the aunt again, not hiding her malice:

"They say that your Sergei Kirillovich left a booklet written against the Tsar on a bench in Mikhailovsky Garden, and now Vyacheslav is guilty!"

Everything inside Sergei fell apart. He closed his eyes. His thoughts condensed into one: A book... On the bench... Who found it? How? Who reported it?.. He didn't even remember if his handwriting, name, or note was on the book. But his heart already knew: one coincidence was enough. And one whisper.

Darya touched his hand:

"Sergei... You... You didn't..."

"I don't know," he answered quietly. "I don't know who's to blame. But if it was me…"

He didn't finish. The cart rocked, the wheels crunched on the crust - and Vyacheslav was taken away.

"And how our Darya Mironovna will grieve..." said the aunt, fanning herself with a woolen scarf. "She really liked Vyacheslav Grigorievich!

"Shut up," the nanny interrupted, "she'll marry Sergei."

But the aunt only smiled and said emphatically, through her teeth:

"She won't marry him!" the aunt said, as if offended. "After all, he doesn't see anyone except bugs and caterpillars!"

Sergei, hearing how they spoke about him, clenched his fists in his pockets. He stood half-turned, as if he was going to leave, but his legs did not obey. He understood: the gift was from the soul, from the heart - but was it really so difficult to see it?

"Vyacheslav Grigorievich would have been free," added the aunt more quietly, but on purpose, so that it would be heard, "if it weren't for your scatterbrain!"

"Don't blab what you don't know!" the nanny suddenly barked, and there was something completely unwomanly in her voice - stern, inexorable. "Our Sergei is a holy soul..."

"What a shame on our heads," the aunt stubbornly drawled. "And because of whom?"

Sergei couldn't resist turning around. But at that very moment he saw Darya walking quickly along the path among the icy bushes. Her headscarf was untied, her skirt was almost catching the snow. She was walking towards the forest without looking back.

"Darya Mironovna!" he called out, but she didn't hear, or pretended not to hear.

He rushed after her, forgetting about the cold, about his aunt, about everything. If only he could catch up.

"Darya Mironovna," he shouted to her, "will you marry me?"

She didn't turn around. She just threw over her shoulder, barely turning her head:

"No, I won't go, Sergei Kirillovich.

He shuddered. The tone was official, distant, alien, as if a wall of ice had been built between them. He wanted to scream, to grab her hand, but he stood there, submissive, like a boy being interrogated.

"Why?"

"Questions like these don't get answered."

He stepped closer, more quietly:

"Answer me, please!

She turned around. Her face was flushed, not from the cold, but from anger. Her eyes were sparkling.

"You are not a man," she said sharply.

He didn't flinch. He just nodded weakly, as if there was no arguing with that.

"Thank you. And now something else. Something even more offensive."

"Vyacheslav is facing hard labor!" she cried, clenching her fists. "And you... You..."

"But he didn't tell me anything about himself!"

"That means he didn't trust you and didn't want to bother you!" She came closer, almost poking her finger into his chest. "When a person collects insects with such lust, then..."

And, without finishing speaking, she darted into the thicket, through the sparkling air, towards the old fir trees.

"Believe me, Darya!.." Sergei exclaimed in despair.

But she didn't hear anymore. Or didn't want to.

Sergei stood there, stunned, and then suddenly his whole soul flared up: this can't be done like this - it can't be done!

If he is a coward, if he is unworthy, he will prove otherwise. He will save Vyacheslav. He will bring him back. For her sake. For himself. For the sake of meaning.

With these thoughts he rushed back. Skis away, steps with double force. House. Porch. Knock on the shoulder - the door swung open.

The nanny recoiled in horror:

"What are you... Are you crazy?"

Aunt screamed:

"Oh, my God..."

But he didn't hear them.

As if in a dream, he slowly, silently stepped toward the corner where the box stood in the dim light, shrouded in a veil of dust, like a monument to days gone by. His collection. Butterflies. Wings as delicate as hopes. Meaningless now, but still holy. He picked it up, carefully, like the body of a friend fallen in battle, and suddenly, with a sudden, almost superhuman effort, he waved his hand.

There was a dull thud.

The glass crunched, with a guttural groan, like a snowstorm breaking against a rock. The wings, once so bright, fluttering in the light, crumbled into dust, into shreds. The aunt screamed. "You've gone mad," came a shrill voice from the side. "Oh, Lord, what are you doing, what is this, my God…"

The birds perched on the ridge of the roof took flight. In the yard, a horse neighed, trembling with sudden alarm. All living things stirred, as if the world had caught in this gesture a call to death - but also to liberation.

And he stood there. He was breathing heavily. And in his chest, where everything he had accumulated was stored, it was as if a knot had broken.

...666…

...And then, as if emerging from an icy hole of memories, Zazyrin opened his eyes. Not right away. With effort. Into the darkness, which was cut only by the pale winter light - that same northern, dawnless, indifferent to life.

He was still lying on the sagging sofa in his corner room on Sredny Prospekt. The wall was peeling, familiar, like an old friend. Above his head was a crack, stretching from the corner to the lamp, like a thin fracture in time. A dim, barely noticeable light seeped through the thick curtains - neither morning, nor day, nor evening. As if time itself had forgotten the names of its parts.

He did not sleep. He could not. Everything inside him was buzzing, everything was burning - not his skin, not his body, but his soul. A soul that was tired, dried out, but still holding on to scraps of hope.

He saw - clearly, painfully: Darya, as she walked away, through the snowdrifts, without looking back. Vyacheslav - tied up like an animal, under guard. He saw how he himself, with desperate determination, smashed butterflies on the floor - his whole cozy, frail world, grown in the musty shadow. And behind this - silence. Like in a room where after a word an echo of meaning is heard.

He lay on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, looking at the ceiling. And he thought: here he is, a man, naked before his own fate. Helpless and perhaps ready to start all over again.

And in this heavy languor he felt his eyelids drooping. Without a fight. Without a desire to forget - simply because his soul no longer bears the burden. Like a soldier who fell not from a bullet, but from fatigue.

Sleep came like mercy. Quietly. Slowly. Not like an escape, but like a conclusion.

And in that dream there were shadows. And snow. And a road stretching into the distance. And a girl whose fur coat fluttered like wings. She jumped like a jackdaw, and then disappeared - each time before he could catch up. Like a sign, like a prophecy, like a song sung not out loud.

And a light wind came from somewhere deep within - from that room where there was love and where the stoves burned.

...666...

In the small two-story office of Gene York on Liteiny Prospekt, under the modest sign "Eugene S. York - Legal Services," there was a special silence - not empty, but filled with subdued work and the smell of time. It seemed to be absorbed into the parquet boards, into the suede spines of reference books, into the ink stains on blotting papers. This silence was not silence - no, it breathed: the rustling of papers, the ringing of the clock on the mantelpiece, the occasional tapping of the tip of a pen on the edge of an inkwell.

The room, like the person, preserved the traits of character. The dark oak shelves, like the shoulders of an old official, bent under the weight of folios; scrolls of contracts, sealed with sealing wax, lay in even piles, like sleeping jurors. Between the windows was a map of Petersburg, with needles stuck into the Neva, into Gorokhovaya, into one point on the Vyborg side. And above all this, a smell: a mixture of wax, old ink and barely perceptible lavender. Karen had left a small bouquet the day before: she said that "the air here is too literal" and needed something living.

On the table by the window, where the northern light, breaking against the edge of the shutter, fell dimly but steadily, lay an open folder. The papers inside were marked with underlines, notes, notes in the margins, sometimes strictly to the point, sometimes mocking, as if written with a grin in the corner of the lips: "he wants to, but can't", "he couldn't hold back, he said too much", "we'll start from here, perhaps". This was the Golovins' case.

There were two people standing in chairs in front of the table.

The woman was thin, with a straight posture and stubbornly compressed lips, dressed in a strict dark dress, the collar of which was lacy, but modest, as if someone had deliberately woven elegance into the framework of decency. Anna Lvovna Golovina, a merchant by marriage, but in appearance more of a teacher than a mistress of income. She kept her hands clasped - not as if she were praying, but as if she were afraid to open her fingers and show a tremor.

Next to her was Sergei Petrovich Maltsev, a man of about forty-five, with an aquiline nose and a forehead lined with folds. In the past, he had been an artillery officer, and now he was the manager of her late brother's factory. His bearing was not ostentatious, but noticeable: every turn of his head, every tilt of his body was like a well-considered command. And yet now he sat slightly awkwardly, as if he was having difficulty adjusting his own determination to the circumstances.

Gene, sitting opposite, leafed through the papers with the imperturbability of a lecturer. He made no unnecessary movements, did not interrupt, did not hurry. Only occasionally did he raise his eyes - dark gray, attentive, in which there was neither delight nor disgust, only work.

"Pavel Golovin", he began, putting the sheet aside, "a merchant of the second guild, Anna Lvovna's husband, the boy's father. Six-year-old Mikhail Golovin, raised by his mother in a house on Poltavskaya, attended the preparatory department at the private school of Linder... Until the spring - was everything consensual?"

"Until spring," she confirmed, quietly but firmly.

Gene nodded.

"And then Mr. Golovin filed an application with the city council asking to formalize guardianship - without the mother's consent?"

Maltsev straightened his collar.

"He didn't just file it. He pointed out that the child's mother..." he hesitated, and his voice acquired the dryness of an office, "...does not observe moral and hygienic conditions. And also allows outsiders to be involved in the child's upbringing. Which was a lie."

"A lie," Anna Lvovna echoed, but did not add a word. Only her lips trembled, as if from an old pain that had not yet healed.

Gene looked at them again. No longer than a second, like a surgeon looking at a stitch.

"Do you want me to act as an attorney in the guardianship case?"

"Yes," she said. "But not only that. I want Mikhail to stay with me."

"The court decides not according to desire, but according to the state of affairs," he answered calmly. "What do you have?"

"The house," she said. "The means. The witnesses. And the truth."

Gene said nothing. He picked up the pen and smoothed out the page. His fingers moved precisely, without embellishment, as officers write in their field journals.

"Okay. So, here's how it is: we request the protocols, copies of complaints, references from Linder's doctor and teacher. And also, we file an objection with the provincial chancellery. Until then, the boy will remain at his place of residence, since his father's house, according to the papers, is in the process of being rebuilt."

He didn't ask why his father had suddenly decided to take the boy. He didn't ask who those "outsiders" were that Pavel had mentioned. But there was something in his voice, as if he already knew. Not from gossip, but from the habit of seeing a line in someone else's confusion.

"We won't touch the child," he added. "For now. Let him live his own life. Childhood is not the subject of a lawsuit. It is only lost once."

Gene slowly ran his palm across his forehead, from temple to temple, as if dispersing a hot thought, and in a restrained, slightly hoarse voice reminded:

"However..." he looked up, "according to the current law, the child remains with the father if the mother is deemed unreliable."

He spoke with a cautious, almost indifferent dryness, as if he were discussing not a living boy but a duty on silk. The words, like pebbles, fell evenly and heavily into the silence.

"But," he continued, "there are, of course, certain nuances. If we can convince the court that the father cannot, does not want to, or is simply not capable of raising the child... It all depends on the circumstances. Does he live in a home where the child will not have proper supervision? Is there evidence of... Let's say, relationships that are unbecoming of a family man?"

He glanced at Anna Lvovna. She was already sitting, barely holding back her impulse: her lips were trembling, her hands were clasped so tightly, as if she were holding herself back from falling apart. And Maltsev, still maintaining his bearing, suddenly seemed to have pulled his head into his shoulders - either from what he had said, or from a premonition of what would be said.

"Pavel is impeccable," she almost shouted. "You don't understand. He may be dry and harsh in his words, but he is a man of duty. He doesn't drink, doesn't gamble, doesn't hang out in pubs. He works day and night. And I... And I won't allow his name to be blackened."

Gene didn't answer right away. He leaned forward a little, stood up, walked over to the table, pushed the inkwell aside and slowly opened the file. But instead of papers, his gaze suddenly caught a newspaper clipping. He didn't immediately understand what he was looking at, but the headline - laconic, like a blow to the temple - immediately cut off everything unnecessary:

'The death of American accountant Creighton. The hunt near St. Petersburg turned into tragedy.'

Gene froze. His face didn't change, but his gaze became slightly cloudy - not from fear or regret, but from those special, dense thoughts that visit a person who has experienced a collision with his own double.

Morris Creighton He came up like a gunpowder bottle, inexorably and with a pop.

The Baron, that same Buher, later said - seemingly in passing - that the wolves seemed to have chosen Creighton themselves. That they were heading specifically for him, as if they sensed... Not fear, no - guilt.

Gene remembered his gaze. Direct, squeezing, like a clamp, and not blinking for a second. He remembered how Creighton stood on the platform, under the dogs and signs, like a boss from another world. He also remembered how casually he threw phrases into your face, heavy as a stone in water: "You showed up just in time, although we could have managed without you."

He remembered everything, and yet he felt nothing. Creighton was in the way. He was a threat. Too direct, too strong, too famous. And now he wasn't.

And with his disappearance, it was as if an invisible niche had suddenly become free in the city. Morris's former clients - manufacturers, commission agents, even mid-level officials - began to appear one after another at the doors of this very office on Liteiny. At first politely, as if to a replacement. Then - with trust. And now as to a man "who is now in charge of everything."

Gene didn't look for it. He didn't bait, didn't bribe, didn't invite. But success - like fog - came by itself, filling the room, the table, the letterbox. He even sometimes felt - an unpleasant feeling - as if some of them, especially the fussy, puffy merchants, looked at him with a note of respect mixed with superstitious fear. As if they believed: this one survived, and that one didn't.

Gene came back to reality as if from the shadows. He straightened up, closed the folder and only then looked at Anna Lvovna again.

"Sorry," he said almost quietly. "I got distracted. Well... If you claim that Pavel Golovin is impeccable, perhaps we should check to what extent this corresponds to the opinion of his entourage. After all, no matter how honest a person is, there will always be someone who will say the opposite."

Anna shuddered.

"You want... You're going to dig into his private life?"

"I'm going to find out," Gene said calmly, "what kind of life would be best for your son."

He sat back down, bent over the sheet, picked up a pen, thought for a second, and added:

"Just please... Don't interfere with my work. After all, you came here to ask for help."

He did not look at them. He wrote, bending over, almost without lifting his pen. The lines were strict, almost cruel. The paper rustled under his hand, like snow under boots.

And suddenly, as if from the middle of another thought, from the layer where everyday life lives, and not jurisprudence, he spoke - quietly, with an absent-minded, homely intonation:

"We still need to find a nanny for the girl."

The phrase sounded softly, but in the complete silence of the room - like porcelain hitting stone. It had nothing to do with the paper, or the case, or the two people sitting in front of him. Not with the law, not with judicial practice. It was personal, torn from another, deeply hidden layer of his life, where no one was supposed to look.

Anna and Maltsev exchanged glances. Maltsev frowned.

"Excuse me," he said, reservedly, but with obvious awkwardness. "Did I hear you right? You mentioned... Nanny?"

Anna, sternly, almost coldly:

"We're talking about a boy, Mr. York. My son. He's boy, not a girl."

Gene winced. His face darkened for a moment, like a screen on which someone else's shadow had passed.

"Yes. Of course." He straightened up, put the pen back in its holder. "I beg your pardon. I... I was just thinking about something else. It happens. Fatigue", he added, shrugging slightly. "I will prepare the documents for your next visit. Tomorrow, by evening, if that suits you."

Anna nodded dryly, without getting up. Only a second later, when it became clear that the conversation was over, she stood up, nodded again - this time more coldly - and, without waiting for Maltsev, headed for the exit.

Sergei Petrovich paused for a second, as if he wanted to say something - perhaps not as a reproach, but as a reminder of something human - but Gene had already turned away. And so Maltsev only bowed briefly and followed her, quietly closing the door behind him.

Gene was left alone.

He did not move. The gaslight, warm and uneven, cast reflections on the map on the wall like tiny fires. The city lay before him, in lines, in marks, in needles with tiny notes. It seemed as if the whole map were a living being, breathing. But his thoughts did not return to it.

He stood up, picked up his hat and cane. He ran his hand over his face, either to shake off fatigue or to smooth himself down, to tidy himself up. The twilight was thickening outside the windows. The lamplighters, decorously and methodically, climbed up to the lamps and lit the kerosene lamps. The shadows from their steps, fragile and wavering, fell on the pavement, as if the past was trying to compete with the present for every inch of the street.

From the office, Gene headed straight for the cab driver standing at the edge of the pavement - a skinny little man in a shabby coat, with a perpetually red nose and a gaze lowered to the frozen cobblestones. His horse was stamping its hoof, as if it, too, was uneasy.

"To the 'Medved'," Gene said briefly.

The cab driver nodded. Without a word, he took the reins and led the mare forward. The wheels started moving, clanked, and ran along the icy pavement. Petersburg dissolved around him - in the haze of street lamps, in the damp reflections of shop windows, in the steam from the kitchen, rushing from the gateways.

Gene was silent. He sat up straight, his face did not change. He did not look around. Not at the signs, not at the passers-by, not at the windows, behind which the silhouettes of life flashed. All this was noise, background. He was not riding for conversation.

He stopped at the door of the tavern, where warm steam seeped through the doorframes and there was a smell of smoked fish, resin and rancid beer. He paid. The cabman did not thank him - he just shook his head and drove away. The Gene entered without turning around.

The tavern on Bolshaya Morskaya, popular with officials, wealthy tourists and those who wanted to seem one way or another, greeted him with the usual noise: the clinking of glasses, the smell of roast duck, perfume and wine. Everything was exactly the same here as it had been last week, and even three months ago: the same half-blind mirrors reflecting the golden lamps and the dashing gestures of the regulars, the same waiter with a permanent abrasion on his cheekbone, the same piano accompanist, perpetually out of tune, at the back wall.

Gene removed his glove, ran his hand along the edge of the bar, and looked around the room for someone he knew. This was a place where people usually showed up by appointment, either to be noticed or to remain in the shadows, pretending to be bystanders at someone's dinner.

He was just going to look around, but his gaze involuntarily caught on the far corner. And - a barely noticeable prick of surprise: under the mirror in a gilded frame, at a table set for two, sat Dr. Hastings.

Gene hadn't expected this. The doctor hadn't said what would happen. No letters, no hints, nothing. And yet he sat there as if he were at home: lounging with the casual grace of a man who had long ago understood everything and was now simply observing how much tact the others had to avoid asking unnecessary questions.

Next to him is a portly man in uniform. A soldier, no doubt: broad shoulders, a sunken neck, a heavy but neat face, with that special crease between the eyebrows that indicates not so much a frown as a chronic need to make decisions.

Gene took a closer look and immediately recognized him. Stepan Ignatyevich Grubsky. Senior bailiff. A man with a reputation - not a thundering one, but a resounding one. They said that he could beat a confession out of someone with just one conversation, without interrogations, without shouting. The rumors were contradictory: some called him an ice snake, others - just a tired official who had long ago realized that the truth does not save, but only interferes with the execution of the protocol.

Gene didn't show it. He came up, took off his glove, bowed his head slightly. He didn't sit down - he waited to be invited.

Hastings, as if noticing him only at that moment, turned around with an affectionate laziness, like a master who has an unexpected but pleasant tree growing in his garden.

"Here you are, Gene. Excellent. You still have your instincts. Sit down. Allow me to introduce you."

He turned to his interlocutor, theatrically, but without unnecessary pomp:

"Stepan Ignatyevich Grubsky, senior police officer, a man who is feared by every penumbra in the city. And this is Mr. Gene York, an American citizen, but our Petersburg animal: cautious, nimble, rarely growls, but leaves interesting tracks."

Grubsky, without getting up, looked at Gene with a long, motionless gaze. He raised an eyebrow - not in surprise, but as if evaluating whether to nod immediately or let him wait.

Gene, maintaining a neutral smile, nodded slightly. He sat down - carefully, without fussing, moving the chair exactly half a step away from Grubsky.

Hastings meanwhile took a sip from his glass, moved the decanter and, leaning towards the bread plate, continued in the same light, almost cloying manner:

"Actually, we just discussed that work-related stress is a dangerous thing. Look: a man has been catching criminals for twenty years, and now, excuse me, his stomach categorically refuses to digest reports. As a doctor, I diagnose him with a chronic disorder of trust in reality."

Grubsky didn't smile. He just squeezed the napkin, squeezing it as if he wanted to roll it into a tube. The glass in front of him was half empty. He glanced at Hastings - with a simple look: one more word - and I'll get up.

"A predisposition to apoplexy, perhaps," added Hastings, looking dreamily at his fork.

Gene raised his eyebrow slightly and, without touching his glass, quietly remarked:

"Jo is dead."

The doctor fell silent. The fork froze in his hand, like an arrow pointing in an unexpected direction. He put the device down and leaned forward slightly.

"Has she died? - he asked again, without horror, but with attention.

"Heart attack. In the evening. Without warning. Deedle was downstairs with her, heard how she suddenly stopped talking. Rushed to call. Everything happened quickly. Pointlessly quickly."

"Oh, my God," Hastings shook his head, but without the religious intonation. "That's it. French-Canadian endurance gave way for no reason. And I told her: give up that mint tea, it won't end well. And don't listen to your wife - what nonsense she said about a corset supporting the heart."

He sighed, as one sighs over a lost library subscription, and, unable to bear it, picked up his fork again.

"Forgive me, Gene, but it is in such cases that what you Americans call immediate action kicks in for me. Let me suggest a replacement."

"It's a little early," Gene responded without harshness.

"Oh, no, just in time," Hastings continued, perking up. "You'll have to anyway. And I have a candidate - a woman with experience, with an understanding of a child's psyche and without sentimental habits. Her name is Lisa Roselli. An American. From the East Coast, Connecticut, I think. Self-possessed, bright, with a good speech and a stable character. I would even say unshakable. She's one of those who can establish discipline without raising her voice, and at the same time does not lose her human appearance. Something like a station master with the heart of a governess.

Grubsky, who had been picking at the tray with the edge of his knife, smiled faintly.

"And what is so remarkable about it, besides its origin?"

Hastings put down his fork, clasped his fingers, and, lowering his voice, said solemnly:

"She doesn't wear a corset."

There was a pause. Gene looked at him without expression, only slightly tilting his head, as if waiting for him to continue. Grubsky straightened up and, chuckling, snorted briefly - not angrily, but with that nuance that people have when they hear something that should officially be unacceptable, but in fact has long since become commonplace.

"Excuse me," he muttered, wiping a drop from the table with the corner of his napkin, "but this is too delicate a matter to discuss in a male company. Although, perhaps, this is freedom now. Where does it begin: not with proclamations and not with universities, but with the fact that a woman stops tying herself with belts."

Hastings, clearly pleased with the effect produced, spread his hands:

"You're laughing, but by the way, this is an indicator. A corset is a symbol of everything that makes a woman nervous, stooped and hysterical. Lisa is healthy, holds herself up straight, smiles without forcing herself, is not afraid of children and does not consider every look as harassment. She was at my outpatient clinic for about two years. I would have left her - but I am afraid of getting attached. And you, Gene, are a family man, you are supposed to take care of the proper female influence in the house. Especially now."

Gene listened in silence, his gaze unmoving, his hand moving slightly, silently turning the edge of a table knife in his fingers. He didn't object, but he didn't agree either. He didn't seem to be there at all, as if Hastings's words weren't falling on his ears, but were scattered in the air. At first Gene chalked it up to fatigue, but soon realized: no, it was something else. In the tone. In the intonations with which Hastings pushed on, non-stop, with that slightly cackling pleasure with which an agent sells real estate, confident that the client has nowhere to go. In words filled not with concern, not with understanding, but with anticipation of a deal. Everything he said about Lisa Roselli sounded not like a human recommendation, but like advertising - and at that, persistent, almost intrusive. Every syllable implied: "You will take her. You must. I know how you need it. You won't find anyone better."

Gene couldn't help but remember how Karen had once casually said with a grin:

"Hastings has a gift: he treats healthy people. Rich, suspicious, vain. He invents an illness and makes it look like a revelation. And then their husbands pay. For the procedures, for the water, for the air, for the frowning look and for the approving nod. And with gratitude. He is a genius. Only not of medicine, but of the psychology of profit."

And then Gene laughed. But now he didn't laugh.

Now he saw how precisely she had spoken. This conversation at the table in the 'Medved', under the mirror with peeling gilding, was no exception. On the contrary, it was becoming an illustration. All of the doctor's behavior - from cheerful frivolity to the seemingly careless details about the corsets - were becoming links in a single chain: he was selling. Not services. Not care. But a figure. A person. A woman. He wanted to "foist" her off - that was the word that popped into his head like an uninvited witness.

Grubsky, meanwhile, seemed to sense that the atmosphere had thickened. He stood up and muttered:

"It's time for me... Water. Or air. Or whatever they recommend these days for overload?"

Hastings nodded acquiescently.

"Just not with bubbles. Otherwise, you might get blown to pieces right there."

"It will be destroyed, because this is the last drop," Grubsky muttered, "that has filled the cup to the brim."

And without waiting for an answer, he walked away towards the bar, taking his napkin with him, as if he was afraid that he would suddenly be doused with the sauce of his own life. Gene followed him with his gaze, and then turned to Hastings. His expression changed - the polite line around his lips disappeared, the squint disappeared. Only calm remained, cold and almost businesslike.

"Tell me, doctor," he said evenly but firmly. "Do you always advertise your people like this?"

Hastings did not answer at once. As if for the sake of order, he finished the rest of the wine, wiped his mouth with a napkin - with that lazy thoroughness with which one sets up chess before the start of a new game. Then, lowering his chin a little lower than usual, he squinted and grinned. Not insulted, not angry, but with that shade of condescending indifference with which a merchant accepts a reproach from a customer: yes, I know the price - but if you don't like it, move on.

"If I advertise," he finally said, "it's only for those who are worth it."

And, looking not at Gene, but into the glass, as if addressing the transparent wall of the crystal, he added more calmly:

"Lisa is not Josephine. She will not take the girl to the holy fools. She will not frighten her with hell, demons, sins and other church darkness that she fed her with practically from a spoon. I know that," he grinned.

Gene didn't answer. Not a word, not a gesture. He just leaned back a little and clasped his fingers on his knee. His face had cooled, his eyes had become deeper and colder, like winter water in a bucket. But the doctor seemed not to notice.

However, having sensed something, Hastings suddenly spoke differently - uncertainly, almost apologetically:

"However... I may have expressed myself incorrectly. 'Girl'... Forgive me. It's not the right word, from the point of view of... Well, let's say, her special nature."

Gene raised his head, his gaze becoming harder.

"What do you mean, 'inappropriate'? From what, excuse me, point of view?"

Hastings, raising an ironic eyebrow, nodded, like a man caught doing something awkward but deciding not to make excuses:

"Yes, at least from the point of view of temperament. Or, say, internal vector. Her view is different. Her movements are different. What am I, an amateur, arguing about," he suddenly added, noticing how Gene frowned. "Just... Just an observation. Ordinary, superficial."

He smiled, trying to get back to the lightness, but it was no longer the same as before - now it sounded strained. Like an actor who has forgotten his lines, but is trying to take it with charisma.

Meanwhile, Gene was silent. But inside him, surprise was growing, not so much from what was said as from the way it was said. As if in these remarks, mocking, careless, but nevertheless accurate, there was something... Something superfluous. As if the doctor knew more than he was saying, and perhaps more than he should have.

Hastings, as if sensing this interest - and he had an excellent nose for tension - suddenly perked up. He poured himself some more wine, but did not drink it. On the contrary, he suddenly spoke with unexpected cheerfulness, as if trying to change the record:

"By the way... Do you know what I heard the other day? One of the richest people in St. Petersburg - I won't give his name, they'll tell you the wrong story anyway - donated six thousand rubles to the church. Everything would be fine, it was a pious deed, but..." Hastings leaned a little closer, lowered his voice, as if he were sharing a secret from the chamber, "at the same time he ordered a pool to be dug by the altar wall. And he ordered a crocodile from Moscow."

Gene blinked slightly.

"Alive. A male. Enormous. With documents. From the menagerie at the apothecary garden, I think. He was transported in a cart, in a box covered with iron. And when he was transporting it - can you imagine? - such a crowd of people followed the cart that one sexton, cross-eyed but zealous, took it upon himself to ring the bells. Like, an icon is coming. Divine glory."

Hastings laughed, briefly but with pleasure, as if he had seen it himself.

"From the bishop - thirty days of repentance. Fasting and prayer. No wine. And the sexton, they say, made excuses, as if he was mistaken, saying that the people were walking so decorously, and the shouting was so... Well, exactly like a religious procession. He said that he didn't know it was a crocodile, he thought - some kind of miracle. Or a holy relic."

He took a sip, looking at the ceiling as if searching for the continuation of the story there.

"And the pilgrims later gossiped - how could this be, what kind of jokes were these, and who put him up to it? Some, however, said that he did it on purpose. Out of mischief. Or out of revenge. And others... Well, others thought that there was something darker here. Almost demonic."

The doctor grinned. And added, picking at a grape with his fork:

"Although, for me, it's all so simple. A crocodile is like a person: if he is being transported with temple money, he certainly won't refuse. Especially if the bells are ringing along the way."

As if to confirm the return to the secular theme, Grubsky returned to the table - he walked slowly, but with that heaviness of gait that people have when they are leaving not a restaurant, but an internal struggle. It was obvious: he was in the toilet, but not only.

"Ah, here you are", exclaimed Hastings. "So you did say "the drop that made the cup run over," meaning not philosophy, but... But physiology! My respects to your tact, Stepan Ignatyevich! You are a real Aesop. And I almost sinfully thought that you were referring to our unbearable chatter."

He laughed, but alone. Gene remained motionless, and Grubsky snorted so sharply, as if he had coughed. His face turned slightly gray, and, sinking back into his chair, he said dully, almost croaking:

"Repentance is not enough for the sexton. He should have been put in jail so that others would not do the same. To mistake a funeral for a religious procession - okay, anything can happen. But to confuse an abominable beast like a crocodile with the Most Holy One - that's already... That's already a mortal sin!"

Hastings flinched like a man who has been cut short in a joke, but said nothing. He might have wanted to add something conciliatory, but Gene forestalled him.

He rose from the table with a swiftness that brooked no unnecessary words. Abruptly, as if he had been doused with ice water. A grimace - not of rage, no - more of disgust, flashed across his face like ripples on still water. He did not look back. He did not apologize. He did not say a word.

The paper money lay on the table in a neat, dense pile - there was more than enough. Enough for a piglet with an apple, and for wine, and for jokes with a crocodile. And there would still be some left - for silence.

Gene headed for the exit. He passed the mirrors, passed the waiter with the tray, passed the lady at the far table who laughed playfully. He did not hear the creak of the parquet, nor the clink of glasses, nor the stifled laughter that sounded behind him. He walked like a man leaving whose own bell had started ringing inside him - anxious, implacable.

Already on the street, a waiter caught up with him. Young, flushed, out of breath, with a guilty face, like that of a student who forgot his schoolbag in the morning.

"Mister, you... I'm sorry... You forgot your cane."

Gene nodded and silently took it. The cane was heavy. Good wood, varnished knob, comfortable grip. Once a sign of dignity, a symbol of quiet strength. A gift from Karen. Back then, it meant support, confidence, a simple 'I'm here.' And now, a reminder.

...666...

At this time, Karen was again sitting in Father James Mattson's office at St. Stanislaus Catholic Church. The dim light of the lamp reflected on the polished table, which was covered with church books and a fresh newspaper whose headline screamed: "Record Shipment of Canned Meat from Chicago to Japanese Imperial Army."

Karen cast a surprised glance at the priest. He, as if not noticing her confusion, lightly tapped his fingers on the tabletop, thoughtfully shaking his head.

"So, the sea is worried 'once'!" he suddenly exclaimed, as if checking whether God himself or at least some angel nearby would hear him. But the phrase hung in the air like a forgotten garland after Christmas.

Karen didn't react. She was fiddling with a fold of her dress, a gesture not so much nervous as methodical, as if she were hoping to squeeze the answer to the eternal questions out of the material. Mattson sighed and leaned back in his chair, watching her like a doctor waiting for a lab mouse to start talking in a human voice.

"You said the house... The house doesn't feel right?" he finally asked Karen, his voice trembling slightly with barely contained amusement.

Karen nodded, fiddling with the edge of her scarf. Her gaze was serious, but there was a shadow of weariness in it, a weariness born of the Petersburg cold and the burden of foreign gazes.

"The other day, I found Deedle's album," she said quietly. "She'd forgotten it on the table. There was a drawing of an octopus, purple, with a yellow crown on its head."

Mattson grunted, stroking his chin as though preparing for a comedic scene.

"An octopus, you say?" he drawled, narrowing his eyes. "That little creature - crawls so slowly, like a barge on the Fontanka, its tentacles stretching out in all directions, and still, it falls behind. Sounds like this empire, huh? Russia - this giant machine, puffing along like a samovar with no firewood, struggling to keep up with America and its steamships and factories!"

Karen furrowed her brow, but Mattson, unperturbed, continued, clearly entertained by his own remarks.

"And the crown on the octopus - now that's a real laugh! It has no bones, it's soft like dough. Put a crown on it, and it'll collapse! Could that be a little jab at our tsar?" he lowered his voice, winking. "Did you hear that tsar plays more tennis than he rules the empire? Maybe your Deedle is a secret rebel with a pencil?"

Karen rolled her eyes, but there was a faint glimmer of a smile hidden deep in them.

"You joke, but I'm serious. There's something wrong in the house. It's as if everyone knows some secret, and no one will tell me. Gene has become so pensive, staring off into nothing, answering 'maybe' or 'we'll see'. He usually knows right away who's right, who's wrong, and where to go."

"Oh, this is serious," Mattson chuckled, glancing at the newspaper with its headline about the canned goods for the Japanese. "A husband who starts thinking - that's dangerous. They either become monks, start writing petitions to the tsar, or..." he made a theatrical pause, "decide that canned meat from Chicago will save them from all their troubles."

Karen shook her head:

"I feel like everything around me breathes differently. As if the house... As if it's not just ours. As if someone else has settled in it. Not physically, but spiritually. Even the dining room smells different. As if Pelageya is not cooking food there, but hatching her own plans."

Father Mattson nodded and crawled under the table. Karen frowned.

"What are you doing?

He stood up with a wooden box in his hands.

"My old aura diagnostic device. Very useful in elusive matters. Here, look", and he opened the lid. "Okay, I was kidding. You can see for yourself that this is actually a box of candied ginger, but it makes you feel a little better, doesn't it?"

Karen, to her own horror, laughed - quietly, but sincerely.

"You are incorrigible," she said.

"That's why they keep me at the temple. So that at least one person here is incorrigible. And now, let's go back to the beginning. Tell me: are you sure that the dead in your house are really dead?

Karen slowly stopped laughing.

"Excuse me, what?"

"Well, if Josephine communicated with spirits, and shortly before her death he was visited by the elder Noah, who was also not averse to mysticism, then who said that they left forever? In St. Petersburg, Karen, this is a very unstable concept - death."

He looked at her seriously, and suddenly that same sparkle that sometimes sent shivers down Karen's spine flashed in his eyes: a mixture of wit and something ancient that defied rational explanation.

"And if you want to know who's in your house, I'd start with the sideboard. They can keep secrets, you know."

Karen covered her face with her hand and exhaled:

"Lord, give me strength."

When Karen asked the Lord for this, Father Mattson, instead of feigning sympathy or offering something canonically pastoral like a prayer to St. Therese, leaned back noisily in his chair, folded his arms over his stomach, and snorted, half mockingly, half philosophically. He looked as if he had heard this request twenty thousand times before, and each time he chose to answer with sarcasm rather than God.

"Power is a dangerous concept," he drawled, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "Especially from the lips of Americans. You know, we should pronounce this word very carefully. Otherwise, we'll start delivering it in boxes, under contract."

Karen raised an eyebrow, not immediately catching the train of thought, but the priest was already getting going.

"Take us Americans," he continued, stretching out one arm and making a wide, almost preaching motion with his palm. "Here in Petersburg, we go to church, pray for the health of the Emperor, light candles for the victory of the Russian troops, and then in the evening we receive a telegram: congratulations, a steamship with twenty thousand cans of beef has been delivered to Yokohama, the Japanese are applauding."

"I..." Karen began, but then stopped.

Thoughts were still near Delia. The girl had been looking into the corner of the room and giggling too often lately. And in the corner, let me remind you, there was no one. Or, at least, there shouldn't have been.

"That's me too," Father Mattson agreed for her, as if they had both confessed to diplomatic schizophrenia. "Wonderful. We're sitting here like overwintering seagulls on someone else's dock, not knowing who we're with: those who feed us, or those with whom we dine."

Karen instinctively reached for the neckline of her dress and felt a thin chain under the fabric. Her fingers habitually, almost childishly, felt a familiar roundness: a locket. Inside was a tiny, fingernail-sized portrait of Theodore Roosevelt. From a newspaper, back in Cincinnati. She had cut it out when she was ten and inserted it into a pendant in place of a photo of her cousin Marjorie, with whom she had quarreled over cherry jam. And for almost twenty years now, Mr. President, with his stove-like lips and half-moon glasses, had lived on her chest - like a good amulet, like a fetish for homesickness.

Now, clutching the medallion, she felt: it did not warm her. It was silent. Stubbornly and dully, like a monument in a park. And it did not at all look with that sly ardor that she had attributed to it in childhood. On the contrary, it looked from within with reproach: as if it wanted to ask - is this, Karen, your idea of democracy?

"You wear Roosevelt near your heart?" Father Mattson suddenly asked, squinting. "An interesting choice. Usually ladies keep children there, or at worst, saints."

Karen blushed.

"It's from childhood. He... He reminded me of courage.

"Of course. A man who simultaneously wrote books, ran through the jungle, shot jaguars and reformed the New York police department is the perfect patron of female weakness.

"Don't laugh," she muttered.

"I'm not laughing, I'm admiring," Father Mattson responded animatedly. "Although, I must admit, if I had a portrait of my hero on my chest, it would be Benjamin Franklin. At least he invented lightning and swam naked. But, alas, the church charter doesn't allow it. And it would be hard to fit him in there - he wouldn't fit."

Karen laughed involuntarily. Quietly at first, as if testing whether the joke was poisoned, and then with obvious relief.

"You are still a dangerous man, Father Mattson.

Father Mattson, noticing the tremor in Karen's voice and the still-visible worry in her eyes, suddenly seemed to stir. He craned his neck, raised a finger to the ceiling, and said solemnly:

"So, the sea is worried 'again'!"

Karen blinked.

"Sorry?"

"Well, of course", he said animatedly, leaning towards the desk drawer. "This is the most important thing - the second wave. The first could be random. But the second... The second one already indicates the direction. Do you want to tell fortunes? The fate of your Deedle."

"Let's tell fortunes?"

"And why not?" he was already pulling a candle stub out of the drawer, greasy, with a smoked bottom. "A church one, by the way. Services were held. Consecrated many times, you could say, pure paraffin of truth. Here it is - Orthodox pyromancy with elements of everyday alchemy."

He had already placed the stub of his cigarette in an old brass incense bowl and poured water from a decanter on the window. The water, poured with unhurried solemnity, rippled slightly, reflecting the tarnished glass and Karen's tired face.

"And the fire?" she noted.

"Oh, please," said the priest, with the same expression as a circus performer pulling a rabbit out of his hat, and fished a box of matches from his inside pocket. "Old friend. I always carry them with me. A habit from my pipe-smoking days. Before a French monk refused to let me into the lecture hall, calling the smell 'the tobacco ambrosia of Satan'."

He struck it - the flame flickered, flaring up with unexpected joy. The wax began to melt and, with a slight bubble, dripped into the water. Karen leaned closer. Several waves rolled across the mirror surface - and the frozen figure formed from the paraffin suddenly resembled an elongated backpack... Or maybe a boat? Or a suitcase?

"A long journey," Mattson said thoughtfully, swirling his cup. "Or a business trip with luggage. Or a quarrel with mother and an escape to Kazan. Here you need to know the exact context."

Karen pursed her lips. Whether to believe or be angry. Or laugh. As always with this priest.

"Don't you think that this... That this is not serious?"

"It seems to me," he said animatedly, already approaching the pile of books on the table, "that seriousness is the worst fuel for the search for truth. Only fanaticism is worse. For example..." He pulled out a piece of paper from an old psalter, clearly already damaged by time, and carefully placed it in the same brass bowl.

"Wait," Karen sat up. "This is... This is a psalter?"

"Of course. A page from it. Psalm 118, I think. Or half of Psalm 119 already. One of them, in any case. Don't worry, it's been hopeless for a long time. I've already fixed it three times with glue and once with Latin. Now it's only good for... Only for the aromatic version of revelation, which can convince both the blind and the deaf."

And again - a match, a flame, a light smell of burning paper. The scrap shrank, smoked, bent into an arc and fell, like a butterfly in the sun. In the floating shadows cast by the tongues of flame, a silhouette suddenly appeared - elongated, thin, almost like a human. A lonely figure. Karen shuddered.

"This..."

"Separation," Father Mattson said calmly. "Or loneliness. Or a night in a compartment where the neighbor still snores. It depends on how you look at it. I'm just reading fire, not writing scripts."

Karen was about to say something when James Mattson suddenly turned his gaze to her, sighed, and said almost casually:

"Tell me, please, have you ever thought about what the Apocalypse really is?"

Karen frowned, unsure where he was going with this.

"Well, it's... It's the Revelation of John the Revelator, isn't it? A divine prophecy about the end of the world?"

Mattson chuckled, leaning back in his chair.

"Prophecy? Perhaps. But imagine this: John, an old man, exiled to the island of Patmos. Living in the mountains, almost like a savage - eating, sleeping, sometimes getting drunk with shepherds. Not a scholar, not a literate man. And then he starts seeing... Something. Voices, images, entire worlds. Do you think it was God speaking to him?"

"And who else could it be?" Karen narrowed her eyes, her voice sharpening. "Are you saying it's all made up?"

"Not exactly," Mattson raised a hand, as if to calm her. "Maybe it was the aftermath of poisoning. Or torture - they say he was nearly boiled alive. Or perhaps loneliness and pain broke his mind, and he started seeing things he couldn't explain. But here's the thing: John himself didn't write a single word! His disciple Prochorus did it for him."

"Prochorus?" Karen furrowed her brow. "The one who was with him?"

"Yes. And Prochorus wasn't just a scribe. He was, you know, a real writer. He took John's ravings - his cries, fragmented visions of beasts and stars - and turned them into a story. He wrote in Greek, by the way, though John spoke Aramaic. Prochorus added his own touch, filled in the gaps, created rhythm, imagery. He's the one who made the Apocalypse what it is today."

"So... You're saying it's not a revelation, but just... Someone's interpretation?" Karen clenched her fists.

Mattson shrugged.

"It's a pamphlet, Karen. Think about it - Prochorus lived among rebels, people who hated Rome. It's entirely possible he wove satire into the text. The Beast, the locusts, all of it could have been metaphors for Roman power. Or even a coded plan for a rebellion that never happened. John himself called his work a 'kesher' - a tale, a story to pass the time."

"A tale?!" Karen leaned forward, her voice trembling with indignation. "You're calling holy scripture a tale?"

"Well, think about it," Mattson spread his hands. "It's got everything: mythology, legends, even a bit of melodrama. Someone deceives someone else, someone slaughters a sheep in the wrong order. There are more contradictions in it than in a family's group chat. It's all so... Human."

Karen stood abruptly.

"This is blasphemy," she said coldly, lifting her chin. "I came to a priest for comfort, not... Not for a circus!"

Father Mattson opened his mouth, likely to explain his philosophical stance - perhaps even with quotes from the Talmud or a play staged in New York in 1883 - but Karen was already heading for the door.

The candle flickered, as if unsure whether to go out. Deep in her chest, a thick, heavy feeling of disgust and exhaustion grew within Karen. And still, that unbearable, gnawing confusion persisted. Neither Jean, nor Father Mattson, nor even faith could answer her most pressing question: what was happening to her daughter?

...666...

The next morning, oddly enough, began with the smell of baked goods. The house was quiet, almost unbelievably so. On the wall in the hall hung a heavy pendulum clock - a gift from some cousin from Toronto, who was also a Canadian banker and a most boring conversationalist - and it ticked away the minutes with a pedantic, indifferent ticking, as if it had no idea about the recent deaths, tears and nervous breakdowns. The dining room was reluctant to fill with light: summer was coming to an end, and the St. Petersburg morning was no longer in a hurry to bare itself.

Pelageya, pale and withdrawn after Josephine's funeral, nevertheless set everything on the table as it should be. Poppy seed buns, butter in a porcelain butter dish with a crack, apricot jam in a vase that, according to rumors, belonged to Aunt Karen - the same one who wrote poems about the stars and ran away with a lithographer at the age of forty-three. All this stood decorously, according to order, as if it knew itself: it is impossible to show that something has changed. Even if everything has changed.

Karen sat in her usual place, her back straight, her gaze fixed on a point on the edge of the table. An open book lay next to her, Montaigne's Essays, in French. She leafed through the pages but did not read. After about twenty minutes of silence, it became clear to her that she had probably read the same passage twice, both times in vain. She was in no hurry to admit it to herself, however. The morning demanded propriety.

Gene, in a waistcoat, with a watch chain and a cup of tea, looked almost human. Almost. His hair was neatly combed back, his tie was tied, his shoes were polished. Outwardly, he was a husband, a father, the master of the house. Inwardly, he was probably trying to mentally make a schedule for the day: who had a meeting, who to talk to, what he needed to tell the clerk. He was reading a newspaper, pretending to pay attention, although, judging by the fact that he had been holding the same page in front of him for about five minutes, his thoughts were clearly somewhere between Nevsky and the London Stock Exchange.

When Delia entered, no one had time to say anything. She simply appeared in the doorway, barefoot, in a long shirt, with tangled hair and red eyes. Those eyes, tired and inflamed, spoke of a sleepless night far louder than any words. She sat down at the table in silence, looking somewhere past the butter dish.

"Good morning," Karen said quietly, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

"Good," Delia responded and immediately looked away.

Gene merely noisily turned the pages of the newspaper. Pelageya, who had never looked into the dining room, was somewhere in the kitchen fiddling with pots. The sound of a lid falling to the floor briefly broke the silence, but then died away, as if even objects were trying not to express their feelings too loudly.

Karen pushed a cup of tea and a piece of bun towards her daughter.

"Eat. These are all your favorites," she said, more to the air than to anyone in particular.

Delia nodded. Her knife sluggishly slid across the crust. The jam remained untouched.

Suddenly the bell rang. Sharp, alien. It tore through the morning like a shot in the silence. Karen flinched, Gene raised his eyebrows. Even Delia looked up, surprised, wary. The bell rang again, a little more insistently.

Karen stood up.

"I'll open it," she said, and her voice sounded like a command."

She stepped out into the hallway, and the floor creaked under her heels. The bell did not ring again, as if the stranger on the other side of the door knew: he had already been heard. Karen walked up to the door. And without hesitation, she reached for the handle.

Karen pulled the door towards her and it opened with a soft click, letting in the grayish morning light and the smell of the street: wet cobblestones, sparse smoke, and something else - minty, alien.

A woman stood on the threshold. Tall, with a straight posture, in a suit of a strict cut, which, despite the modesty of the color, immediately caught the eye with its neatness. The lace on the collar seemed to serve not as decoration, but as some kind of business mark - not for softness, but for order. The stranger's face was smooth, almost devoid of expression, but not lifeless: in it one could read the habit of observation and some... And some assessment.

She looked slowly at Karen, then at the hallway, like someone noticing not the details, but the general "setting."

"Good morning," she said softly, exhaling, with that characteristic drawl that suggested the American East Coast. "My name is Lisa Roselli. Dr. Hastings said there was a need for assistance."

Before Karen could say anything, Lisa had already stepped inside, not intruding, but not waiting for permission either, as if she considered her appearance to be pre-arranged. Her coat, clearly not made in St. Petersburg, smelled of lavender and warm paper.

"Excuse me," Karen finally said, still standing with her hand on the doorknob. "Are you... are you from Dr. Hastings?"

"That's right," Lisa nodded. "He mentioned that you recently lost..." she paused just a little, "an assistant. And you have a daughter. The doctor thinks I could be of help."

Karen slowly let go of the pen. Her gaze slid over the stern face of the guest, over the hat, over the buttons of the coat - everything was verified, as if Lisa had not put it on, but had approved this costume by decree.

"I'm not... I'm not sure we were expecting you," Karen said.

"Oh, I didn't expect that," Lisa answered calmly. "The doctor rarely warns in advance. He believes that the impression should be... It should be fresh."

With these words she walked a little further, stopped under the coat rack and, without waiting for an invitation, took off her gloves - measuredly, almost ceremonially.

Karen still didn't understand who was in front of her: a governess, a nurse, a companion? There was something more to Lisa's words than just a professional visit. Her gaze did not linger on things - it recorded them, as if archiving them. Karen suddenly felt like the mistress of the house, who had suddenly turned into its temporary tenant.

"I beg your pardon, Miss..." she faltered.

"Miss Roselli," she reminded him. "You can just call me Lisa."

With these words, she walked into the hallway, carefully placed the umbrella in the stand against the wall and turned to Karen with a slight, polite smile.

"I always start with breakfast. Where do you serve tea?"

Karen, before she could get a word in, was already following Lisa into the dining room, almost like a guest accompanying a tour guide through her own home. Delia was sitting at the table, picking at a bun with jam with her fork, and when she saw the stranger, she paused like a baby animal who had caught the scent of a new predator.

"There she is," Lisa said with gentle admiration, taking two easy steps forward, as if she were stepping onto the stage. "Ah, there she is... Dr. Hastings was certainly laconic, but he didn't come anywhere near the truth. What a posture, what eyes!" She leaned forward slightly, as if to examine her more closely. "And what a calm gaze. A real young lady."

Karen felt something tense inside her. It wasn't grateful surprise, or the admiration of a mother, but rather a strange feeling, as if Lisa were talking about a doll in a display case. Too smoothly. Too confidently. As if it had all been prepared. Like a letter with two indents and no typos.

"Deedle," said Karen, "this is Miss... Miss Lisa Roselli. She came... She came at the suggestion of Dr. Hastings."

"Does he work for a maid agency now?" Delia asked in an unexpectedly sharp, adult tone, without even lifting her fork.

Lisa raised an eyebrow slightly, but the smile remained, the same, strained, like a lace napkin on the seat.

"Oh, you know how to ask questions," she said, almost cheerfully. "That's a good sign. I'm not a governess in the sense that they're depicted in books. I'm just... I'm just present. And I help. Sometimes I say, 'Keep your back straight,' sometimes, 'Put your spoon down.' Sometimes I even read aloud. Although, if you prefer silence, that's also acceptable. Silence, you know, has its virtues."

Karen had taken her place, pouring herself a cup of tea in slow motion. She was looking at Lisa with barely concealed doubt, and Lisa had already taken a seat opposite Delia, like a hostess studying a new breed.

"So", Lisa looked at Karen, "does the girl have a routine? Hours of reading, walking, language lessons? I prefer to stick to a schedule, especially in the morning. As experience shows, discipline is the best antidote to melancholy and whims."

"The girl has character," Karen added dryly.

"All the more so", Lisa readily agreed. "Character is wonderful. You can work with it. But lack of character..." she paused and shrugged. "That's almost a diagnosis.

Delia, who had been watching with icy calm all this time, suddenly asked a question:

"Do you have character?"

Lisa looked at her as if she was hearing not a remark but the results of a laboratory analysis. Then she answered:

"Me? Hmm. I think so, yes. Although sometimes it seems that I delegated it to coffee and punctuality a long time ago."

Karen cleared her throat, either from embarrassment or growing irritation. Something in Lisa's intonations cut, not sharply, but stubbornly, like the blunt leg of an old chair scratching the parquet. Everything was too confident, too orderly. As if it wasn't a person who had entered the house, but an algorithm.

"Miss Roselli," she said with delicate precision, "perhaps you would like some breakfast?"

"Just coffee, if you please," she responded. "And preferably black. Without sugar. With milk - only in cases of death of loved ones or crises of faith."

Pelageya was not there, as always - everything was laid out in advance. Karen poured coffee, handed it to Lisa and only after placing the cup in front of her, she suddenly noticed - Lisa did not have a bag, a briefcase, or even gloves with her. Everything was left in the hallway. But it felt as if Lisa had brought a whole pharmacy with her - not of bottles, but of solutions.

"So," said Lisa, taking the cup, "what do you prefer: questions or a walk?"

Delia slowly raised her head, her hands still on the spoon. There was no childish naivety or ordinary curiosity in her gaze, only a subtle, cautious interest. The girl looked closely at Lisa, as if trying to determine whether she was a person or a carefully polished mechanism.

Karen reached for the butter dish automatically, as if her hands had decided to take a break while her brain processed what was happening. Gene, without looking up from the newspaper, quietly turned the page, but Karen knew he heard every word.

"You're not asking me," Delia said finally, looking straight at Lisa. Her voice was quiet, but not childish at all - too clear, too even.

Lisa smiled with just the corners of her lips.

"Of course. I'm asking you. Specifically you, my dear. Only it seemed polite to me to offer a choice first. After all, I'm a guest here.

"Guests don't usually ask for a walk in the morning," Delia said, continuing to eat her oatmeal. "They try the jam first. Or praise the weather."

"Ah, the weather!" Lisa readily picked up. "Beautiful, frosty. Such air in Boston was called 'invigorating'. Although personally I always thought that it made you sneeze. But still - invigorating."

She sipped her tea as if she had just delivered a witticism worthy of an embassy reception.

Karen watched the proceedings with the feeling that she was watching a game of chess between a human and a doll that had perhaps learned to move the pieces on its own. Lisa, despite her words, seemed completely unfazed by Delia's hostility. On the contrary, she seemed to be expecting it. In fact, she seemed to be glad of it.

"We have raspberry jam," Karen said to break the silence. "Pelageya makes it with lemon peel. It's a family recipe."

"Oh, wonderful," Lisa responded, not taking her eyes off Delia. "Raspberries are respected even in the Vatican. They say they strengthen the spirit. And lemon peel, oddly enough, makes the character more flexible. I read this in some folk medicine book. Or maybe I made it up myself."

"Do you often come up with ideas?" Delia asked, not taking her eyes off him.

"Only when reality needs embellishment," Lisa replied with a wink. "Or correction."

The answer was polished, but Karen felt a lurch of discomfort inside. There was something in the phrases, in Lisa's studied politeness and perfectly placed smile... Something too calculated. As if each line had been rehearsed in front of a mirror. And yet Lisa held herself with such perfect composure that it seemed almost bad form to protest against her manners.

"And in Boston you were... Who?" Karen asked with a pause, not hiding her attempt to find out at least something personal.

"An observer," Lisa answered without thinking. "I watched, listened, and sometimes intervened. Officially, I was a teacher. Unofficially, I was something between a conductor, a paramedic, and a surgeon on the cultural front lines."

"What do you mean, a surgeon?" Delia chuckled. "Do you operate on children there?"

Lisa suddenly changed dramatically. The smile remained, but became deliberately wide, even dangerously generous. She turned sharply to Delia and, to everyone's amazement, took half a step forward, as if she was about to fall to her knees next to the girl. Her eyes sparkled, her voice became cloyingly affectionate, almost honeyed:

"My dear, why so stern? Of course, you and I will become friends. I'm sure we will have a wonderful morning - and an even more wonderful week, and month, and who knows... Who knows, maybe even years! Just look at your eyes. A real young lady, I recognize them right away. You know, I always find a common language with such girls. We are almost like sisters, aren't we?"

She giggled, too loudly, too out of place. Delia didn't answer. There was no fear in her gaze, only wariness and the cold mistrust that at that age rarely comes out of nowhere.

Lisa, who was about to theatrically extend her hand, suddenly froze. Something flashed in her gaze - for a moment, briefly. Quick, predatory, calculating: like a cat realizing that a mouse can bite. At that moment, the mask of goodwill slipped, and Delia, not taking her eyes off her, saw that behind all this viscous politeness there was someone completely different. And she really didn't like this "different."

But the next moment, Lisa is already smiling again. She gets up, adjusts her cuff. Calm, collected, as if nothing had happened.

Pelageya was standing on the kitchen threshold. Her hands were in her apron, her gaze was as heavy as a sieve with hot potatoes. She didn't say a word, she just quietly crossed herself - silently, habitually, as those who have already seen a fox in a henhouse do. Lisa reminded her of her: red-haired, smooth, with eyes that look not at you, but through you.

During this awkward pause, Xander appeared at the door. He was carrying a kalach, still warm, with a crispy rye crust. Pelageya had ordered it to be served to the young lady with tea. The boy entered quietly, but with the bread at the ready, holding it as an offering. Only when he saw Lisa, he froze. Something about her, in her overly correct posture, in the tight bun of her hair, seemed to him... It seemed wrong. The boy shrank, as if it was not a person standing before him, but something alien - alien and commanding.

Lisa turned around sharply. Without looking at him, she said:

"Put it away. Don't bother the adults."

The words sounded harsh, alien. As if she had not spoken, but had cracked a whip.

Xander flushed. His cheeks flared up like a stove, and his fingers, clutching the loaf of bread, clenched so tightly that the crust cracked and crumbs fell to the floor. He stood there, his lips pressed together, as if before a fight. But he didn't move.

Delia jumped up. The chair creaked, the cup fell, the tea spilled across the tablecloth, soaking into the white fabric as a dark stain. The girl could hardly hold back her tears.

"He always has breakfast with me," she said in a breaking voice. "Always. And you don't dare!"

Lisa didn't even blink. She just twisted her lips slightly - in a contemptuous half-smile. Then she slowly took out a handkerchief and began to wipe the glove, as if someone had accidentally soiled it with their presence.

"The girl," she said coldly, "still has to learn how to deal with servants. Especially with one like this."

Her gaze slid over Xander, slowly, condescendingly. It stopped at his darned elbows and dusty socks.

Xander stood there for another second, and then suddenly turned around and ran out of the room.

Delia started to follow him, but Karen, who had been sitting like a taut string all this time, grabbed her hand sharply. Her fingers squeezed tightly.

"Deedle!" she shouted sternly.

The girl froze. Her hand was shaking. Her lips were pressed together. Her eyes were shining with tears - not from fear. From humiliation. And Pelageya was standing in the doorway - heavily, firmly, like a wardrobe that had grown into the floor, clutching the hem of her apron in her hands so tightly that they turned white from the strain. Morning light was slipping through the window frame, cold and dim, but it seemed to have more warmth than this room.

"He's not nobody," she repeated. "He's a man. Even if he doesn't have a father."

Her voice became quieter, but that made it more frightening. It sounded like an axe in the hands of a carpenter who knows where to hit to split without leaving a splinter.

Lisa didn't react. As if everything that had been said belonged to some other plane of existence - kitchen, second-rate, unrelated to porcelain and napkins. She bowed her head to pour herself some tea, but instead suddenly slowly put the cup down, leaned forward a little, and leaned on the edge of the table.

"In America," she said, looking straight at Pelageya, "everything is measured by usefulness. If a child is useful, they teach him. If he is harmful, they teach him to be useful. And if he is nothing, he is simply expendable."

Karen turned to face her sharply, as if something inside had finally broken through.

"In this house," she said quietly, "people are not expendable. There are children here! And I would like you to remember that, Miss Roselli."

"Of course", Lisa nodded with a smile. "Of course. I'm just explaining the principles. So that it would be... So that it would be clearer. Sometimes words grate on the ear, but the truth is rarely gentle, right?

She picked up the kettle again, but Karen had already stood up. The chair slid back with a dull thud. Her gaze was icy.

"Deedle," she said, without taking her eyes off Lisa, "go to your room. Right now."

Delia rose, slowly, as if from water. There was a crumb of jam on her cheek, like the mark of a slap, and she ran her hand over it, mechanically, without thinking. Then, without looking at Lisa, she went to the door, stopped at Pelageya and quietly, barely audibly, whispered:

"Thank you," and only then did she leave.

A second later, Karen was left alone with Lisa.

"You know how to make an impression," she said at last, measuring each word as a doctor doses poison. "But don't forget: this is Petersburg. Not your America. It's not customary here to throw people away like old newspapers."

Lisa raised her eyebrows.

"But here they are usually hidden in closets and treated with prayers. It's touching in its own way," she responded.

Karen didn't answer. She walked over to the teapot, took it off the stand, poured herself a cup and calmly, deliberately took a sip.

"You'll stay in the guest house for now," she said. "We'll talk to Dr. Hastings this afternoon. I'll make sure he knows everything before he recommends you."

Lisa inclined her head in a polite nod, as if she had heard an invitation to a concert.

Pelageya was still standing in the doorway, as if she had been nailed to the doorframe. Only her lips moved slightly, praying silently - in a quick, rustic manner, as her mother had taught her: from the evil spirit, from the evil blood, from the one who speaks politely but looks as if she were cutting with her eyes.

...666...

Meanwhile, Petya had pressed himself into the corner. He bent over, pressing his knees to his chest, like he had done in the barn when they were driving the dogs to the dump. The boards under his palms were warm and rough, creaking barely audibly - as if the house, the floor, and the walls did not know how to behave in the face of this voice pouring out of the dining room. The small room, usually cozy, now seemed cramped, like a box: the air in it was thick, anxious, almost shaking.

Thoughts crept into my head like mice into a chest: all at once, all different, all timid. Who is she? Who is this one - with a smooth face and words like a knife, smeared with honey? Is she a secret police officer? But do secret police officers smile like that? The real ones whisper, watch, keep their hands in their pockets. This one looks straight ahead, speaks loudly, is not afraid. Or, on the contrary, does she not know how to be afraid?

Maybe she's an actress? One of those who put on makeup in the dark and then come out and everyone stares. Her eyes are like that too - like they're playing, but there's nothing in them except for the sparkle. Or maybe she came from a hotel? One of those near the train station. Who knows what's going on in their heads.

Petya shook his head. He didn't know where she was from, but he knew for sure that she wasn't his. Someone else's. Not from this house, not from the street, not even from the city. She was like the wind from the other side: she smelled of perfume and danger. He wanted to hide from her - and at the same time not take his eyes off her.

Her words were heard clearly, as if she were standing right at the door:

"...don't worry, young lady. In time you'll understand who's dirt and who's gold."

He pulled his head into his shoulders. Her voice was sweet, slippery. Like spilled syrup that you stepped in and now you can't wipe it off. And everything inside Petya became prickly: not from fear, no. From resentment. From the fact that she was talking like that. As if she had already decided who was who. And Delia, according to her, was not gold yet.

He pressed his chin to his knees. His heart was beating fast, like a bird under his shirt. What if she really knew? Something about Delia. Or just thought she could tell her what to do?

Petya knew that Delia was not one of those who would give in. But he was still scared. Because people like her - smooth, gentle - are the most dangerous of all. They don't scream, they don't hit. They smile and cut centimeter by centimeter - so that you don't notice right away.

He closed his eyes.

I won't give her up, flashed through my mind. Not as a scream, but as stubborn knowledge. To no one. She's mine. Not by law, not by blood, but because I decided so.

From behind the wall again - a voice:

"We'll become friends, young lady. We'll have a lot in common. Seriously. I only came for you."

And then suddenly the kitchen door creaked - quietly, as if it itself was unsure whether it was worth breaking the silence. And in the doorway, with her head down, Delia appeared. Her shoulders were shaking. Her cheeks were shining - not from blush, but from tears. Red eyes, swollen eyelids. This is how people cry not for a minute - for hours. This is how they cry seriously. To the point of numbness. To the point where there is no longer any strength to speak or justify themselves.

She walked quickly, almost without looking, as if she were afraid that she would change her mind if she lingered even for a moment. Xander's room, dark and cramped, smelling of bread and iron from the stove damper, greeted her dully. He sat in the corner, huddled, his knees pressed together, as if protecting his chest from a blow. His eyes were tense, frightened - the eyes with which one looks at an approaching storm.

And she came up and hugged him. Without words, without warning. She simply leaned down, buried her face in his shoulder - and pressed herself, with her whole body, with all the weight of her pain. She didn't ask if she could. She didn't explain why.

Xander froze. His muscles seemed to have turned to stone. He didn't know how to breathe. No one had ever hugged him. No one - not his mother, sullen, tired, who always smelled of laundry and onions, not the children in the yard, who avoided the "cook's son." Even the dogs in the gateway growled, instead of caressing. He didn't know what to do with this body pressed against him. His hands hung in the air - alien, out of place, as if he were holding a basket of eggs, not knowing where to put them.

But she was shaking. And whispering. Barely audible. Something about Josephine. That it was her fault. That she hadn't kept an eye on him. That she had brought it to this. That it was stupid, cruel... No, not on purpose, but somehow... Somehow it happened.

The words were jumbled, crumpled. He didn't hear everything. He didn't understand much. But he felt it - in every exhalation, in every touch of her face to his shirt. And he didn't know why - why him? Why him?

And then... And then she, as if to herself, a little louder than necessary, so that it would remain a complete secret, said:

"I... I love you."

Xander stopped breathing. I love. Just like that? Not in a book. Not as a phrase. Not as a fantasy. He wasn't ready. Not for the words, not for the fact that they might not be a game. Not pity. Not mockery. He was afraid - what if she later said she was joking? Or, worse, regretted it?

He couldn't find the words. His mouth was dry. He simply squeezed her hand. Silently. With force. So that - if she disappeared - at least a trace would remain. She shuddered slightly, but did not leave. He was afraid to say even a word - what if it destroyed everything?

And she, sobbing, suddenly whispered:

"Proletarian... You can't be taken by either the carrot or the stick. What should we do with you?"

He didn't know if it was a joke. But his heart was beating in his chest - as if now, for the first time, there was meaning. And Delia was sitting on the floor, pressed sideways against him, as if she were seeking support in him not with her mind but with her body, without any cunning or play. Just like that: like two people sitting next to each other who suddenly became truly afraid. Her hand was still lying on his sleeve - and he felt how that hand was shaking, completely imperceptibly, but constantly, like a wounded bird that is held in the palms and they don't know whether it will survive.

Footsteps were becoming increasingly distinct from behind the wall. Tsk-tsk - measured, with theatrical leisureliness, as if it were not a person who was parading in the corridor, but the very importance of it. And the voice - this viscous, as if smeared with molasses:

"Miss? Where have you been hiding, little mouse?"

Xander felt the girl next to him shrink, like a dog hearing a chain. He wanted to say something, but his tongue wouldn't obey him. He kept silent. He only clenched his teeth and squeezed her hand, too, firmly. Delia didn't look at him, but she seemed to read it all with her skin. She whispered quietly:

"I won't give her Deedle!"

The voice was muffled, as if from a box. No childish arrogance, no pleading, just fact. As if it were saying: winter has come. Or: Josephine is no more.

Xander nodded. He himself didn't know what it meant - I won't give in, I won't allow it - but he understood: he couldn't let this Lisa in here. He couldn't let her see how they were sitting here, how she pressed herself against him, how her tears hadn't yet dried. This was theirs. Secret. Vulnerable. Her tears were on his shirt, and even that seemed sacred.

"I'll say you're not here," he whispered.

"She won't believe it," he whispered. "She always knows."

Here the heels stopped - somewhere at the very entrance to the kitchen. And again the voice:

"Darling, where are you going? Do you want me to tell you a story? About a girl who forgot where her place was, and then regretted it very much?

Xander felt a cold stream run down his back, as if a draft had blown through a crack in the wall. Delia sighed, as if from shame. Quietly, almost inaudibly, she said:

"She will pet me."

"He won't give it." Xander hardly thought.

"And I will hit."

He jerked - from surprise. He looked at her. And she - straight at him. Her eyes were still wet, but now there was something burning in them that he had not seen in them before. A flame. Small. But already - fire.

"If he touches me, I'll hit him," she said. "I don't care."

Xander, neither alive nor dead, only nodded. He no longer understood anything. He only knew: she shouldn't go there. And neither should he.

"Sit a little longer," he whispered.

"As long as possible," she replied.

And then suddenly the door to the closet creaked, and Lisa appeared in the doorway. She stood motionless, as if assessing whether she had somehow disturbed the scene she had witnessed. Her gaze slid across the floor, lingered on the shelf by the wall, and finally stopped on them - on Delia and Xander. She looked longest at their clasped hands. The expression on her face changed slightly: the corner of her mouth twitched, her eyebrows rose slightly. Not surprise, not displeasure - something third, elusive. But almost immediately everything disappeared behind her usual polite mask.

"Oh, there you are," she said, in the tone one uses when discovering a kitten has escaped under the bed. "I was beginning to think you had abandoned me."

Her voice was soft, too even, too amiable. It expressed neither joy nor anxiety, only a slightly false cheerfulness, as if she were reminding him of herself delicately but with a certain purpose. Her intonation suggested the kind of politeness that often conceals annoyance. She stepped inside, unhurriedly, looking about the little room like a proprietor, as if wondering if there was anything inappropriate there.

"Excuse me," she added, "I confess I didn't expect to find you here. I just came to say it was time to go out. Fresh air is the best doctor, especially after... After worries."

The words were careful, but they conveyed the idea that everything said was essentially not subject to discussion.

Delia, who had been standing almost with her back to the door the whole time, did not shrink back, did not hide behind Xander. She only slowly unclenched her fingers, releasing his hand. She did it deliberately, so that Lisa could see it. Then she turned around and nodded, as if nothing special had happened. Not her tears a minute ago, not the stranger's hand, tightly clenched in hers.

"I'm ready," she said calmly.

Lisa looked a little more closely than was necessary. As if searching for a tremor in her voice, for the former submissiveness to slip through. But Delia stood straight, looking without embarrassment. Her face was still pale, her eyes were reddened, but there was no confusion in them.

Lisa, noticing the change, said nothing. She just pulled the corners of her lips up a little more in a smile - a long, impenetrable smile, like that of people who are not used to admitting defeat even in a glance.

"Very well," she said, almost cheerfully. "Then I'll wait for you in the hallway."

And, turning around, she left. Her steps faded into the depths of the corridor.

Xander still stood rooted to the spot. He looked at Delia as if for the first time. Something had changed in her, and this change frightened him and at the same time pulled him along, like something important that was impossible to resist.

She looked at him, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and smiled - truly, not for someone else, not through force.

"Come on," she said. "We can go out into the yard, right?"

Xander nodded. He didn't know what to say. He only knew that he would walk beside her, as long as it took. They passed the walls, shadows gliding across the floor, and a minute later the door leading to the garden slammed softly behind them.

And Lisa Roselli stood by the window, her back straight, almost solemnly, as if her very pose were meant to confirm her right to observe. Beyond the glass, in the uneven sunlight, Delia and Xander were descending the steps into the courtyard. The girl walked a little ahead, the boy a half-step behind, as if guarding, but without pretension. Their silhouettes, outlined by the glare, were quieter than the silence itself, and for some reason this silence irritated Lisa more than if they had been making noise, laughing, or running away.

She pressed her finger to the glass, tracing the outline of their figures with the tip of her nail, and thought: how easy it all had been. Almost effortless, without delays, without resistance. One letter from the right person, two conversations with Hastings, and she was already here, in a house that smelled of baked goods, where there was no dust on the carpets, and where, most importantly, the object was located. All it took was a little politeness, good English, and the right accent.

The secret police first became interested in the girl in February, before she fell ill. It all started not even with her, but with Sergei Zazyrin, a student, harmless in appearance, with a careless gait and a hunched back, but with dangerous connections. Delia was just passing by, with her governess, with a book under her arm. But then there was that incident, on Nevsky, near a shop where the display case glittered with French novels, and he, passing by, picked up her handkerchief. The simplicity of the girl's reaction, "thank you, mister," seemed suspicious to someone then. Simply because there was no fear or embarrassment in her. Too free, too confident.

Then there was more - a bakery, a park, inconspicuous glances, a couple of phrases. Someone reported that the girl laughed. For Earl Knight, who began to suspect after every breakfast, this was enough. And when the governess Josephine suddenly died - from a "heart attack", as it was written - the solution came instantly. He had to put in his own. Hastings had a choice - and they slipped Lisa to him. He had no idea. He praised her, repeating: "She is reliable. American. And she does not wear corsets - a sign of freedom of spirit." How convenient it is to be needed by a person who does not understand people.

And now she's here. In the house. At the table. By the window.

The girl was walking across the yard. The boy's hand touched her elbow for a second, and Delia did not pull away. Lisa narrowed her eyes. Something in this childish gait was different than before. The plasticity of the body was different. No absentmindedness, no confusion. Concentration - that's what alarmed her. As if in this house, in this girl, something unaccounted for was happening.

She licked her lips, not from hunger but from habit. She had once been told that gestures control impressions no worse than words. She believed it. She knew how to wait. Lisa caught movement at the window. Delia, already putting her foot on the first step, suddenly turned around slightly, quickly, as if out of the corner of her eye, but enough to notice. Was she checking? Looking around? Or just habit? Lisa narrowed her eyes. There was something alarming about this girl: a caution that shouldn't have been there at nine or ten. Not an actress's, but a practiced one. Or maybe it was her intuition speaking, but the girl definitely felt that she was being watched.

"Oh, you stupid child," Lisa whispered with an almost maternal mockery. "You don't even understand what kind of game you've gotten yourself into. Or are you beginning to understand?"

She allowed herself a brief smile. This hunt was becoming to her taste. There was excitement in it, the cold joy of a correct guess. Not quite a game, but not just work either. More like an exploration, in which the subject, without even suspecting it, was giving signals.

Moving away from the window, she walked deeper into the house, unhurriedly, as if through her own chambers. The embroidery room, where it was usually quiet, now greeted her with the steady rustle of thread stretching through the fabric. Karen sat by the window, her back straight, her eyes empty. Her hands moved by inertia, the needle rose and fell, but her gaze kept eluding the canvas, as if what should have held her attention did not deserve it.

Lisa approached easily, with cat-like smoothness. She sat down to the side, not too close, but not too politely either - the way not guests but hostesses of the situation sit down. Her voice rang with concern:

"I don't want to bother you, Mrs. York... But I thought it would be important for you to know. Your daughter is behaving... A little defiantly. Of course, she's only eight years old, nerves, changes... But still. She doesn't listen, leaves without asking, communicates with a boy, with the cook's son, you know? She behaves as if she was not brought up."

Karen didn't look up. At first Lisa thought that she had simply not been heard. But then, as if with a delay, the mistress of the house said - quietly, evenly, barely moving her lips:

"Let him play. This is Russia, Miss Roselli. It's not like home."

Her voice sounded lifeless. No irritation, no fear, and certainly no maternal impulse. There wasn't even any annoyance. As if she was talking about someone else's child.

Lisa held her breath for a second. There was something in that reaction... Something suspicious. Not because Karen was defending her, but because she wasn't defending her at all. A real mother wouldn't say that, flashed through her mind. No trace of alarm. No attempt to justify. No emotion.

And then Lisa thought something she hadn't allowed herself to think before: What if all this isn't what it seems?

Yorks. America. Petersburg. A girl who is allowed too much. A lawyer who is never home. And the strange death of a governess, which almost happened to her advantage. Maybe this is not a family at all. Maybe Delia is not their daughter at all. Maybe this is all a cover.

She felt the excitement. The boy - Xander - might know more than he seemed. He was simple, yes, but children in poverty are tenacious and observant. If you press him - not with a fist, but with affection, fear or a promise - he would talk. Then - to Delia's room. There was definitely something there. Letters, papers, drawings. Everything that the girl had not managed to hide.

"Such a wild girl..." she sighed out loud, already changing her intonation. "But of course I won't give up. I'll try. You understand, Mrs. York... This isn't just a job."

Karen still did not take her eyes off the canvas. But the needle in her fingers suddenly trembled - and a thin drop of blood was absorbed into the white fabric.

Lisa noticed, but said nothing. And yet, leaving, she was pleased. Everything had started as it should.

...666...

A few days later, on May 17, the morning began with joyful news that spread throughout St. Petersburg. The city woke up to the triumphant cry of the newspapermen: "Amur" sank Japanese battleships near Port Arthur! The first victory in a long time, worthy of being written about in large print, decorating the headlines with ornate fonts, and not in terse lines full of defeats.

Gene York, sitting at the dining room table, leafed through the latest issue over breakfast. His breakfast was leisurely, as befits a man who knew the value of his time and dignity. The snow-white tablecloth, silverware, chinaware - everything breathed sedateness and comfort. He drank coffee, the aroma of which spread throughout the room, mixing with the smell of printer's ink. He nodded with satisfaction, reading the news. Here it is, the good news! The news is just in time, on the eve of Delia's birthday. At least some kind of celebration against the background of everything else, against the background of painful thoughts about the war and anxious forebodings hovering in the air of the capital.

Later, when breakfast was over and business papers were put aside, Gene and Karen set out for town. The driver, a sturdy man in a sheepskin coat, despite the month of May, carried them slowly along the cobblestone street. The horse, an old nag, stamped its hooves rhythmically, as if counting the rhythm of their life, familiar and established. Gene, leaning back in his seat, talked enthusiastically about the new governess. Lisa Roselli, in his opinion, was a real miracle, a find sent by Providence itself.

"Karen, darling," he said, his voice full of genuine pleasure, as if he had sunk those Japanese battleships himself. "You'll see, now you'll finally be able to breathe a sigh of relief and live for yourself. This Lisa... She's just a godsend. A real diamond. Deedle has completely transformed with her. She's so attentive, so caring. And how educated, just think about it! Not that..."

He stopped short, as if tripping over an invisible stone. The old name, Josephine, hung in the air, unspoken, but all the more tangible for that. Karen, who had been silently watching the houses flashing past the window, slowly turned her head towards him. Her face, usually so calm, acquired a hint of bitterness. Her fingers, lying on her reticule, involuntarily clenched, and the fabric crackled beneath them, almost inaudibly.

"Not like..." she repeated quietly, and there was such hurt in her voice that Gene winced. "Not like Josephine, right, Gene? Isn't that what you wanted to say?"

He awkwardly adjusted his hat, trying to avoid her gaze.

"Well, Karen, that's not what I meant at all. It's just... It's just that Lisa is young, full of energy, and Josephine... She wasn't so strong anymore. And, frankly, her methods..."

"Methods?" Karen leaned forward, and her voice, usually so soft, became hard as steel. "Her methods? She raised our Deedle from the cradle, Gene! She was there for her when we were busy with our own affairs, when you were building your office, and I... And I was trying to get along in this foreign country! She wiped her tears when she fell, she read her fairy tales when Deedle was afraid of the dark. She was part of our family, Gene. Part of our life. And you say 'not that'?"

Gene sighed, his enthusiasm fading like a wilted flower.

"You're always apt to get too attached to servants, Karen," he said, trying to sound firm, but it came out as tired. "Josephine, with all due respect, was just a worker, nothing more. Why get sentimental? There are some things that must be taken as they are. It was... It was an accident."

"An accident that seemed to come in handy," Karen whispered, her eyes filled with pain. She wasn't looking at him, her gaze was fixed on the window, on the houses flashing by. "You replaced her so easily, so easily accepted this Lisa, who is essentially a stranger, into our home. You admire her as if she were... As if she were your own. And Josephine... It's as if she never existed."

She paused, and the air in the carriage seemed thick with unspoken words.

"She was more than just a governess to Deedle," Karen continued, barely audible. "She was her... She was her mother. As much as I can be in this mess."

She turned her head toward the window, pretending to be interested in the sign of a fashionable store by the side of the road. And outside the glass, the streets of St. Petersburg floated by, gray and majestic, keeping many secrets under their granite vaults. The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter, like the haze over the city.

Gene, sensing the tension in the air, quickly changed the subject so as not to delve into the quagmire of bitter memories and reproaches. The conversation about the late governess, especially on such a day, was completely out of place for him. He straightened his shoulders, as if shaking off the burden of awkwardness, and spoke in a cheerful, businesslike, energetic tone.

"However, why do we need these gloomy thoughts, Karen? - he said, waving his hand almost theatrically. "Today should be full of joyful anticipation! May 18th, Deedle's birthday! We should think about presents, about how to please her. I've been thinking about it... What might she like?"

He turned to her, trying to catch her gaze, to spark interest in it.

"There's a wonderful book," Gene continued, without waiting for an answer. "A new edition of Gulliver's Travels, beautifully illustrated, bound in leather. I think Deedle will like it. Or perhaps a new perfume from Paris? I heard that something quite extraordinary was brought to Au Bon Marché, with the scent of spring flowers. What do you think?"

Karen nodded. Slowly, with a kind of mechanical smoothness, like the pendulum of an old clock. But there was no participation in her nods, none of the lively response that Gene was used to seeing in her eyes when she talked about Delia. The words she spoke in response were empty, as if spoken automatically, mindlessly, merely to maintain the semblance of conversation.

"Yes, Gene... Swift's book... That's good," she muttered, and her gaze, absentminded and absent, remained fixed on some distant, her own space, invisible to Gene.

She seemed to see something else, something that lay beyond the walls of this carriage, beyond the dusty St. Petersburg day. This did not escape Gene. He frowned, his forehead becoming a network of fine wrinkles. Gene was a man of action, accustomed to clear answers and precise reactions. Karen's lack of these irritated him. He noted to himself that her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, and this detachment, this invisible wall between them, was not to his liking.

"Karen, are you listening to me?" There was impatience in his voice. "You seem kind of... kind of thoughtful. Is everything okay?"

Karen started, as if coming out of a slumber. She looked at him, a hint of guilt in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Gene," she said, almost silently, and there was weariness in the whisper, almost a plea. "I'm just... I'm just tired."

Either an excuse, or a request not to dig deeper. Gene caught it. He only nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. He did not insist. Silence descended on the carriage again, but this time it was different - heavy, filled with innuendo and unspoken pain.

The cab driver, grunting something under his breath, turned off Fontanka onto Nevsky Prospect, where a jewelry store was already waiting for them with shop windows sparkling with thousands of lights, even on this cloudy day. Gold and silver, precious stones shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow, beckoned with their brilliance, promising eternal beauty and lasting value.

Gene York seemed to breathe in the glitter. He stepped out of the cart first, with the same ardor, the same energy with which he began any task, be it a lawsuit or a gift purchase. His face lit up at the sight of the glittering displays, and he was already looking forward to the moment when he would be able to choose something truly special for Delia.

Karen followed. Her movements were a little slow, as if each step required incredible effort from her. She walked next to Gene, but her gaze remained absentminded, as it had been since the morning. It wandered along Nevsky Prospect, glided over the faces of passers-by, over the facades of houses, but did not linger on anything, as if nothing could truly attract her attention.

"Something was wrong," this thought flashed through Gene's mind for a second. He, a man of observation and accustomed to precision, could not help but notice this detachment, this inner emptiness in Karen. Usually she treated Delia with such trepidation, her birthday, every little thing that concerned their daughter. And now... And now she was like a shadow, a ghost of her own joy.

But he pushed the thought away. He brushed it aside like an annoying fly. He decided that she was probably just tired. Petersburg, with its constant bustle, its dampness and changeable weather, could tire anyone. Especially a woman accustomed to a different climate, a different way of life.

Gene took Karen by the arm, lightly squeezing her elbow, trying to convey his cheerfulness, his mood to her.

"Come on, Karen," he said, his voice softer than usual but still insistent. "Let's not linger. Deedle is waiting. We need to choose something truly special."

Karen smiled weakly. It was a forced smile, almost weightless. She let Gene lead her, her body moving by inertia, and her soul seemed to remain somewhere far away, beyond this noisy and bustling world. They entered the doors of the jewelry store, and the ringing of the bell above the entrance announced the arrival of new customers, whose thoughts were far from the holiday bustle.

...666...

At the same time that Gene York was trying to dispel his wife's dark thoughts amid the glitter of the jewelry display cases, a no less complicated drama was unfolding in the cramped office of the Security Department on Fontanka. This office, littered with folders tied with string and paper baskets full of drafts, breathed the musty air of secrecy.

Here, at a plain oak table, sat Earl Knight. An American. Gray-haired, with thick sideburns which, together with his round, seemingly good-natured eyes, gave him the appearance of a village schoolmaster, or perhaps a druggist searching a jar of leeches for a new way to draw the truth out of a man.

Those who did not know him might have thought that he was a gentle and even simple-minded man, prone to long conversations about the weather and the harvest. But those who had the chance to talk to him for more than ten minutes understood that behind this appearance lurked a mind, sharp and predatory, like a blade hidden in a velvet sheath.

His smile was soft, almost paternal, but there was no warmth in it, only a detached politeness. And his absent-minded, slightly thoughtful manner served only as a cover for his iron will and unbending determination. He was like a cat dozing in the sun, but ready at any moment to release its claws.

How he ended up in Russia was the subject of legends in the court office, and especially in the smoking rooms. They said that even before the Russo-Japanese War, he had come here as an agent of the famous Pinkerton Agency, pursuing some clever rogue who had robbed a couple of large banks in New York. The villain, it seems, was never caught - or at least that was what was officially said - but Knight remained.

They took a closer look at him. Russian officials, tired of their own procrastination and sluggishness, who loved foreigners with "order in their heads" and the ability to act without unnecessary words, quickly appreciated his methods. The methods, of course, were unusual for the local minds: Knight did not shy away from dirty work, as long as it brought a clean result. He could easily enter a tavern where suspicious elements gathered and leave with the necessary information, without tarnishing either his uniform or his reputation.

He could be invisible, disappear into the crowd, and then reappear, as if from nowhere, with a ready-made solution. He was what the Russians called a "wolf in sheep's clothing," and that skin sat on him surprisingly well, just like a well-tailored English suit.

The door swung open without a knock and Fyrya staggered into the room. He was the embodiment of the darkest corners of this city - ugly, with a lopsided face, cut up with old scars, as if he had personally participated in every street fight that had ever happened in Petersburg. He smelled of cheap moonshine and raw leather, a smell that did not disappear in the bathhouse or in the fresh wind, but followed him like a faithful dog. In his pocket, as usual, gleamed a knuckle duster - his faithful friend and most convincing argument in arguments.

"What would you like, chief?" Fyrya croaked, and in his voice, in addition to the obvious hoarseness of the moonshine, one could hear an impudent, almost open grin.

He was one of those who were used to looking into the eyes, even if they were cloudy, and never bowing unnecessarily, even to those who could send him to hard labor. "Is there work or did they just call you for old times' sake, to have some tea?

Earl Knight did not even raise his head. The light from the window fell on his gray sideburns, emphasizing the good-natured look of the pharmacist, who was now carefully studying the recipe for a deadly poison. He only extended his hand, without taking his eyes off the papers, and placed a glass of strong, almost black tea with lemon in front of Fyrya. The steam from the tea curled in a thin stream in the air, mixing with the smell of cheap booze, creating a very strange aroma. Fyrya, accustomed to slaps in the face or, at best, to silent contempt, froze for a moment. This gesture was a surprise to him, like a spring thunderstorm in the middle of winter.

"I'm not interested in Zazyrin," Knight said, finally looking up.

His voice was even, almost colorless, as if he were talking about the most ordinary thing in the world, the price of firewood or yesterday's weather. His gaze, although it seemed calm, penetrated to the very essence, like a sharp knife, leaving no chance for evasion. For some reason, Fyrya shuddered, as if an invisible draft had run down his back. He put the glass down on the table with a dull thud.

"Zazyrin, you say?" Fyrya asked, scratching the back of his head. "What's wrong with him? He seems quiet. He just reads his books and talks to the students. What can you expect from him?"

"Such that he is already being watched," Knight continued calmly, and in his words there was a hint - subtle, almost imperceptible - that a web, invisible to the eye, was already entangling the student. As if the very air around Zazyrin was thickening, becoming viscous from the invisible threads of surveillance.

Fyrya, however, did not understand the hint. Such subtleties did not linger in his clouded consciousness. He only chuckled indifferently, sipping his tea.

"Well, let them keep an eye on him, the bosses know better," he boomed. "What's it to us? He may be a good-for-nothing, but he seems like a kind guy."

Earl chuckled to himself: Fyrya clearly didn't know about Lisa Roselli, who had been planted among the Yorks as a nanny, and all those whom Zazyrin, in his naivety, could have brought into the house. He was only a tool, not an initiate into the subtle intrigues. And unnecessary knowledge only spoils people like Fyrya, turning them from tools into interlocutors. And Knight didn't need that.

"I'm interested in the others," Knight continued, and his voice changed slightly, became a little sharper, like a knife sliding over a whetstone. "Dmitry Byakin, Denis Terekhov, and Artyom Starikov. Do you know them?"

Fyrya wiped his lips with his sleeve and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, trying to extract the necessary names from the depths of his memory.

"Bya-kin, Te-re-khov, Sta-ri-kov..." he repeated syllable by syllable, as if tasting them. "We know, sir. Small fry, but with the arrogance of generals. They talk all the time about the new life, and say bad words about the father-king. Yesterday they cooled one of them under the bridge, and he kept shouting about equality until the morning."

Knight tapped the tip of his finger on the table, and this quiet, measured knock sounded in the small office like a heartbeat in dead silence.

"They gather," Knight paused, as if letting his words settle, "at the tavern on Kabinetskaya. The one called the 'Zolotoy Yakor'. I remember you used to go there quite often."

Fyrya chuckled, recognition flashing in his eyes.

"Oh, the 'Zolotoy Yakor'! A fine place. There's a drink there, and... And people to talk to. So, does that mean I should go there?"

"That's where you belong," Knight confirmed. "Flatter. Listen. Remember everything. Every word, every gesture, every careless remark. You must become my ears, Fyrya, my eyes."

"And about the payment, boss?" Fyrya's voice, as hoarse as the creak of an unoiled cart, nevertheless betrayed impatience. His eyes darted around, as if he could already see mountains of banknotes in front of him. "After all, it's a delicate matter. Even a crow wouldn't sit on a fence for nothing."

Knight only smiled. His smile, as always, did not bring warmth, but rather reminded that even well-fed wolves can smile.

"They will", he said", if he manages without fabrications. I needed facts, Fyrya, not fables. Not a superfluous word. And don't even think of telling me fairy tales about how you brought them out "into clean water."

He raised his finger, and his movement was slow, almost cat-like.

"And if you decide to make something up for the sake of a catchphrase..." Knight looked straight into Fyrya's cloudy eyes, "...then you'd better first think about how it will end. Got it?"

Knight's gaze, though steady, pierced Fyrya like a drill. For a moment, even the drunkard Fyrya, who had no fear of the blade, felt a chill run down his spine. He understood. It was no use trying to fool this American. He was as dangerous as a snake hiding in the grass, and his good-natured appearance deceived only those who were stupid.

"Got it, boss," Fyrya muttered, lowering his gaze. "Everything is exactly the same. Word for word."

His face no longer showed thoughts, but dreams - about vodka, about papers, about a warm corner in some flophouse where he could forget about the eternal dampness and poverty. He would give everyone up if necessary. Excellent. Knight leaned back in his chair, pleased with the result. Another cog in his machine started working. He knew that Fyrya would not let him down. Not because he was loyal, but because he was too afraid. And this fear was the best guarantee of execution.

Fyrya, standing in front of Knight, was still hesitating, trying to catch at least one more word, a hint that could bring in an extra ruble. In his cloudy eyes one could read a mixture of greed and a vague, almost unconscious fear of this strange, quiet American.

"So that's it, boss?" he croaked, trying to make his voice casual. "Or are there any other assignments? I can do something here and there... Put in a good word. I have connections, you know."

Knight raised his head. His gaze was quiet and motionless, like glass behind which a bottomless depth was hidden.

"Keep up your work, Fyrya," he said. His voice was soft, almost gentle, as if he were talking to a naughty child. "But remember, I don't tolerate provocateurs overdoing it."

These words immediately made the room feel cold. It seemed that even the dust in the beam of light falling from the window froze, not daring to move. All of Fyrya's fusel bravado instantly evaporated, as if it had never been there. He swallowed, a dry lump lodged in his throat. Suddenly his lopsided face was distorted with an absurd fear, and the scars on it turned pale. He felt like a mouse caught in the gaze of a cat.

Fyrya jumped out like a mouse from behind the stove, almost hitting the door frame. The office space seemed to push him away, not wanting to put up with his presence. The door slammed behind him with a slight creak, and all that remained in the air was the smell of cheap tobacco, acrid moonshine, and some sticky, tangible fear that seemed to stick to the walls and hover in the air.

Knight, left alone, took a deep breath, as if airing the room from an unpleasant smell. Then, unhurriedly, as if performing a familiar ritual, he took a small photograph from the table. The woman in it - a nurse from the Hastings clinic - looked calmly and slightly sternly. Clear lines of the face, a direct look, no unnecessary emotions. Lisa Roselli. The American looked at her face, at these features that did not promise any whims or unnecessary worries, and thought: a reliable person. In his world, a world of shadows and intrigues, reliability was valued above all else. He put the photograph aside, and silence descended on the office again, broken only by the occasional scratch of a pen behind the wall.

...666...

At this time, Andrei Rasolko, a twenty-five-year-old columnist for the Sankt-Peterburgskie Vedomosti, was walking along Kabinetskaya Street toward the Zolotoy Yakor tavern. His frock coat, which must have seen more than one literary battle, was slightly frayed at the elbows, but his eyes were ablaze with excitement - the morning promised news, and news for a columnist was like air, without which the pen could not breathe. Kabinetskaya Street, still sleepy at this hour, welcomed him into its embrace, and Andrei's every step was full of anticipation.

Tavern the 'Zolotoy Yakor' is smelling of beer, fried fish and strong tobacco, was a favourite haunt of his friends, the writing fraternity, free artists of the word, who gathered here for morning coffee to wash the bones of politicians, laugh at city gossip and, of course, complain about low fees. Here, under the creaking of floorboards and the clink of dishes, the most caustic remarks and the boldest ideas were born.

Rasolko swung open the heavy oak door and was met by the familiar noise of a smoke-filled hall: the hubbub of voices, the clink of mugs, the groaning of regulars. The air was thick as the St. Petersburg fog, saturated with the smells of yesterday's libations and today's hopes.

In the smoky half-light, through the clouds of tobacco smoke, Rasolko immediately noticed that at the corner table, under a cloudy mirror that reflected only the vague outlines of figures, sat his friends. They were an integral part of this place, like old furniture or stains on the walls.

Ilya Kovalyov, a bearded poet in a black velvet jacket, twirled the tip of his pen and tried to look liberal, as if he were the editor of some local opposition newspaper. He sat with his legs crossed, with an artistic air, and sipped his coffee as if it were divine nectar.

Grigory Shultz, skinny as a lamppost, nicknamed 'Pacer' in his circle for his unhurried but persistent manner of expressing his thoughts, sat down next to him. A cigarette was smoking in his teeth, and a slight stutter only added a special piquancy to his speech. He was telling something, actively gesticulating, and his shadow on the wall was darting about like a ghost.

The third, their mutual acquaintance, a stocky little fellow who looked like a cast-iron bollard in a port, wore a shabby velvet jacket that seemed to be a couple of sizes too big for him. Rasolko didn't know his name, but he knew his nickname - 'Pug'. He sat, frowning, and listened attentively to Schultz, occasionally nodding his large head.

Andrey Rasolko, throwing aside the heavy tavern door, stepped into the smoke-filled hall. The air, thick as meat broth, enveloped him immediately, saturating his frock coat with the smell of beer, fried fish and strong tobacco. The hall was buzzing with voices like a beehive, but the columnist, accustomed to this noise, immediately caught the familiar intonations of his friends.

"Hello, brothers!" shouted Rasolko, making his way between the tables where drunkards and workers sat, discussing their simple affairs.

They noticed him. Schultz, skinny as a pole, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, raised his head and, looking down at Pug, asked hesitantly:

"Well, P-p-pug, where did you come from this time? What incident did you sniff out?

Pug, a stocky little fellow in a shabby velvet jacket, raised his large, cast-iron-like head and growled, exhaling blue smoke:

"I was at a fire, Pacer. The warehouse burned to the ground. There was a column of smoke, I wish I knew why. And where have you been? I haven't seen you for a long time."

Schultz, fiddling with his cigarette, answered, drawing out the words like chewing gum:

"Just from the c-c-court. There was a case there, brothers. One... Oh, look at him, he was sentenced to t-t-ten years. For what? For... Oh, it doesn't matter. For words, apparently."

Ilya Kovalev, a bearded poet in a black velvet jacket, seemed not to notice the conversation, adjusted his gold pince-nez on his nose and, raising his eyes to the sooty ceiling, began to recite Blok's verse, theatrically stretching out the words:

"'Behind the dark distance of the city the white ice was lost...'"

"Your Blok again, Pacer!" interrupted Pug, wincing as if he had swallowed a lemon. "Why are you dragging him around like a cat by the tail? His brain has probably gone sideways from this city darkness! For him, the ice is always white, and the distance is black. Soon he himself will disappear into that distance, like that man in the ice hole!"

"Ugh, damn it!" spat Schultz, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Blok, he's probably for the young ladies from the Institute for Noble Maidens who dream of being refined. And here we have life, you know? Hungry, angry, and with vodka on the side! What "urban darkness"? And where did he get that "one burning eye"? He must have gotten his sight from a hangover! He's a weirdo starting with the letter "M", by God!

Ilya, as if not hearing their barbs, only slightly moved his shoulder, as if driving away annoying flies, and continued with feigned pathos:

"...'A man rose up from the darkness towards me. Hiding his face from me'..."

Rasolko, meanwhile, was looking around the room. His gaze slid over familiar faces and suddenly lingered. A little further from their table, closer to the wall, sat a stranger. Young, with a faded face and a dark gaze in which wariness and stubborn concentration coexisted. He sat quietly, almost unnoticed, as if not wanting to attract attention to himself.

Ilya, interrupting his verse in mid-sentence, irritably waved his hand towards the stranger, as if he were an annoying obstacle to his poetic impulse.

"Who is this?" asked Rasolko, nodding his head.

"Ah, it's..." Ilya drawled, grimacing, "it's the student, Dmitry Byakin."

He appeared here, as if from underground, and he keeps trying to listen to what we're chatting about. He's probably composing his own poem about how the 'azure dream of heaven' capsized into dirty water.

Rasolko took a closer look. The guy's hair was neatly combed, which was rare for a student, and his gaze was too confident, even bold, for a man who had just entered the circle of such eminent literary figures. He sat quietly, almost motionless, as if he had just buttoned all the buttons on his uniform and was waiting for the command. The feuilletonist smiled inwardly: this Byakin did not look like an ordinary, downtrodden student. There was some kind of inner steel in him, hidden under a mask of modesty. And he was certainly far from Blok's 'azure dreams'.

Andrei Rasolko, having settled himself at the table and ordered his morning coffee out of habit, which smelled of burnt beans and hope, did not particularly listen to the general hubbub. He was here not only to listen, but also to tell stories. And he loved to tell stories, for a story, a good story, was more precious to a feuilletonist than gold.

"Well, brothers, listen", Rasolko began, taking a sip from his mug. "A story, as they say, from the life of the fleet. On one ship, I won't name which one, so as not to compromise, there was a priest. He was so tall, with a square face, that the sailors nicknamed him Hippopotamus behind his back."

Ilya, the bearded poet, chuckled, adjusting his pince-nez.

"Hippopotamus? Ha! No doubt a lover of hearty meals and spiritual conversations under the wing of Bacchus."

"Exactly!" Rasolko nodded. "This man, our Hippopotamus, loved to have a drink, that's true. And even more he loved to talk about matters of faith with the team. To direct his soul, so to speak, to the light.

Schultz, skinny as a lamppost, choked on his cigarette.

"And what about the sailors, what about the sailors? They probably had questions not about the resurrection, but about where the rum comes from and where the wages go."

"Exactly!" Rasolko confirmed, and his eyes sparkled. "Sailors, I must say, are an observant people. And they asked such questions that our Hippopotamus often got lost. Apparently, he wasn't very good with words, when it wasn't according to regulations."

Ilya, grinning into his beard, interjected:

"Well, such a priest must have looked ridiculous. No wonder the sailors laughed. Probably, out of despair, he began to mumble something ecclesiastical under his breath, warmed up by rum, like a singing deacon!"

Rasolko, smiling slightly, continued, enjoying the reaction of the audience.

"Once, brothers, the sailors pressed him so hard with questions about all sorts of miracles, and about the hellish cauldron, that our Hippopotamus couldn't stand it. He got sweaty, turned purple, and then roared: "Your mother, damned cabbage stump!" and darted into the wardroom, like a cockroach from the light."

Schultz slapped his hand on the table and burst out laughing.

"Ha! Typical behavior for those who can't handle uncomfortable questions! Instead of arguments - swearing, instead of a sermon - running away! The newspapers, if they found out about this, would probably invent that the priest also played gambling with the sailors, and lost the bet on the lifeboats. 'Our pastor lost in preference!' that would be the headline!"

Byakin, who had been sitting silently, merely nodded, thoughtfully fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth, as if he were calculating something in his mind. A shadow of understanding flashed in his eyes.

"Well, so", continued Rasolko, leaning forward. "After that incident, our Hippopotamus decided not to engage in arguments with the sailors about the divine anymore. He resigned himself, it seems. Instead, on holidays, he began handing out sheets of paper with texts from monasteries to the crew. About saints, about sins, about the salvation of the soul."

Ilya, perking up, rubbed his hands.

"This is already more interesting! A brilliant idea! What fun! I can imagine how this Hippopotamus, shining with piety, thinks that he is bringing light to people, but in fact..."

"But in reality, the sailors, of course, laughed", Rasolko interrupted him, "and thought about how to wean him off this habit. Well, you see, these righteous readings do not suit them. And so one clever orderly, a quick, clever lad, came up with a plan. On the next holiday, he quietly pulled the sheets of paper from under the priest's cassock."

Ilya, anticipating the outcome, exclaimed:

"And replaced it, right? Replaced it with something else? What a move!"

Rasolko nodded, and his eyes sparkled mischievously.

"Exactly! He replaced them with others, not at all spiritual in content. What kind - we'll talk about that later. And our Hippopotamus, warmed up in the wardroom, didn't notice anything. He came out to the sailors, shining like a polished samovar, and began handing out leaflets, calling on everyone to read and follow what was written, rejoicing that the team, in his opinion, had turned to righteousness."

Schultz, laughing so hard that his skinny chest shook, almost dropped his cigarette.

"Now this sounds like a joke! I can imagine: a priest with an important air hands out texts that are not at all about what he thinks! "Ave Maria, go and read about..." - and then something like this, obscene! The newspapermen, brothers, would have made a whole story out of this! 'How the Holy Father sowed discord!' - that would be a headline!"

Byakin, smiling slightly, remained silent, but his fingers ran faster across the tablecloth, as if he himself was already going through these "non-spiritual" sheets in his mind.

Rasolko, enjoying the effect produced, continued:

"Well, that's it. The sailors, having received the sheets of paper, ran around the deck. Some to the bow, some to the stern, and began to read aloud. And the text, brothers, spoke about the injustice of the authorities, about how they oppress the common people, about the right to freedom and all sorts of things that make the bosses' hair stand on end!"

The pug growled approvingly.

"Well, well, that's our way of saying it! So it wasn't in vain that we tried!

"And then", Rasolko continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "a midshipman was passing by. He noticed a piece of paper on one of the sailors. He snatched it, his eyes popped out of his head! And he started screaming: "What is this?! Where did it come from?! Explain yourself, you scoundrel!" The sailor calmly, without any ulterior motive, answered: 'So, your honor, my father gave it to me. He hands it out to everyone and tells them to read it'."

Ilya, his eyes wide open, put his hand to his mouth.

"Oh-oh-oh! Brilliant! The newspapermen would certainly have painted the priest as an instigator of unrest, who under the guise of piety was preparing a revolution! The plot, according to him, would be suitable for some ballad, although not to his taste, for Blok, of course, was above such base themes."

"The midshipman looked around," Rasolko continued, "and there the whole crew was reading the same thing! One was muttering something about the Tsar, another about the generals, a third was pounding his fist on the deck! The midshipman turned purple as a boiled lobster and rushed into the wardroom shouting about a mutiny, blaming the priest!"

Schultz, shaking his head, said sympathetically:

"Poor Hippopotamus! Wanting to save souls, he ended up before a tribunal! The newspapers, by God, would have blown up the story of a revolutionary in a cassock who, together with the sailors, starts mutinies on ships!"

Byakin chuckled quietly, but remained silent, only tugging at the tablecloth harder, as if it were the threads of fate. Rasolko finished, sipping his now cold coffee.

"So what happened? The officers, hearing about the mutiny, rushed onto the deck with revolvers drawn, and the commander, stumbling, ran ahead, almost knocking down everyone around him. The priest, not suspecting anything, handed out the last leaflets, saying: 'I see, brothers, you have turned to righteousness, you have taken the true path!' The commander, flying up to him, accused him of incitement and immediately ordered his arrest. They tied up the priest, and he only shook his head in fear, unable to explain anything, only blinked his eyes like a fish thrown ashore. A search of the priest's cabin yielded nothing but books and spiritual leaflets. It was soon realized that this was a joke by the orderly. The priest was released, but the crew began to search, and the orderly, of course, was flogged to the hilt. The sailors just laughed, pleased with how cleverly they had fooled the priest. So much for the sermon!"

Having finished, Rasolko leaned back in his chair and, smiling contentedly, winked at Dmitry Byakin. He sat there, still as reserved and neat as a porcelain figurine that had miraculously found itself in a smoky tavern. Andrei pretended that he was simply maintaining a casual conversation, but there was a subtle, barely perceptible provocation in his voice.

"Tell me, my dear fellow", Rasolko began, taking a sip from his mug and pretending not to care about the answer. "You, young man, probably think about the fate of the fatherland? Eh? What are the young people thinking now? About the Tsar, about the people, about this damned war? Do you, the new generation, have your own voice? Or is there only silence, like in church when the deacon is sleeping?"

Byakin answered quietly, looking somewhere to the side, at the greasy wall of the tavern, where a yellowed poster of a circus performance hung. His words sounded muffled, but distinct.

"War... Well, it's a grief, of course. Everyone gets it. Both the soldiers and their families. And the people... The people suffer, as always. What else can you say?"

He spoke simply but carefully, as if he were weighing each word on apothecary scales, afraid to let slip too much. Rasolko smiled to himself. "Something is fishy here," he thought. "Too smooth. Too correct." The experienced eye of a columnist sensed a catch.

He continued, as if in jest, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, although there was already an unimaginable din around.

"Well, I've heard", said Rasolko, winking, "that the Socialist Revolutionaries, those same revolutionaries, are posting their leaflets in taverns. They're preaching, it seems, a new order. Isn't that student one of their company, by any chance? Forgive me for being so direct, but your appearance, my dear fellow, is very... Very solid. You don't look like a simple reader of novels."

Byakin tensed slightly. His fingers, lying on the tablecloth, trembled slightly. But then he smiled, as if surprised by the stupidity of the question, and shook his head.

"What are you saying, what are you saying!" he said, trying to give his voice a slight mockery. "I only read books, I read a lot. And politics... Politics is not for me. It is for those with round heads, and not for me, a wretched person."

But something flashed in his eyes - not fear, no, but caution, cunning, animal-like. As if he realized that he was being watched, that his words were being caught on the fly. Rasolko, sipping his now cold coffee, remarked:

"Well, well. That's the kind of caution that sometimes gives you away, my dear. Sometimes silence is louder than any words."

Ilya and Shultz, carried away by their conversation about the new play, laughed something there, playing along with the general tone, but Rasolko did not listen to them. He was completely focused on Byakin. This guy did not fit in with the usual picture of a student oppositionist. Too precise, too careful in his movements and words, as if in a mask that he did not take off even in the tavern.

Rasolko decided to change tactics. He softened his tone, as if he was asking in a friendly manner, trying to find an approach to him.

"What books do you read, if it's not a secret?" he asked, almost paternally. "Gogol, Dostoevsky, or perhaps the new-fangled French who write only about debauchery?"

Byakin perked up. A spark appeared in his eyes, and he leaned forward a little.

"Of course I respect Gogol," he replied, and there was a sincere note in his voice. "'Taras Bulba' is a thing! Power! But I'm also interested in journalism about ordinary people. About their lives, about their needs. How people live, what they breathe."

He spoke evenly, but with a tense gentleness, as if arguing with himself, fighting the desire to say something more. Rasolko slapped the table, feigning delight.

"Oh! Journalism is a necessary thing, I myself am writing an article about how the people are experiencing the war. Not about generals and admirals, but about ordinary people who chew bread and shed tears. And what are they whispering about on Sennaya now, huh? What are they talking about there?"

Schulz and Kovalev, interrupting each other, were arguing heatedly about a new play that was being shown at the Alexandrinsky Theatre, and their voices were the background to this quiet, tense conversation. Rasolko spoke slowly and in a low voice, like one of his own, like a person he could trust.

Byakin paused, as if collecting his thoughts.

"Nothing special," he replied, and his gaze slid over Fyrya, who seemed to be dozing at the next table, clutching his glass. "They grumble about the prices, of course. About the soldiers going to the front, about the rations that have become too small. As always, basically."

He said everything correctly, everything was within the bounds of what was permitted, but Rasolko knew: those who keep silent too correctly almost always hide something. And this student, Dmitry Byakin, was one of them. Behind his calm manner one could sense some kind of secret, which the feuilletonist, like an experienced hunter, dreamed of tracking down.

Andrei Rasolko, leaning back in his chair, watched Dmitry Byakin attentively. He continued to tug at the edge of the tablecloth, and in his silent concentration the columnist sensed something more than just youthful thoughtfulness. The conversation about the "correct" silence hung in the air, unresolved and ringing.

At that very moment the door of the tavern slammed, announcing the arrival of new customers. Two people staggered into the room, staggering from the sudden movement. The first was Artem Starikov, broad-shouldered, disheveled, as if he had hastily jumped out of bed, forgetting to comb his hair. He was followed by Denis Terekhov, thin, with a lively, slightly twitching gaze that darted from side to side, as if looking for a way out of a labyrinth.

They immediately, without looking around, headed straight for the table where Byakin was sitting. Starikov, approaching, measured Dmitry with a stern look and, as if reproaching, muttered:

"Where have you been, Dmitry? We were already thinking that you were looking for new brochures at the baker's."

But, noticing the stranger - Rasolko - at the table, he stopped mid-sentence, his gaze becoming wary. Terekhov, squinting, measured Rasolko from head to toe, as if trying to decide who he was and why he was sitting there, as if he sensed something was wrong.

Rasolko, without waiting for questions, politely stood up. He knew how important it was to relieve tension.

"Rasolko, Andrei Stepanovich," he introduced himself, bowing slightly. "A feuilletonist, writing for Vedomosti. Forgive me for doing this without an invitation."

He paused, smiling.

"Well, I heard out of the corner of my ear that you, gentlemen, are supposedly from Minsk. Or am I mistaken? - He pretended to look for confirmation. "And I thought, it would be interesting to know what people there say about this war... Oh, about our damned war. How are you living there, on the outskirts?

Terekhov and Starikov exchanged glances. Their gazes clearly showed wariness. Byakin, seizing the moment, coughed, as if letting his men know that everything was fine, and that this stranger was, apparently, not dangerous.

Rasolko, sensing their wariness, began to speak more freely, with a slight laugh, trying to look as harmless as possible.

"Don't be afraid, gentlemen! I'm not from the Okhrana, God forbid! And I'm not up to denunciations. As they say, I need folk tales. Life, color. Do you understand? After all, readers don't want your battleships or generals' reports. They want how people think and talk. Like in villages, like in taverns. The salt of the earth, so to speak."

Starikov chuckled, either in surprise or with a slight smile, as if evaluating his words.

"There may be some stories," he said, and his voice, although rough, sounded a little softer. He sat back in his chair, like a man who is ready to listen, but does not yet fully trust.

Terekhov still looked around warily, his twitching gaze continued to dart around, but he also sat down and, without saying a word, asked the waiter for some tea.

Rasolko, as if casually, threw out a new question, trying to give it the most innocent appearance.

"And how are things in Minsk with the Tsar, if it's not a secret? Or here, on Sennaya, how do people reason? Well, just for the sake of material, without names, of course. Just people's thoughts."

Byakin, emboldened as if sensing the danger had passed, raised his voice slightly and declared:

"What's the fuss? The people see the Tsar as distant. And war... War's for the generals, not for the common folk. War is blood and hunger."

Starikov, seated across from him, leaned back in his chair, his broad-shouldered frame appearing even more imposing in the smoky dimness of the tavern. He spoke cautiously, weighing each word, but his rough, sandpaper-like voice betrayed an unexpected passion:

"Bread is getting more expensive, that's true. They keep drafting more soldiers, but for what? All for the generals and their medals. But I say, brothers," he lowered his voice, though his eyes blazed, "if only our science could leap forward - not to forge cannons, but to fly to the stars! Imagine new elements for Mendeleev's table, ones that could carry a rocket to the Moon! Not to wallow in mud and blood, but to soar upward, to the heavens! If only our scientists didn't serve the Tsar, but worked for the people, for the future! Look at what Jules Verne wrote - a projectile to the Moon, while we're still drowning in trenches and orders. Science must pull us out of this darkness, toward the light of the stars!"

Terekhov, sitting nearby, froze, his jittery gaze darting to Starikov as if he'd crossed an invisible line. Byakin coughed, as if trying to smother the echo of those words, but it was too late - Rasolko, squinting, was already catching every word like fish in murky water. The gears in the journalist's mind began to turn: "Stars? New elements? This isn't just daydreaming - this is sedition! To say such things in front of everyone, in a tavern where the Okhrana's ears stretch longer than Nevsky Prospect! This isn't a column - it's a denunciation writing itself!"

Rasolko, hiding a predatory smile behind his cup of cold coffee, nodded as if in agreement, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. He could already see the headline: 'How Petersburg Dreamers Fantasize About Stars and Forget the Tsar'. Or better yet, an anonymous note to the Okhrana: 'One Artem Starikov, in the 'Zolotoy Yakor' tavern, spouted seditious talk about science without the Tsar and flights to the stars'. In wartime, with the autocracy teetering, such words from a burly fellow with fiery eyes could cost him hard labor. And Rasolko, a skilled player, knew: one well-placed rumor meant a paycheck, and one well-crafted denunciation meant fame in certain circles.

"Well, well, Mr. Starikov," Rasolko drawled, feigning admiration. "To the stars, you say? Straight out of Jules Verne! And what," he lowered his voice, as if joking, "are these not the dreams of the SRs, eh? Of freedom, of science without oppression?" He winked, but his gaze was cold as ice on the Neva.

Starikov, missing the trap, chuckled but grew more cautious, as if sensing something amiss:

"SRs? Nothing of the sort, Andrei Stepanovich! It's just the soul yearning to move forward, not rot in trenches. Science - it's for everyone, not just the nobles and generals."

Terekhov, nervously tapping his fingers on the table, shot a quick glance at Byakin, as if seeking support. Byakin, his face impassive, gave a slight nod, but a flicker of unease passed through his eyes. Rasolko, catching this tension, mentally rubbed his hands: "Oh, what a catch! Not just students, but ones with ideas!"

Ilya Kovalev, who had been silent until now, adjusted his gold pince-nez and, as if to lighten the mood, interjected with mock grandiosity:

"'And I knew not when or where it appeared and vanished...'" he quoted Blok, but Shults, choking on his cigarette, cut him off:

"Huh, Ilya, enough of your Blok! Better write a poem about Starikov's stars than bore us with that nonsense about 'one burnin' eye'!" He laughed, but his laughter was nervous, as if he too felt the air in the tavern growing heavy.

Rasolko, unwilling to lose the thread, shifted tactics. He leaned back in his chair, as if relaxing, and casually reached for the fresh newspaper Kovalev had left on the table, its scent of printer's ink mingling with the latest gossip. He did so with deliberate nonchalance, as if bored, but his eyes - those of an experienced news hunter - had already locked onto his prey.

"Oh, my friends!" he exclaimed, as if he had just stumbled upon something amazing. "Look at this!" He pointed to a small article on the newspaper. "They write about some American. About York. I never heard of him before. I'm surprised, by God!"

Rasolko raised his gaze to the students, in which sly lights were dancing.

"So his name is York. Ha-ha! Like the city of New York, just think about it! It's written right there: 'Eugene S. York'. A lawyer, they say. And they also write that he throws money around like a lord. Well, a bourgeois, what can you expect from him. They say he throws a feast on Kirochnaya!" He shook his head, feigning surprise. "Just think, they say his daughter is celebrating nine years, and inviting everyone in sight. All good people, it's written right there! What free morals, tsk-tsk! Wouldn't that interest the gentlemen students?"

Byakin did not comment on the question, but his eyebrows noticeably rose, as if in silent question. Starikov chuckled, looking away.

"The rich, they have a mind of their own," he muttered. "What does that matter to us? They have their own life, we have ours. We need a penny for food, not for overseas feasts."

And Terekhov, still wary, his twitching gaze darting around the room, noticed, with a barely noticeable hesitation:

"Americans... They say they love to show off. He's probably bragging. So that everyone can see how generous he is."

And yet something trembled in his voice - Rasolko caught it. Discontent, yes, but underneath it - curiosity. And curiosity, as we know, is the engine of progress, even if this progress leads to someone else's feast.

Rasolko grinned and winked like an old devil who knows all human weaknesses.

"Show or not, the food is free!" He slapped his knee. "And for an article - a godsend! Bourgeois, feast, Russian people, all mixed up! It will be a perfect feuilleton! 'How an overseas gentleman cheered the Russian soul!' now that's a headline!"

He leaned forward, lowering his voice, as if sharing a great secret.

"I propose, gentlemen, that we go together. I'll come myself, you say. It'll be nice for you, and I'll get some material. And then, you see, new topics for conversation will be found."

Byakin coughed, as if he wanted to clarify whether there was a catch in this generous offer, and, turning away, said:

"Let's think about it."

But his gaze was already sliding over the lines of the announcement, greedily absorbing every word: "Eugene S. York, a well-known lawyer from America, invites all good people to his daughter's birthday party, Kirochnaya, May 18, noon." Rasolko was already figuring out how he would wrap everything up in an article - an American, a feast, Russian people, life. Of course, he did not know that Gene York was throwing a feast not for the sake of brilliance, but to distract his daughter from grief - the governess, almost a mother to her, had died in mid-April, but the bitterness of loss still poisoned Delia's heart like poison.

He slapped the table, cheerfully, decisively, with the air of a man who has everything under control and calculated a hundred steps ahead.

"So, here's how it is! Tomorrow, at eleven in the morning, at the corner of Haymarket, I'll pick you up, and we'll go to York together. So, what's the deal?"

Starikov laughed, his hoarse laughter echoing throughout the tavern. Terekhov, after thinking for a moment, as if weighing the pros and cons, nodded. And Byakin, after a pause, as if demonstrating his independence, muttered:

"Okay, they'll see."

Rasolko was pleased. The trio of students had taken the bait, and he could already see a bold headline, striking like a whip: 'An American Feast in the Russian Capital'. Of course, he wouldn't write favorably about the American; he was a 'bourgeois', and Rasolko was a feuilletonist who always stood with the 'oppressed people'. And if the students happened to get caught in the crossfire - well, it was like killing two birds with one stone. Although, a little part of him twitched with a thought: what if their wariness wasn't simple shyness, but something far more serious than his feuilleton? What if he wasn't drawing them into a feast, but into something more dangerous?

Rasolko stood up and left the tavern. The spring wind, carrying the smells of the Neva and dampness, cooled his face a bit, but did nothing to cool his cunning mind. As he walked toward the office of the 'Sankt-Peterburgskie Vedomosti', he carried a folder of drafts, but his thoughts were far from the paperwork. In his head, a new and far more alluring plan was spinning like the gears of a complex machine.

'The Yorks' Feast!' The idea shimmered with possibilities. He intended to use this event not just as a journalist, but with a deviousness worthy of Machiavelli himself, though in a Russian, tavern-style execution.

He would gather as much gossip as possible, find out about these 'American customs', which were undoubtedly nothing but lavish spending and revelry. And at the same time, he would keep a close eye on Byakin and his circle. Rasolko squinted cunningly. Something in their eyes, in the way they carried themselves, suggested they weren't just disgruntled students grumbling about the autocracy. No, it was something deeper. Something that could become a real 'explosive charge' under the seemingly peaceful life of St. Petersburg. And he, Andrei Rasolko, intended to be the one to set it off.

Rasolko, cynical and pragmatic to the core, saw York only as a convenient target. 'A feast on Kirochnaya!' - a perfect jab at their bourgeois affectations. While Russian blood was being spilled in the war, they were throwing feasts, as if they didn't care about the honor of the state. He could already imagine how he would 'put one over on' these foreigners, mocking their ostentatious generosity while highlighting their detachment from real Russian problems. 'An American Feast During a Russian Plague' - that was a headline that could rock all of St. Petersburg!

And at the same time... at the same time, the students. Byakin, Starikov, and Terekhov were the perfect tools for a double strike. In Starikov's words about flying to the stars and science for the people, Rasolko saw not just dreams, but 'sedition' that, in a time of war, could be seen as a call to rebellion. Their presence at the feast, especially after such a 'free-spirited' conversation, could be a pretext for a much more serious investigation. In one fell swoop, Rasolko would not only get sharp material but also, quite possibly, eliminate potential rivals for the title of 'people's champion', a role he fancied for himself. After all, in Russia in 1904, any hint of dissent could be interpreted as a revolt. And Rasolko, a skilled player willing to gamble with other people's fates, was ready to take advantage of it.

He quickened his pace, his lips stretching into a thin, almost predatory smile. Tomorrow promised to be rich with events. And for a feuilletonist, as everyone knew, the more scandals, the better. He could already smell the fresh printing ink and the future fees.

Meanwhile, the day was drawing to a close, and the roofs of St. Petersburg were already drowning in a gray haze, as if the city was preparing to plunge into a deep sleep. Over the Fontanka, kerosene lanterns flared up one after another, reflecting in the blackening water of the river with trembling, golden reflections. The cold May air, saturated with the smells of dampness and spring foliage, became thicker, foreshadowing the coming night.

On Kirochnaya Street, in the spacious York house, preparations for the next day were in full swing. The kitchen, spacious and warm, filled with the aromas of vanilla, yeast and something meaty, seemed the center of the universe. Pelageya, the cook, a stout woman with red, calloused hands, muttered something angry as she kneaded dough for pies. She grumbled, and this grumbling was a constant background, like the creaking of an unoiled cart.

"What a folly, what a novelty!" she muttered through her teeth, slapping the dough. "A mountain of a feast, and what's more, a massacre! He ordered, they say, so many treats as if for the governor himself! 'An American folly', as she put it, this idea with a holiday. The young lady is nine years old, and there's as much noise as at a royal coronation!"

Her eyes, full of righteous indignation, sometimes glanced sideways at the door, behind which Lisa Roselli, the new governess, was pacing the house. Pelageya couldn't stand this 'new broom'. 'She walks like she's swallowed a pole,' she thought, 'and always tries to stick her nose where it's not wanted. But before, under Josephine, everything was homely, human!'

Lisa Roselli, as if feeling a silent reproach, walked through the rooms with an icy, almost military severity. Her steps were light, almost noiseless, but her presence was felt throughout the house. She kept an eye on everyone, as if she were commanding a garrison, and each of her glances seemed to carry an unspoken command.

Gene York sat in his office, shuffling papers, but his thoughts were far from the law. He was waiting for Karen, who he knew was somewhere in the house. He wanted to talk to her, even just to be near her.

Finally, she walked in. Karen, thin and pale, like a porcelain doll that had lost its luster. Her eyes were empty, staring into nothing. Since Josephine's death, she had seemed to retreat into herself, locked in her own grief.

"Karen," Gene said quietly, rising to meet her. "Are you okay? I wanted to..."

Karen just shook her head without looking up.

"I... I don't know, Gene. Everything is so... Everything is so empty."

"I understand, dear," Gene came closer, but did not dare touch her. His love for her was deep, but after losing Josephine he felt helpless, as if an invisible wall had grown between them. "But Lisa... She helps a lot with Deedle. You see how strict she is, but fair. Deedle... She has become a little more collected."

Karen nodded indifferently.

"Let him. Let him do it. I... I don't care."

Her indifference hurt Gene, but he understood that Karen's grief was too deep. Lisa Roselli was a godsend for him - strict, punctual, admiring his business acumen and ability to build life in an American way, in his own special way. He saw her as a support, a person capable of bringing order where he himself was powerless.

In the corner of the kitchen, on a low stool, Delia was sitting curled up. She was drawing something on a scrap of paper, oblivious to everything else in the world. Xander, her constant companion, was crouched nearby. Without saying a word, he was quietly putting chalk under her, saying with a silent gesture: 'Here, Deedle, keep drawing. Don't get distracted.' Their friendship was a refuge from the adult world, their secret corner where rules and conventions did not apply.

"What are you drawing there, Deedle?" Xander asked quietly, bending over her drawing. "Again your pegasus or dragons?"

Delia snorted quietly, without looking up from her paper.

"Not pegasus. And not dragons. I draw... I draw freedom. And how to hide it from one bore."

Xander chuckled knowingly. He knew who they were talking about.

Lisa Roselli, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway, saw this idyllic scene. Her eyebrows drew together slightly and a slight frown of disapproval appeared on her face.

"Miss," Lisa's voice was even, without a single note of warmth, but commanding, "tomorrow will be full of guests. Many important people, and also... And also ordinary people, whom your father invited."

Delia started, as if she had been pulled out of a dream, and raised her head. Her gaze, previously fixed on a fantasy world, became prickly. Xander, sensing the tension, tensed up next to her.

"You must behave with dignity," the governess continued, not raising her voice, but each word seemed to be minted in the air. "As befits a lady. No childish pranks, no drawings in front of guests. And you, Alexander," she glanced at Xander, "must be with the young lady and watch her behavior. Do you understand?"

Xander clenched his teeth. He hated it when this 'governess' told him what to do. Delia only snorted quietly in response, almost inaudibly, like an offended kitten. A mischievous sparkle flashed in her gaze at Xander, and he, catching her gaze, understood without words - it was not pies that she was expecting tomorrow. And not gifts, and not congratulations. No. She was waiting for that very moment when, perhaps, she would be able to slip away from Lisa's care. To slip away, to become herself again, and not 'Miss Delia', brought up according to strict rules. Tomorrow, in her opinion, was not a holiday, but just another strict ceremony, from which she so wanted to escape.

Pelageya, hearing the governess's voice, grumbled even louder as she kneaded the dough. 'What a snake in the grass', she thought about Lisa. 'And what did our master see in her? Josephine, although a stranger, was still one of our own, dear. And this one... Ugh!'

...666...

Evening Petersburg, covered in a grey veil, kept a special silence within itself - such that every creak of floorboards, every slam of shutters, every step on the stairs sounded especially distinct, as if in an empty theatre after the final act. In the house on Bolshaya Morskaya, this silence was broken by the clanking of suitcase locks, the rustling of silk dresses and the stifled breathing of a woman trying not to allow herself to cry.

Lily Creighton, stooped, unkempt, wearing a thin white nightgown she had forgotten to change that morning, was hurriedly folding up her blue dress with its lace trim, as if she were afraid that someone would come in and tell her to stop. Around her lay gloves, ribbons, stockings, a powder box wide open, spilling tiny white crumbs on the carpet. She picked up the things blindly, almost frantically, not because she did not know where she was going, but because she did not know what she was leaving behind.

The room, until recently the scene of salon conversations, evening teas, delicate American innuendos and Russian conversations about winter, now seemed foreign to her, stale. Morris no longer sat in his chair with a cigar. There were ashes and cobwebs in the fireplace. The curtains, heavy and burgundy, no longer absorbed the daylight - it seemed to bounce off them without penetrating. And even the stucco, which had once seemed a play of light and taste, now sank into darkness, like a dusty jewel in an abandoned display case.

With a sob, Lily sat down on the edge of the couch and froze, holding a pair of white gloves in her hand. Her shoulders shook. She was not crying - tears were held back by years of upbringing, church restraint and American stubbornness. But her body was shaking in waves. Not from the cold. From horror. From how alien this city had become, to which Morris had so passionately dragged her, assuring her that Petersburg was "the gates of Europe," that here she would learn to live differently, more broadly, more nobly.

In the corner, among the silk and gilded legs of the furniture, Jerome was sprawled. He sat in a broken pose - one leg on the armrest, the other caught on the edge of the chair - and sang in a thin, deliberately careless voice:

"Bye-bye-bye, rock yourself, don't yawn..."

In his arms, wrapped in an orange shawl lining, rested a hideous doll, its head enormous, its eyes glassy, its lips red, with that unnatural scarlet that comes from varnished fruit. Its eyelids clicked as Jerome tilted it to the right and then to the left, and each time the sound, click-click, echoed around the room like a spoon dropped into an empty basin.

"Jerome," Lily said tiredly, not even looking in his direction. "Please. Don't make noise. Your mother's heart already... It already hurts."

The boy didn't answer. He just rocked the doll, bringing its face close to his. A saccharine smile appeared on his lips.

"Her name is Molly," he said suddenly. "Molly only loves me. She can't talk to strangers."

"Jerome..." Lily started, but then she wilted. Her voice broke like a broken thread. She wiped her face with her palm and stood up. "Do you want an apple? I'll get one from the kitchen.

"No," he said, annoyed, as if he'd been offered a mousetrap instead of pie. "Molly doesn't eat apples. She's allergic. And I don't want any. Everything smells moldy in here."

Lily shuddered. Her fists clenched. A sharp, crushing anger stirred in her chest - at her son, at the doll, at herself, at the city. But no words came out. She turned away, grabbed the shoes, threw them into the suitcase without wrapping, without caring - let them get wrinkled.

"We're leaving tomorrow," she said, like a death sentence. "Forever. Do you understand?"

"And Molly?" he looked up.

"And Molly, too," Lily whispered. "Yes, she, too."

Lily couldn't help but linger her gaze on the doll, on that eerie, empty-eyed Molly, whose round glass eyes clicked with every tilt of her head - clack! - like the door to a crypt. Once, at the very beginning - it seemed to be while Morris was still alive - Lily had seen her in the window of a French shop at the corner of Nevsky and Bolshaya Morskaya, between a milliner and a drugstore. Then the sun had beaten straight into the glass, and the doll's hair - bright yellow, synthetically smooth, with an absurd pink ribbon - seemed golden. Molly's gaze was innocent, almost stupid, and Lily, pausing a step, suddenly decided: buy it.

"Aren't you a little early for girls' toys?" Morris asked with a grin when she brought the box home. He had been drinking, but not to the point of insanity - just that 'evening Morris' whose eyes narrowed and hearing sharpened.

Lily smiled tensely:

"You said it yourself, Jerome needs to develop affection. Care. Warmth. You yourself complained that he is rude and greedy."

Morris shrugged. He was not a sentimental father, more of an observer, exasperated and distant. But then he took the doll from the box, turned it over in his hands, squeezed its cheek with his thumb, and, as if condescending, said:

"The plastic is good quality. The Germans probably made it."

That was the decision. Jerome didn't sleep until midnight that night. He ran around the house with Molly, sang to her, told her that "Daddy is with us now," called her "little sister," and even put a napkin in the dresser - "for her underwear." Lily, she remembers, was touched - it seemed that here it was, tenderness, here, finally, something had awakened in the boy.

But now... Now, watching him, nine years old, sitting in the chair, sprawled out as if there were no bones in him, swaddling this dead thing with painful seriousness, whispering something to it about 'snow cradles' and "terrible people with hands like rakes - now Lily felt something sticky and dark rise up inside her. Disgust.

As if to myself.

As if on that day when she saw in the shop window not a doll, but an image - a "cure" for the future that she was afraid of. And she herself let this silent symbol of illness into the house. She chose it herself. She handed it over herself. She approved it herself.

Jerome looked up at her. There was a cold gleam in his eyes. No childhood, no light. Just something predatory, cautious - like a child who has learned not to look his mother in the face, so that he can better guess by the tone of her voice.

"Molly says," he said quietly, "that we don't want to go to America."

"We?" Lily whispered, feeling her throat tighten.

"Me and her," Jerome answered, hugging the doll tighter to his chest. "Because she won't be happy there. It's too dry there, and angels don't sleep at night."

"Jerome," Lily said, slowly folding the silk scarf as if it were the last thing she could control, "you can't take her with you."

She didn't look at him directly - her gaze slid like a blade along the edge of his shoulder, then along the cover of the chair, along the floor, and only at the very end - to his fingers, clutching the toy with a death grip. Her voice was even, almost colorless, but the tension stuck in each word gave away: she was on the edge.

"It's unnecessary," she continued, as if explaining the obvious. "We only take what's necessary. It's... It's a childish thing, Jerome. You've grown up. It's time to leave such... Such amusements behind."

But her voice betrayed her. The word "fun" came from her lips with a contempt that could not be disguised. It hung in the air like a drop of poison in clear water.

Jerome did not answer at once. He continued to swaddle Molly, carefully, with a methodical obsession that would have aroused suspicion in adults. His fingers, white with the effort, curled as if they were not blood but icy mica. The doll's hair, wet and matted, shiny with water and brilliantine, clung to her forehead as if it were wax. It smelled of foul dampness, like moldy clothes taken out after a flood. It smelled musty, and Lily suddenly felt as if the whole room were filled with that noxious odor: the sink, the hair, the hair grease, Jerome's sweat, all mixed together.

"She's mine," he said sharply, without looking up. "I won't give her to anyone. No one dares."

The words sank into Lily like nails. She felt a prick in the pit of her stomach, something inside her that responded with fury and despair: she had lost. Lost to the boy, the doll, the city, her husband, even death.

"You..." she said, hoarsely, as if she were suffocating, "you cling to her like a mother. Like a shield. But she's not alive. This... This is a fake. A fake of life. This is pathology."

"You're the pathology," Jerome hissed, his voice ringing with rage. "She's kind. She doesn't yell. She doesn't tell me I'm wrong."

Lily took a step. The handkerchief fell from her hands. Her face flushed red, her shoulders shook. She stepped toward the chair, jerkily, without a trace of self-control, with that wild inner pressure that only women who are driven into a corner have.

"Give. Her. Here!"

"I won't!" Jerome yelled. "Molly doesn't want to be with you!"

She grabbed the doll. He grabbed it. The plastic body cracked like a dry board. The shoulder snapped. The doll's eyes, from the sudden movement, slammed shut and opened again, making that disgusting sound, like the snapping of a rat's mouth.

"Let go," Lily couldn't hold back any longer. "You won't take her. Not on the ship, not to America. She's not a person. Do you hear me? She's trash. Dead trash!"

"She's alive!" Jerome shouted, his face distorted, tears appearing in the corners of his eyes. "She's better than all of you!"

A jerk. A crack. Something crunched in the area of the doll's neck. Molly twisted out of Lily's arms, hanging by her hair in Jerome's fingers. And at that moment, for a moment, it was as if the whole house had fallen silent: Lily was looking not at the doll, but at her son's face - at those dead, shining, deathly-steady eyes from which all boyish fear had disappeared. Only something black and terrible remained - something that loved the dead more than the living.

"You're not my child," she said almost in a whisper, not believing that she was saying it out loud. "You… You're a monster. And I gave birth to you myself. Myself! Why didn't I have an abortion then?!"

Jerome, as if hypnotized, pressed the doll to his chest and slowly turned away. Lily stood there, breathing heavily, her face burning, and in this fire anger, despair, fear, humiliation merged together - everything that had been accumulating for weeks, maybe even years, under this roof, in this city, in this dead house. It seemed that another moment - and she would break into a scream, break so that the windows would shake, the neighbors would wake up, the dignity imposed by upbringing would collapse. Her voice trembled, but held, filled with pain, cutting like a finely honed knife. Her words fell like stones, one after another:

"We're leaving. Tomorrow. This is not up for discussion. Don't argue with me. That's it."

She breathed heavily, her heart pounded in her chest, and her fingers clenched into fists - as if only this mechanical force kept her from screaming, from tears, from madness. But the storm inside had already broken through the barrier - and burst out. The words flowed like hot solder, with a hiss, with a crackle. They contained everything: anger, bitterness, hopeless passion, the fury with which bridges are burned because they can no longer walk on them.

"You think this can go on?" she almost shouted. "You think all this is normal? This thing in your arms... This dead... This dead toy!" Lily gasped, her face twisted. "How much longer are you going to whisper to her instead of living? How much longer?"

Jerome looked at her, unable to look away, and there was not so much surprise in his eyes as confusion. For the first time he had seen his mother alive. Not tidy, not reserved, not the mistress of the house, but a woman on the edge, frighteningly real, with steel and fury in her voice. He held the doll tighter, as if she were his protection, his meaning, his breath. For the first time he was afraid not of Lily, but of life, in its unbearable nakedness.

He stood awkwardly, his round, ladylike bottom thrust out behind him, tightly encased in fashionable but ridiculous trousers, and held the doll in his arms, the very same dead thing she had bought him, foolishly hoping that tenderness was something that could be put into one's hands. He held it in his fingers, as one holds the last thing when the world falls apart. Delia York, alive, impudent, disobedient, was disgusting to him - because she was real. This plastic one did not argue, did not breathe, did not twitch - she gave in.

Lily looked at him and didn't recognize him. And in that ignorance there was guilt: she had created him, she had brought him to this. He was a reflection of her fear, her broken marriage, her escape from reality. But now it was too late. All that was left was to destroy what was stopping him from living. Or at least try.

"Russia is perishing," she said quietly but passionately. "It is decaying. In chatter, in gossip, in weakness. Only those like Stolypin are still holding it together. An administrator. A nobleman. A man. One of the few who has not caved in. And the sovereign..." she took a step. "He has already lost everything. Only slogans and smoke remain. 'Workers of the world..." she spat. "Let them shout. Let them drag us into the squares. Let this country go to hell. But without us. We will not wait for them to devour us too."

Her gaze bored into Jerome, as if he were not her son but the embodiment of all this corruption, brought into the world by mistake. He was silent. He clutched the doll, its eyelashes piercing his chest like stinging needles. His fingers trembled, his eyes glittered: anger, humiliation, fear. And when he, almost in a whisper, almost sobbing, uttered something sharp, unclear, but full of despair, Lily stepped toward him, grabbed the toy, yanked.

He grabbed hold. A squeal escaped him - not a child's, hysterical, animalistic. He did not give it up. She tore. The doll cracked. The plastic creaked.

"Enough!" she screamed. "You won't be like this! You won't be weak, tearful, smelly... Pathetic!" Her hands were shaking, her face was red, the veins on her neck were bulging. "You're not a girl! You're not... You're not this!" She jerked.

The doll crunched. The head flew off, rolled across the floor, hit the leg of a chair and froze, its empty eyes clicking one last time. Jerome froze, as if he himself had been broken. His lips trembled. His cheeks burned. The tears did not flow - they just trickled inside. Lily, still breathing heavily, threw the remains into the corner. The plastic hit the wall.

"We're leaving," she repeated quietly, but in a way that would not be disobeyed. "Tomorrow. You'll forget her. You'll forget Russia. You'll forget... You'll forget all of this."

She turned away. She went to the bag. She opened it. She began to carefully pack away the silver spoons. Her fingers trembled, but she acted precisely, without stopping. Each movement was an act of liberation. Or destruction. Her last words sounded like a curse, like an angry prayer, a whisper into an empty room:

"Let them take this house. Let them run it. If they even let anyone live there."

"Stupid," he muttered, barely opening his mouth. "Just stupid..."

He said this after she had already left. Not loudly, but with the air of spitting in her back. Jerome stood in the shadows, his cheeks still burning - from anger, from humiliation, from an insult he did not acknowledge, because he was not a woman to whine.

"She threw a tantrum, as if I were her enemy... She broke everything herself, she broke it all," he said, almost hissing, and kicked the chest with his toe. The scratch on the varnished lid was long, with a splinter - excellent. Let him see.

He stamped his feet as best he could, like an adult, and went to his room. The door slammed shut with a bang - some pleasure at least. That's it, Mom, the theater is over.

He collapsed on the bed, still dressed, and stared at the ceiling. His legs dangled, his shoes dangling - one almost flew off.

"Sitting with her on the train... Listening to her mutter about her 'salvation'... Ugh," he muttered, turning to the wall.

But in my head, it's not her. Not Philadelphia, not the "new life." It's Delia. Delia York with that nasty boy.

"Now that's going to be fun..." he whispered. "They'll stuff themselves with pies and run around like idiots. And everyone will forget... As if I never existed."

He imagined Delia in her stupid dress, batting her eyelashes, this Xander shoving some sticky candy at her, everyone laughing.

"Oh, Deedle, you have such a holiday, such a wonderful day!" he mimicked in a squeaky voice, curling his fingers. "Oo-o-o, you disgusting little squeaker..."

He closed his eyes, but opened them a minute later. Too many thoughts. His body itched, as if from irritation. Something had to be done. Something real.

He jumped up. He took from the drawer something that had been lying there for a long time. A crumpled sheet of paper, dirty, with a stain on the edge. A leaflet. It had not been given to him, he had simply picked it up in the garden. Even then it seemed that he would need it.

"Look at this piece of paper..." he whispered and grinned. "A rare piece of crap. And it will cause trouble, trouble...

He put the piece of paper in his robe pocket and found a gold coin, the one from his father. Heavy and flat, like a badge. "This is what it means to be a man," Morris had said, handing it to him, looking over the doll. Jerome hadn't understood it then, but he kept the coin.

He tiptoed out into the corridor. Everything was asleep. The lamp downstairs was burning dimly. Theodore stood by the stairs, stooped, in a washed-out waistcoat. Jerome approached silently.

"Here," he whispered and handed him a coin. "For silence."

Theodore blinked, as if he didn't understand at first. Then he muttered:

"I don't need it, young master... I don't need it...

"We have to, Teddy, we have to," Jerome snapped. "Just take it, got it? To Kirochnaya. To the Yorks. Put it in the box and leave. So that no one sees. Tomorrow morning. Mom will be asleep."

He took out a leaflet and thrust it into the servant's hand. The paper was damp. Theodore sighed like an old dog.

"It's dangerous... Someone else will see... There...

"Let them see," Jerome interrupted. "Let them explain now. I can imagine how much fun they'll have."

He grinned. His face, smooth and shiny with cream and powder, twisted into an unnatural, stinking grin.

Theodore silently crossed himself - quickly, as if he was hiding this gesture from someone. He took the bundle, sighed, and disappeared.

And Jerome went back into the room and slammed the door behind him with such anger, as if he wanted to pay her back himself. Let her hear. Let her know that this was the end. 'Stupid old witch!' he breathed through his teeth and hissed like a cat. The chest was scratched, the doll was dead, and she was marching back and forth as if she were commanding a regiment. Yes, he could have... He could have... Oh well. 'Die there with your spoons!' he hissed, throwing himself onto the bed.

He lay down, as always, decorously, as if he had been asleep for a long time. But inside he was burning. It was really burning. His heart was beating not in his chest, but in his throat - it was just trying to get out. The pillow stank of perfume - his mother's, disgusting, floral, like the aunts' at the opera. He pulled off the pillowcase, threw it under the bed and stared at the ceiling.

"She killed Molly. My wife. My real wife. With her fat hands. Vile!" His lips trembled.

He wanted to howl. But he didn't. He just looked up and whispered:

"Molly... Molly, dear... You're dead now.

He saw everything: as if they were walking down a passage, a long one, with a carpet, and dolls on either side. Everyone was looking, everyone was delighted. And the priest - no, not a priest, let him be some Lutheran, no big deal - said: "Do you agree, Jerome William Creighton, to take this beautiful lady..."

"Agreed!" he shouted, jerking.

He hugged the pillow to his chest and whispered as if it were Molly.

"My little one, my beloved... You are now my wife!"

They would have a house - a doll's house. Everything pink. Beds - two. Carpets - velvet. They would have a daughter. No - three. Or five. All dolls, just as beautiful. The girl - with white hair, the boy - with eyes like Molly's, cornflower blue.

"We would call them... Missy, Totty, Mimi, Tilly..."

He laughed - quietly, shrilly, angrily.

"And Deedle would never have come. Never.

Delia. Stinky Delia. Laughing, she has a skipping rope, bows. And that Xander, the kitchen cockroach, is jumping next to her.

"Ugh!" he yelled. "Disgusting! Dis-gus-ting!"

They will eat the pie, but he will not. He is in mourning. He is a widower. His wife died. Plastic, yes, so what?

"She's better than all of you! Better than your froggy eyes, Deedle! And her hair isn't smelly like yours!"

He sat up in bed, shaking.

"We would live on an island. Just me and Molly. Without you, everyone would die, yes! And I would build a house! And Molly would knit, and we would eat sugar!"

His eyes filled with tears again. He buried his face in the pillow, pressing it as if he wanted to breathe life into it.

"Molly... Please... Come back to life... I beg you... I won't tell anyone... Just come back to life..."

He sobbed, wiping his lips with his palm, smearing brilliantine across his face. He knew: tomorrow they would leave. And the doll would remain here, like a corpse. And Delia would eat pie. And Xander would serve it to her. And he? He would be on the train.

"With them!" he hissed. "With them! Damn them all..."

And if he can't be happy, then neither will they. Not Delia, not that fat Xander, not their stupid, cheerful guests. He'll ruin everything for them. He's already thought of it. And let Mom sleep. No one asks her.

"I'll arrange everything," he hissed. "My way."

At this time, the servant Theodore was sitting on a stool, his legs tucked under him, his shoulders hunched. The lamp crackled, occasionally flaring up a little brighter, as if it too was afraid. A tiny flame trembled at the end of the wick, illuminating both the icon and the table, and Theodore himself, whose face seemed old and gray, like an old cassock. The room smelled of burning and cold soup. On the shelf stood a jar of honey, an uneaten loaf of bread, a broken cross - everything was as it always was. Only the coin - someone else's, a gold one - did not fit into this silence. It lay in his palm like someone else's fate, heavy, hostile, like a piece of someone else's soul that had to be carried to confession.

He crossed himself, slowly, pausing on his forehead, as if he hoped that the gesture itself would fix everything. The icon, black with soot, barely discernible, was like a witness to him: he spoke to it as if it were alive.

"Forgive me, sir... I didn't do it out of malice..."

He stopped short, fell silent, and glanced sideways at the door. The house was quiet. Only somewhere in another room a tree creaked, and it seemed to him like a step - soft, uncertain, like that of a dead man returning to see who was running the place without him.

Theodore shuddered and crossed himself again.

"Lord..." he exhaled, "am I to judge? He is your son, sir... Let him be..."

He did not finish. The words were stuck in his throat. He put the coin on the table, away from him, like something dirty. Then he pulled the same bundle out of his pocket - the paper was warm from his body, smelled of tobacco, the boy's hands, something sour. He unfolded it, glanced at it. The words were not for him, not for a peasant, to read this. "People... Freedom... Down with the Tsar... Stop drinking our blood..." Theodore winced as if in pain and looked at the icon again. The eyes of the Mother of God were empty, worn away by time, but it seemed to him that she was looking sternly at him. Like Morris when Theodore once broke a vase in the dining room and stood there clutching his hat, and the master was silent and simply looked, as if he was expressing everything at once - rage, regret, and grief.

"And you, sir... You would know what to do..." he muttered and sighed heavily.

But Morris was not there. It was night, there was a piece of paper, there was a coin, and there was this order - not from the master, but from his son, strange, broken, with a dead doll and eyes like an owl. And Theodore - alive, trembling, of no use to anyone, still knew: he would go as ordered. Not for money. For a debt. Because this was not just a boy. This was the last of those who called him "Teddy". And when the last one is called, you do not disobey.

He stood up, folded the leaflet back with difficulty like an old man, and put it in his pocket without looking.

"Forgive me, Lord..." he whispered again and blew out the lamp.

...666...

The May morning of the 18th, still very young, was just beginning to breathe over Petersburg. The gray pre-dawn haze still hung over the roofs, enveloping the city in a special silence, only occasionally broken by the distant clatter of hooves on the cobblestones. In the corner room on Sredny Prospekt, where Sergei Zazyrin lived, semi-darkness and coolness reigned. As always, dampness blew from the corner - the wall was leaking, leaving ugly stains on the wallpaper, and there was such a draft under the window that in the evenings the candle flickered as if alive.

Sergei woke up before dawn. Not from the noise, not from the cold, but as if someone invisible but powerful had shaken him from within, pulling him out of a short, restless sleep. He lay on a narrow, sagging bed, looking at the cracked plaster above him, and felt his head buzzing from yesterday's argument in the tavern.

"Byakin is a chatterbox, Terekhov is a blockhead, Starikov is pushing leaflets right onto Sennaya, like blind policemen..." thoughts swarmed in his head like a flock of annoying flies."

He mentally cursed their recklessness, but he was angry not so much at them as at himself.

"I begged them not to get into trouble, not to take risks, not to get into trouble... They didn't listen."

And all because of Rasolko. Where did this guy come from, as if he had fallen from the sky?

"The secret police? No, too stupid to be an agent. Or is that why he's so dangerous? In his stupidity, in his recklessness, lies a threat that could destroy everyone."

He rose slowly from the bed. His body, young and strong, still ached from sleepless nights and nervous tension. He stretched, rubbing his stiff shoulders, and felt the chill of a draft. His worn but neatly cleaned shirt hung on a nail in the corner. He pulled it on, then his coarse cloth trousers, his worn but still sturdy boots. Each item of clothing reminded him of his situation, of the fine line on which he balanced - between student poverty and the secret, dangerous world of the underground.

He went to the washstand and brushed the dust off the cracked mirror hanging above it. The dull reflection showed him the grey circles under his eyes, evidence of the sleeplessness that had been his constant companion for the last few months. He ran his hand over his cheek, feeling an old scratch, a mark left by the linden branches when, tormented by guilt over Alikhurov's arrest, he had jumped three times, like a madman, from the window onto the tree.

"Alikhurov..."

Images whirled through my head, such as the last words of my mentor, spoken with inhuman calm:

"If you continue to have such ideas, our future revolution may not take place. Get away from me!"

Then he remembered the cold, glassy gaze of the gendarme at the carriage, then the hat thrown from the window by the maid, when he, Zazyrin, climbed the linden tree in despair, like a madman, trying to rewrite the teacher's fate. No, he did not run away - he tried to understand, tried to reach that moment when it was still possible to change something, when there was still hope.

He walked up to a small table on which lay several pieces of dry black bread and a mug of cold tea. He took one piece and brought it to his lips, but the dry crust seemed to get stuck in his throat. There was no taste. His head continued to buzz, and his heart beat with a special, dull heaviness.

And suddenly, like a flash, a thought pierced:

"Deedle... Today is her birthday."

He remembered. He remembered the little American young lady, her clear eyes and childish impudence. He loved Delia, loved her sincerity, her inquisitive mind, her amazing ability to penetrate to the very essence of things, bypassing the tinsel of adult conventions. He remembered their chance meetings - in the bookstore, in the bakery, and that special one, in Mikhailovsky Garden, where she, this little jackdaw, so simply and directly asked about the war, about justice, about why. Then, in that frosty February, he, without knowing it, opened up a corner of his world to her, shared thoughts that adults tried to hide from children. And now this knowledge, this trust, became a heavy burden for him. Come to her party? No, impossible.

"How I wish I could see her today, congratulate her. Let her see that there are people who remember her not only among the nobility..."

But no, today he had to hurry to Nikolaevsky Station. A train to Chita, and from there to Nerchinsk and further, to Akatuy, to that God-damned penal prison where his friend, his comrade, his elder brother in spirit, Vyacheslav Griftsov, languished. Sergei felt an invisible thread of surveillance stretching behind him.

To show up at the Yorks would mean exposing himself and Griftsov, cutting off all the threads leading to his friend's salvation. Every minute, every step mattered. His three comrades - Byakin, Starikov, Terekhov - were too reckless. He saw their fervor, their readiness to act without thinking about the consequences.

"Who knows what could have come into their heads under Rasolko's influence!"

This new, incomprehensible man, who appeared as if out of nowhere, aroused Sergei's acute suspicion.

"Maybe he convinced them that under the guise of a children's party they could pass a note to Deedle informing her of my plans - so to speak, to force them to sign my death warrant?!"

Zazyrin understood that he was to blame: out of stupidity, he once opened up to the girl and told her about his beliefs back then, in the park in February.

"What if these three decided to tell her about the plan to free Griftsov, conceived by Yemelyanov and Alikhurov? A disservice," he thought, "after all, Alikhurov is no longer at large, and they are climbing in, risking everyone.""

He couldn't let Delia, with her stubborn, locomotive-like soul, get drawn into this. She wouldn't betray him, no. Sergei was sure of her childish sincerity and straightforwardness. But her mother was a weak, grief-stricken Karen, her father was a pragmatist, a lawyer for whom reputation and order were above all else, and all three were Americans, strangers in this dangerous world, who did not understand its unwritten rules.

"They won't be able to protect Deedle from interrogations, from suspicions, from the dirt that inevitably sticks to those who have come into contact with politics, even for a moment."

Sergei clenched his fists. He fell in love with this girl for her bold, lively nature, for the spark of rebellion that burned in her gray eyes, for her amazing ability to ask questions that pierced the falseness of adult conventions. Sergei remembered their chance meetings - in the bookstore, in the bakery, and that special one in the Mikhailovsky Garden, that frosty February. Then, without knowing it, he opened up a corner of his world to her, shared thoughts that adults carefully hid from children. And now this knowledge, this trust, became a heavy burden for him.

"I know: I am being watched. After the ball, where Alikhurov gave me the task, the Okhrana probably took note of me."

He sat down on the windowsill, where the dust, settling in layers, seemed part of eternity itself. He took Ulyanov's tattered book, What Is to Be Done?, from under the table. The notes in the margins, made by his hand, crooked, hasty, inky, had already been read to holes. The pages, yellowed from time and frequent leafing, rustled under his fingers. He had long been disillusioned with Ulyanov's ideas - after Griftsov's arrest because of a similar book, because of that very spark that was supposed to ignite the flame. Then, in February, it seemed to him that just a word was enough for the world to change. Now he knew the value of that word.

But Delia... He remembered that day in the park. She listened to his speeches about the Tsar, about the injustice of the landowners, and in her eyes burned not childish faith, naive and blind, but strength. Incomprehensible, but deep, capable of crushing.

"She can grow up to be anyone - a revolutionary, a hero. That's why I trusted her in the park," he thought, looking at the pages of the book, which no longer gave answers, but only multiplied the questions. "But now this trust could become my fatal mistake."

He had to warn her, but he couldn't. The risk was too great. Today he had to leave Petersburg to save Griftsov and carry out the task assigned to him by Yemelyanov and the late Alikhurov: deliver two dozen revolvers to Akatuy and establish contacts with the railroad workers who were ready to rebel against the Tsar. One wrong move, and everything would collapse.

With these thoughts, Zazyrin rose from the windowsill. The wooden floor creaked under his boots, responding to his determination. He went to his suitcase, which stood by the wall, almost merging with the torn wallpaper. The suitcase, simple but strong, had been given to him in that secret house where he had appeared after the ball, following Alikhurov's last instructions. He carefully unfastened it, as if opening a chest with treasures, or rather, with a dangerous secret.

From his bag he pulled out a bundle wrapped in coarse canvas that smelled of something factory-made, new. Unfolding it, Sergei saw the suit of a railway engineer - a black uniform with shiny buttons, as if polished to a shine, a cap with a stiff band and formal trousers, pressed as if they had just come from the iron. The clothes seemed new, they still smelled of cloth and starch, the smell of someone else's life, but now his. Having exchanged his worn student clothes for this uniform, Sergei felt something inside him change too. He went to the mirror of the washstand, which, although cracked, still reflected him with amazing clarity. In the reflection, a completely different person looked back at him - not a revolutionary student with a pale forehead and tangled hair, but a stern, smart officer, or perhaps a graduate of a cadet school, ready for service, for subordination, but at the same time for action. His face became more serious, his gaze - more piercing.

He winked at his reflection. 'Not for nothing', flashed through his mind, "not for nothing, from the end of February until the end of May, Yemelyanov, Alikhurov and other members of the squad forced me, Zazyrin, to participate in stagings - an assassination attempt on the Tsar and to practice other possible situations during the revolution, in order to be ready for anything!" He learned to shoot a gun, and now his hands, recently accustomed to the pen, held the revolver tightly. He learned to perform acrobatic jumps, to overcome obstacles - his body became obedient and strong. Everything that could be useful in the coming struggle was now a part of himself. These training sessions, which had seemed then a heavy burden, a senseless and exhausting occupation, now gave him confidence, hard as steel.

Sergei remembered with a grin how absurdly it all had begun. Mid-February, Kolpino. The frost nipped at his cheeks, and the air was clear as crystal. Griftsov had just been arrested in Kolpino near Darya Mironovna's house; they were going to take him to St. Petersburg. And he, Sergei, then still a youth, reckless and full of despair, burst into the station. In his hand was a lady's revolver, borrowed from Darya's desk - a tiny thing, essentially a toy in his trembling fingers. He made his way through the carriages, through the stench of coal and the heavy, sticky smell of human fear, until he reached the driver's cabin. He threatened the driver and the stokers with this toy, this tiny pistol, demanding that they leave so that he could hijack the train! How absurd!

"Yes, I have grown and become more experienced in many ways since then!" A bitter smile touched his lips as he recalled that scene.

Then he was simply thrown out of the carriage, like a master who had gone off the rails, a crazy individual who didn't understand what he was doing. And if it weren't for his future friends from the workers' squad, he would have remained lying there, on the dirty platform, until the gendarmes arrested him, twisting him around like an escaped criminal, right under the crowd's nose.

But things turned out differently, and fate, or perhaps providence, brought him under the bright eyes of Yemelyanov. A veteran of the Crimean War, a man of stern character and insightful mind, Yemelyanov headed the Kolpino underground. It was he who discerned in the impetuous youth the beginnings of talent, a spark of true devotion to the cause, a readiness to go to the end. Yemelyanov, without ceremony, forced Sergei to study the works of Marx, Engels and Ulyanov under the pretext of gaining preparation to save Griftsov! The hours spent in Yemelyanov's dark, tobacco-smelling apartment, reading boring, at first glance, folios, in long conversations, were not in vain. In the end, he was prepared for combat, for underground work, for a life where every step could be his last. And yesterday, finally, he was given a task - the most important in his life.

He must arrive in Akatuy under the passport of the late railway engineer Tikhon Tikhonovich Vasilchuk. His goal is to prepare the railway workers of this remote village for the future uprising, for the great storm that was to sweep away the old world. But there, in this God-forsaken corner, he is ambushed at every step by the Black Hundreds from the Union of Michael the Archangel, fanatical and ruthless people.

"This will not be an easy task!" Sergei's heart sank.

He knew he was heading into danger, but there was no turning back. There was too much at stake.

Gathering his strength, Sergei straightened his uniform, winked once more at his reflection in the dim glass, as if saying goodbye to his past life. He grabbed the suitcase with weapons, which seemed heavy not from the weight of the revolvers, but from the burden of responsibility, and resolutely stepped out into the street. His thoughts, recently chaotic and anxious, now acquired a goal, clear and distinct as a shot: to save a friend, to fulfill a duty, not to let down those who believed in him.

...666...

That same morning Theodore, the Creighton' servant, stood at the iron gates of the Yorks' house, his head bowed low, as if hiding his face from the first slanting rays of dawn. The sun, not yet strong, was only a thin, pale thread breaking through between the tall, gloomy houses, and the street slept a deep, serene sleep, enveloping everything around with the pre-dawn coolness and silence that seemed to ring in the ears. Theodore's thin, withered fingers, covered with calluses from many years of work, clutched a greasy, rough envelope, and the paper crackled in his hand, dryly and brittlely, like a fallen autumn leaf caught in a draught. His soul, it seemed, crackled in the same way.

He looked up, cautiously, as if afraid to disturb the silence, and saw a sign with a house number. Kirochnaya. And, a little further, the Yorks' house. This house, as if snatched from another fairy tale, always seemed a little unreal, alien to Theodore. His eyes stopped on the mailbox - green, peeling from time and bad weather, but with some special, American neatness, it stuck out right next to the gate, above the wrought-iron threshold. This box seemed alien to him, an uninvited guest in this old Russian city, as if someone had slipped it to him secretly. Theodore looked around: empty. Not the cabby who usually dozed on the box, not the janitor who was already sweeping the pavement as usual, not a single living soul. Even the skinny, eternally pugnacious cat who usually divided the territory under the windows had disappeared, as if sensing something was wrong.

He approached the gate slowly, almost silently, like a cautious thief afraid to give himself away. He stopped. He crossed himself quickly, almost nervously, touched his chest with his finger, and his lips silently whispered:

"Lord, don't blame me..."

The leaflet in his hand, crumpled, with a sooty corner, smelled of other people's hands - the hands of the boy Jerome, and something else, elusive, dangerous, repulsive. He did not read it - he did not want to defile his soul with these words that seeped through the paper like black poison. He knew that they wrote about the Tsar, about blood, about retribution - words that froze his soul and made his heart skip a beat, words that seemed to be enough to ruin the whole world.

Whether it was shame or fear, he felt like the worst sinner. All his life, from his youth, when he first came to the Creighton house, he had served faithfully and truly the late master Morris. Ah, what a master he had been! Strict, but fair. Not like those of today, who only think of themselves and look at people as furniture. And now, at the word of his son, at the whim of that foolish boy Jerome, he, Theodore, a simple man, but with a conscience, was forced to commit a dirty trick.

"It's not godly," he whispered to himself, his gaze darting from the mailbox to the sky, where the pre-dawn stars were fading. "It's not humane... You never know what's written there, but what if there really is trouble? A trouble that can come from one piece of paper, like from a match thrown in the straw."

He imagined for a moment how this piece of paper would fall into the hands of the owners, how they, these dear Americans who lived here quietly and peacefully, would suddenly encounter Russian grief, Russian unrest. His heart ached, like an old wound aches when the weather changes. But Master Morris, God rest his soul, always said:

"Teddy, you are an honest man, you won't let me down."

And Theodore didn't let anyone down. He didn't let anyone down. And then...

But Jerome, even though he was a boy, was still a master. And the son of the deceased. And the master's orders - they are not discussed. It is like a commandment that entered the flesh, absorbed with mother's milk. How can you refuse? Especially when he looks at you with such eyes - not childishly angry, but not adultly meaningful either. The eyes of a man who has lost himself.

He pushed the paper into the crack, almost gently, as if afraid of damaging it or what it carried. The paper fell in with a light, barely audible rustle. That's it. The sin was committed, and there was no turning back. Someone else's sin, but still - by his hands.

He drew back as if from a fire, and ran without looking back. He ran without stopping until he turned the corner, where the cart was waiting in a dark, damp alley. The horse, an old nag, snorted, sending clouds of steam into the cold air, and jingled its harness. Theodore slowed, breathing hard, and leaned against the rough wall of the house. He saw them: Mrs. Lily Creighton, wrapped in a traveling shawl, as if hiding from something invisible, and her son, Jerome, with an inscrutable, somehow triumphant face. They were already seated in the cart, with a modest bundle and a bulky, stickered suitcase lying beside them, ready to go.

Theodore, breathing heavily, came closer. The cart creaked under his weight.

"Where have you been, Teddy?" Mrs. Lily said impatiently, her voice sounding sharp, like the crack of a broken branch. She didn't even look at him, only adjusted her shawl. "We're late! The steamer won't wait!"

Theodore bowed his head so that Lily would not see his face, covered in sweat and worry.

"Forgive me, madam... It happened..."

Jerome, sitting opposite his mother, spoke up, and there was a strange, almost exultant anticipation in his voice. He looked at Theodore, and there was something in that look that sent a shiver down the old man's spine. It was the look of an accomplice, the look of one who shared a secret.

"Teddy was just checking that everything was in order with the luggage, Mom," Jerome said, deliberately casually. "We need to make sure nothing was forgotten."

Lily snorted in displeasure, but did not object, only straightening her shawl again.

"Get in, Teddy," Lily said, waving her hand toward the driver's seat. "Let's not waste time."

Theodore, somehow hunched over, climbed onto the box. He felt Jerome's gaze on him, which seemed to burn right through him. The boy grinned again, and Theodore, glancing at him, saw an unkind, malicious light in his eyes. "Look at you, little devil!" Theodore thought, shrugging his shoulders. "What are you planning, Lord..."

The carriage moved off, slowly turning out of the gateway onto the still sleepy street. They were leaving. From the short, fragmentary conversations with them the day before, it was clear that they would be going to a ship to America that evening. And what was there? The New World. Freedom? Theodore did not know. He had never left the confines of his native land, and thoughts of overseas distances seemed to him ghostly and incomprehensible, like dreams of paradise. He gripped the reins tightly, feeling their roughness in his palms. But he knew for sure that he had left his conscience in Petersburg, like a heavy stone that would now lie on his soul, haunting him, until his dying hour. He felt as if he had not simply thrown a piece of paper into a box, but had given up something important to be torn apart, something living, had torn something away from himself. And this weight, invisible to others, pressed on him more than any suitcase he had to carry.

...666...

Meanwhile, in the Yorks' house on Kirochnaya, in the narrow living room with embroidered curtains and ribbons laid out on the table, Karen opened the window, letting in the morning coolness - languid, heavy after the musty night. The air smelled not only of moisture, but also of something anxious, indefinite. It was a special day - Delia was turning nine. Everyone tried to act as usual, as if they did not notice this coolness, as if they did not feel how something else was hanging over the house, besides the smell of baked goods and candles that Pelageya was already preparing in the kitchen.

Gene came back from the porch. He was holding a crumpled piece of paper in his hand, which he tossed carelessly onto the table. There was no stamp or address on it, as if it had been thrown through the open gate and landed right on them.

"This is nonsense," muttered Gene, adjusting his collar. "It must be from those... What are they called... Who stick their stupid proclamations on every wall."

The paper was faded, as if it had been wandering the streets for a long time, and the lines on it were torn, careless, as if written in a hurry or with a trembling hand. Gene's eyes, sliding over the text, caught familiar words - about blood, people, rot. The same ones he had seen on the walls of houses and on lampposts.

Karen, who was standing nearby, came up to the table. She glanced at the sheet of paper and instantly turned pale. The content was not new to her, but in the handwriting, almost childish, terribly simple, there was something that frightened her. As if the letter was written for the feeble-minded, but this deliberate simplicity seemed ominous. A bitter thought flashed through her mind: whoever wrote this must have known that they were celebrating today and wanted to remind them - about the city, about the country, about their situation. To remind them ominously, almost like a curse cast upon their small domestic world.

Gene seemed to be losing interest in the paper. To him, it was just another harmless madness of street pranksters. He just shrugged and turned away.

"Just another paper rebellion, dear. No need to worry. What do we have today? Deedle should be down, and Pelageya promised pretzels."

Karen, her fingers shaking, carefully placed the leaflet on the dresser, next to the morning paper. She glanced quickly at Gene.

"You'd better think about who's distributing these leaflets," her voice was gentle, but there was a steely note in it. "Especially when strangers show up in the house..."

Gene chuckled as he began to fill his pipe with tobacco.

"You mean our new governess, Lisa? Come on, Karen. She... She's very efficient. And she looks after Delay well, no worse than the late Josephine.

Karen flinched slightly at the mention of Josephine.

"No worse?" She turned slowly to him. "Josephine loved Deedle as if she were her own. And this... Lisa... She seems cold to me. And then, you know, it seemed to me that she didn't love Deedle, didn't even care about her. Didn't you notice?"

Gene finally looked up, surprise and a little irritation flickering in his eyes.

"Nonsense, Karen. You're too suspicious. Lisa is just... She's just strict. And that's good for Deedle. She's already too spoiled, especially after Jo's death. We need order, not constant whims."

Karen didn't answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You make it sound like I don't know how to raise our daughter," she whispered, and though her voice was quiet, Gene felt the air around her fill with a subtle tension. "Or maybe you just don't want to see... Some things."

Gene sighed, blowing out a puff of smoke.

"Well, here it begins. Women's discord. However, I didn't sign up for this. I need to go."

He turned abruptly and headed for the door, leaving Karen alone in the living room. She went into the kitchen, trying to look collected, but her gaze remained tense, like a string stretched to the limit, ready to snap at any touch. And then Xander entered the living room silently with a saucer in one hand and a cup in the other. It smelled of milk, a little bread and salt - like their mornings always smelled like, when Deedle had not yet woken up, and the adults talked in hushed tones so as not to wake her up ahead of time. Pelageya rustled in the kitchen, you could hear the dough breathing as she put it on pretzels. The living room was empty.

"Thank God," Xander whispered, barely moving his lips. "The last thing we needed was that... Lisa. Always poking her nose where it wasn't wanted. Like yesterday... She picked on Deedle because of some button. As if a war had started, and not a button had come off!" He always got angry when Lisa Roselli scolded Deedle. Josephine, the previous governess, was different - soft, kind, never raised her voice. "She was the real thing," he muttered barely audibly, and there was bitterness in his voice. "And this one... This one isn't real. She's just pretending." He felt in his gut that Lisa didn't like Deedle. Maybe she didn't hate her, but she certainly didn't love her. And that was the most important thing for Xander, because Deedle was his, Xander's, even though she was a young lady. She didn't look down on him like Karen sometimes did when she was in a bad mood, or that nasty Jerome. Deedle was... Well, just Deedle."

He passed by the chest of drawers, and then his gaze caught on a piece of paper. Crumpled, alien. It lay on top of a newspaper, but it was neither a newspaper nor a letter. Something...

"Some kind of crap, that's what it is," he hissed under his breath.

He stopped. The saucer trembled in his hand. Xander slowly put the cup on the windowsill, trying not to spill the milk, and came up to it. The paper seemed ordinary - in appearance, in color, but there was something in it... Something not right. No stamps, no inscriptions, no signatures. But the letters were large, scary, somehow... Somehow angry. As if they were screaming right in his face. He leaned closer, his nose almost touching the cold air coming from the paper.

He didn't read everything. A few words. 'Tsar', 'blood', 'people', 'there will be retribution'. He didn't know exactly what those words meant, but his body immediately shrank, as if someone had punched him in the gut. His hands went cold, his fingertips went numb.

"This is bad," he whispered. "Not just a piece of paper, not someone's stupid joke. It's like poison. Like a threat disguised as words." He had seen such words on walls, in the nooks and crannies where strange people gathered, always whispering and smoking tobacco. He had heard these words spoken by men in taverns when he ran for beer. And after them, something nasty always began.

"This is a disaster," he whispered, and then became frightened that he had spoken out loud. "Fool," he hissed to himself, "why are you chatting like a girl?"

He looked around. It was quiet. Even the clock in the hall was not ticking, as if frozen in terror. "Everyone's gone... No one saw. Good." He picked up the paper with two fingers, carefully, as if it might bite, or stick like tar. It rustled, as if it were indignant, like a living thing caught by the tail. He folded it in four, watching the letters disappear, hide, as if they could be undone, locked inside the crumpled sheet.

He tucked the paper into his bosom, under his shirt, where his heart was pounding like a captured bird. And he went into the kitchen. It smelled of bread, sour dough, flour, and with this smell, familiar, native, Xander tried to drown out the nauseating spirit of anxiety. Pelageya was kneading dough on the table, covered in flour, adjusting her kerchief with her elbow. She didn't even turn around, only muttered without raising her head:

"Put some wood on it, what are you standing there for? The oven will cool down, and the pretzels won't bake themselves!

Xander walked up to the stove, muttering under his breath:

"She's always with her firewood... And pretzels... She just won't give me a moment's peace..."

Pelageya suddenly turned around sharply.

"What are you mumbling about, Xander? Come on, don't be lazy! I hear that your tongue has become completely boneless?

Xander shuddered.

"Well, he's keeping his ears open," he hissed to himself.

"I'm not mumbling anything!" he shouted boldly, hiding his gaze. "It's just... There's just not enough firewood left, that's what I'm thinking."

Pelageya narrowed her eyes, but didn't argue. "He's lying, of course," she muttered under her breath, "but let him. He's just a boy, what can you expect." She turned away and started working on the dough again.

Xander, waiting for a moment until Pelageya turned away, hurried to the stove. The door was slightly open. The coals were still smoldering there, red as angry eyes. He took some kindling and blew on it - quietly, so as not to attract Pelageya's attention. The flame flared up, fluttered, licked the kindling, turning them into bright tongues of flame. He took out the paper. He held it over the fire.

"Go to hell," he said barely audibly, not to himself, not to anyone, just into the air, so that the words would dissolve in the warmth, like the paper itself. "And there's no need to drag all this junk around the house, to fool our lords."

And he abandoned it.

The paper flared up immediately - dryly, as if it had been waiting for this, as if it wanted to burn itself. It flared up and shrank, as if from pain, from the unbearable fire that was consuming its evil words. The letters twisted, charred, crumbled. The fire went out, leaving behind only a faint smoke. There remained gray soot, ash, some kind of cold inside, as if from work done that did not bring joy.

"Well then," he whispered, "one evil less." And he spat over his left shoulder, just in case.

He looked for a long time. Nothing moved. Even Pelageya suddenly fell silent, as if she felt something, but did not turn around.

He wiped his hands on his pants, pretended to straighten the wood, closed the stove door. Everything inside him was shaking. He knew: this was trouble. Someone had brought it. He didn't know why. But he knew: this was not the place for it. Not on this day. Not with Delia.

"Let her be at peace, at least today," he muttered. "And as for everything else... We'll figure it out somehow."

He came back out - quiet, clean, as he should be. As if nothing had happened. As if he was just a boy. With a cup. Empty-handed. The clock in the hall was ticking again. And very soon Deedle was supposed to wake up. He imagined her laughing look, her light hair, and his soul felt a little lighter, as if a heavy stone had shifted from its place for a moment.

"I should pick her some flowers," Xander muttered under his breath. "The ones from the front garden by the church. She loves them. Lisa probably doesn't know what kind of flowers Deedle likes. But I do. I know everything about Deedle."

At this time, the main heroine of the occasion finally deigned to open hers. The sun was already slanting down on the windowsill, drawing golden stripes on the floor, and dust particles were swirling in them, thin, weightless, like little ballerinas. The air in the room was warm, very quiet, as if no one was breathing. Outside the window, the birds were singing loudly, ringingly and carefree, and their ringing voices seemed too joyful for such a quiet, almost hidden morning.

Delia's room, usually so bright and elegant, was today filled with a soft, golden light. On the snow-white walls, where her own drawings hung - awkward but bright watercolors with houses and flowers - sunbeams were now dancing. On the chair next to the bed, her favorite dress was neatly folded, the same one with blue ribbons that she wore to dinner yesterday. And on the chest of drawers was a box given to her by her father, with carved birds, and a small porcelain figurine of a ballerina that Karen brought from Paris. By the window, on the windowsill, stood a row of her books, some of them already read to holes, and the pages were wrinkled from frequent turning. The curtains, light, almost weightless, swayed slightly from a barely perceptible draft, bringing from the street the smell of damp earth and blossoming buds.

At first, Delia smiled. Well, almost smiled. Birthday! It's a holiday! The buns are probably ready by now, and the ribbons are hung everywhere, just like she likes. Everything is as usual. If only she could get dressed quickly and run downstairs, and there... And there they are waiting!

She stretched. Her nightgown rode up, revealing her skinny knees. Delia yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. And suddenly she felt how the hair on the back of her neck had matted slightly during the night. She ran her fingers through the tangled strands.

"Oh, my God", she whispered under her breath", this is a nightmare! How can I go like this? Well, and then they'll say I'm a slob. Lisa will definitely say so.

And then, like a fly in the ear, yesterday came. Slowly, like a dream that doesn't want to go away. The kitchen. And Xander there. How he sat, and she pressed herself against him. And how he was silent, and his shoulder was so... So strong. And then... And then the words. Those same stupid ones that she herself said.

"I love you."

She didn't want it! Honestly. It just popped out. Like a frog jumped out of a swamp - and now it's sitting there, jumping around the room. They made everything... Not right. Everything, everything, everything. Like a book you're reading, and suddenly there's a new page, completely unfamiliar. And it's not scary at all, no! Just awkward. So what now?

Delia shifted on the bed. She looked at her doll lying on the nightstand. Josephine had given it to her when she was six. The doll was beautiful, but now... It seemed alien. As if it wasn't hers anymore. Had she grown up or something? And the doll, with its round glass eyes, seemed so small, so naive, as if the girl who played with it had stayed in another day, in another life.

Oh, but I don't want to get up. And I don't want to go to the window. Let the dust particles dance, let them. And she... She needs to lie down for now. To think. If only she knew what to do with this "I love you" now. It's just sitting in my head like a pebble in a shoe, it's in the way. And I can't throw it away. She ran her hand through her hair again. "What if Xander... What if he thinks?" she whispered, and then blushed. "Oh, that's nonsense! He's a boy, he doesn't understand anything!"

She suddenly imagined Xander coming with a bouquet of flowers, her hair disheveled, and herself sleepy and awkward. Delia frowned. No, that wasn't right. It was her birthday!

Suddenly the door to the room swung open with a light thud, and her mother, Karen, appeared on the threshold. Karen's face was lit up with a forced, almost theatrical gaiety, which she seemed to have put on like a mask. It was obvious that every laugh, every bright intonation was difficult for her, because the house had recently lost Josephine, and a subtle, barely perceptible sadness was still in the air.

"What is this? - Karen exclaimed, throwing up her hands and feigning such exaggerated surprise that Delia almost laughed. "Our birthday girl is still in bed? As if she really were a princess with a special royal regime! And I, silly girl, thought you had already jumped up and were waiting for a festive breakfast! Pelageya and I made you some cinnamon pretzels there, finger-licking good!

Delia wrinkled her delicate nose.

"Well, Mom", she drawled capriciously, pouting her lips, "it's not my fault that the sun wakes you up so late! And the pretzels... They've probably already cooled down. All the tastiest ones have probably already been eaten without me!"

Gene appeared behind Karen. He held a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, from which came a tart, invigorating smell. His eyebrow was raised in his usual sarcastic manner, and mischievous lights danced in his eyes. He smelled of something bitter - menthol, cigars, just like an important gentleman who had just come in from the street and had not yet managed to shake off the bustle of St. Petersburg.

"In our house, Deedle", Gene noted, entering the room, and his voice was softly but good-naturedly mocking, "it is customary to get up at eight. This is not a palace where princesses are served on lace pillows. But if we are having a ball today, let there be a royal awakening. After all, nine years is not every day, right? You can sleep until lunch, if you really want to! Even until dinner! Let Pelageya complain later that the pigeons ate her pretzels!"

"Oh, Dad!" snorted Delia, pretending to be indignant. "Of course, pigeons! And you, too, I bet! You always grab the tastiest ones! And then you say: "Deedle, you're too slow!"

Her mother, smiling with the corner of her lips, came up to the bed. She leaned over and kissed Delia on the forehead, too quickly to be out of habit, almost mechanically, but with unfailing tenderness. Karen smelled of almond soap and a light, barely perceptible haze of morning anxiety, which she tried to hide behind her ostentatious cheerfulness. Delia did not answer, only nodded slightly, turning her face to the wall. The words did not come, they were stuck somewhere deep inside, like those same "I love you" from yesterday that just did not want to leave her head.

"Oh, come on, my dear," Karen said tenderly, adjusting the blanket. "I put the best things aside for you. Buns, juice, and your favorite chocolate. Just get up quickly!"

And Gene was especially animated. He placed his cup on the nightstand, next to Delia's doll. His dark blue coat was perfectly pressed, his hair was slicked back, not a single strand sticking out. It was obvious that he was in the best of spirits, and even the morning sun seemed to shine especially for him.

"Well, birthday girl, get ready!" he announced, rubbing his hands like a magician before a show. "There will be a real feast tonight! Candles, music, even Jake will drop by, he promised to be there! And..." he lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper, squinting his eyes, as if sharing a great secret, "and there will be a surprise. O-o-o, what a surprise! But, of course, I will not tell you what it is! Let it remain a little mystery."

"A surprise?" Delia forgot about her hair and the damned words in an instant. Her eyes widened. "What surprise? Dad, please tell me! Please! Just a tiniest hint! Is it something big? Or small? Is it... Is it a doll? Or... Or a little horse?" She sat up a little, shrugging her shoulders, and suddenly smiled. For real. There he was, her dad, who always knew how to cheer her up.

"Uh-uh, no, my dear", Gene drawled conspiratorially, shaking his finger at her. "That's what a surprise is for, not to reveal it ahead of time! Otherwise, all the intrigue will be lost! Let this be my little gift to you - the languor of anticipation! But you'll be thinking, guessing, making guesses all day! It's more fun than just receiving it!"

The word "surprise" echoed in Delia's head not dully, but loudly, like a small bell. She put her feet on the cool wooden floor. Although for some reason she was not completely happy, but this surprise... What was it? A good one? Or one that would make her want to cry again? She suddenly remembered Lisa Roselli and her "kind" smiles, and for a moment a shadow ran across her face. But then curiosity got the better of her.

"Well, Dad!" Delia drawled again, but with a smile. "Well, at least give him a hint! Mom, just tell him!"

Karen just shook her head, smiling.

"Your dad likes riddles, honey. Wait a bit."

Delia sighed, but not so capriciously, but rather with feigned disappointment. Well, if it was a surprise, then it was a surprise. She could already imagine what it could be: a new dress, a picture book, or maybe even a real carriage with horses! Although no, a carriage was too much. But one could dream, right?

Meanwhile, the mother had taken care of the dress, carefully laying it out on the chair, smoothing out every fold. The fabric was soft, cream-colored, with the finest lace along the collar and sleeves, and looked as if it had come straight from the pages of a fashion magazine. It smelled of lavender and something elusively foreign.

"Here, my dear," said Karen, changing her voice slightly, as if she were embarrassed. "This is a gift from Mademoiselle Lisa. She chose it herself, said it was very beautiful and would suit you. And the lace, you see, is handmade. French!"

And then Delia shuddered. Lisa's name sounded like someone had abruptly thrown open a window into bad weather, and a cold, unpleasant wind had burst into her small, cozy world. The smile slid off her face. She turned abruptly to the window, her eyes darkening, as if storm clouds had gathered in them, foreshadowing an evil change. In the sunbeam that had recently been dancing on the floor, the dust particles suddenly seemed not like ballerinas, but small, angry midges.

"I won't wear it," she said quietly, but so firmly that her voice, usually clear and girlish, sounded somehow harshly adult. There was no usual capricious note in it, only cold determination.

Gene, accustomed to children's whims, tried to object, as if justifying himself before an invisible judge:

"But, Deedle... Lisa tried so hard! She cares about you so much, she came at a difficult time for us, when... When it was very hard for all of us. She's like... Like an older sister to you!"

"She came after Josephine died!" Delia interrupted, turning sharply. Her eyes were brighter than when she had spoken of the pony. "After Josephine... She..." Delia swallowed, and a thin tremor ran down her thin shoulders. "Lisa is not her! Lisa is not Josephine! She never will be!"

Gene fell silent, as if he had been slapped in the face. The girl spoke calmly, almost coldly, but in each word there was not a childish resentment, but something else, something deep and very personal, something that went beyond ordinary disobedience. She did not scream, did not stamp her feet, but her calm was much more terrible than any hysterical crying.

"She's rude, Dad!" Delia continued, her voice breaking, not from tears but from the barely contained indignation that was rising from the very depths of her small but proud heart. "She's fake! Her smiles are like oil stains on water, they seem pretty, but then they make you sick. She looks down on everyone! Even you! You, Mom! Can't you see? She thinks she's better than everyone! And she looks at me like I'm... Like I'm worthless!"

Karen called out her name sharply, her voice shaking with a mixture of anger and confusion.

"Deedle! What kind of words are these! This is indecent! You shouldn't talk about Mademoiselle Lisa like that! She's our guest!"

But Delia was no longer afraid. Her small chin jutted forward stubbornly. She looked straight into her mother's eyes, those frightened, anxious eyes, and in that moment she seemed older than her nine years, as if some ancient, inherited power had awakened within her.

"I will not smile at someone who humiliates my friend!" she said hotly, and her cheeks flushed brightly, as if she were not a girl, but a small but brave warrior. "Even if he wears white gloves and a lace dress! Even if she says the most beautiful words! I can't!"

The mother turned pale. She turned away sharply, as if to straighten the folds of her dress, but her lips trembled, betraying the emotion she had been trying so hard to hide. She knew it was not just the dress, but something much more serious, the invisible wall that had grown between them after Josephine had left.

Gene, who had been standing on the sidelines watching this sudden and heated confrontation, finally cleared his throat. His sarcastic smile faded a little.

"Well, Deedle", he drawled conciliatorily, and there were notes of weariness in his voice, "if you don't want this dress, don't wear it. After all, we're not having a ball here, but a family dinner. We're not forcing you. Choose what you like. Just not a school uniform, otherwise they'll say that our birthday girl didn't dress up at all, but came straight from classes!"

Delia nodded, not in response to them, but to her thoughts. She was far away. Somewhere where the warmth of yesterday's touch was still there. Xander. He heard. He said nothing, only held her hand. And that touch, strong, as if frightened, but so familiar, giving confidence, remained in her memory as the most precious treasure.

She thought she wasn't ashamed. Even if someone laughed, whispered behind her back. Even if Lisa Roselli looked down on her again, with her feigned pity. Love isn't a servant, you don't give it orders. It isn't scheduled between arithmetic and music, and it doesn't care about other people's views, about the rules of decency, about all these adult games. It just is, and that's enough.

Meanwhile, Mother spoke again, more softly, as if thawing out after a sudden snowstorm. Her voice became quieter, almost pleading. It sounded less like a request than a tired plea for peace.

"Okay, Deedle. If that's what you want... Let you be yourself today. Just... Just be kind to Lisa, please. Even today, on your birthday. Do it for me, darling."

Delia looked up at her. Her gaze was calm, not childishly meaningful, and there was no whim or resentment in it, only a simple statement of fact that sounded much more weighty than any reproach.

"I'm always myself, Mom," she said, and the words sounded like a sentence. "It's just that not everyone likes it."

At that moment, Lisa Roselli appeared on the threshold, having precisely measured out the necessary pause, as if she was waiting for her entrance on stage and choosing the most effective moment. In her hands she held a rather large box, carefully wrapped in shiny gift paper and tied with a satin ribbon. The box seemed to emit a barely perceptible aroma of expensive French perfume. On her face there was a polite, slightly strained smile, in which something predatory, sharp, almost like a thin razor, ready to cut off any awkwardness or inappropriateness, still glided.

"Happy birthday, young lady!" Lisa sang, and her voice was sweet as honey, but this cloying quality gave off something unnatural, artificial. She came closer, slightly bowing her head, and held out the box. "My modest gift to you. I hope you like it."

Delia didn't even glance at the box, as if it were invisible. She only bowed her head slightly, expressing a formal, practiced gratitude, but her gaze slid past Lisa, as if she were an empty space, and rushed somewhere into the distance, out the window, to the gray roofs of Petersburg.

"Thank you," she said through her teeth, and the words sounded somehow alien, insincere. "But I don't accept gifts from strangers."

Karen threw up her hands, frightened, almost theatrically, as if Delia had done something irreparable that threatened to bring down the whole house of cards of decency.

"Deedle! What are you saying! It's Lisa! Mademoiselle Roselli!"

Gene, to everyone's surprise, suddenly grinned. A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes, and he turned to Karen, barely containing his smile.

"Well, my dear," he said casually, as if recalling something very old, "our Deedle's character is clearly forming. Just like your aunt in Ohio, remember? The one who threw the vicar out of the house because his moustache was too bushy and because, in her opinion, he didn't preach loud enough about the sins of gluttony."

Lisa continued to smile as if she had not heard anything, as if these words had not been thrown in her face, as if she were made of marble and not of flesh. Only her eyes narrowed slightly, and her thin lips pressed into a barely noticeable line. Her voice remained the same - soft, viscous, like honey melted in tea, but a steely note appeared in it, almost imperceptible, but all the more ominous because of it.

"Oh, the young lady is right," she cooed, slightly bowing her head, as if agreeing with an indisputable truth. "Real ladies certainly know that gifts are not the point. Only one thing is important - upbringing. A true lady values not the wrapping, but the nobility of the soul and impeccable manners. That's the basis, isn't it?"

Delia, without waiting for an answer, turned decisively and left the room. She did not look back, as if nothing was happening behind her that deserved her attention. Only over her shoulder, casually and without a single note of regret, she threw:

"I don't want to wait for you to go out. I'll wait until you leave my room."

The door closed behind her silently. Lisa remained standing with the box in her hands, motionless, like a shop-window doll, put on display in some expensive shop on Nevsky Prospect. Beautiful, flawless - and completely unnecessary at that moment, like a withered flower that never found its addressee. The smile froze on her face, turning into something resembling a grimace, like a mask grown to her skin.

Neither Karen nor Gene said a word. Karen looked away, as if the scene had never happened, as if it had vanished into thin air along with the dust particles carried away by the wind. Gene, slowly adjusting the collar of his coat as if it had suddenly become tight around his throat, turned and, without looking at either his wife or Lisa, went into the study, slamming the door a little louder than usual. This slam was the only sound that broke the oppressive silence.

And Lisa, after a moment's hesitation, as if gathering all her strength, as if deciding on something important, slowly turned around. A strange, almost frightening solemnity shone through in her every movement - the kind that comes from those who do not admit defeat, even after losing the most important game. Climbing the stairs, she carelessly threw the box on the antique chest of drawers in the hallway, so that the gift paper tore slightly at the edge. Without undressing, in her elegant dress, she entered her room and locked herself in. The sound of the lock clicking echoed throughout the house, like a final verdict.

And only behind the door, already alone, in the semi-darkness of her room, Lisa allowed herself to mutter through her teeth - barely audible, almost soundlessly, like the poisonous whisper of a snake, not intended for anyone's ears:

"An ungrateful, arrogant brat. A revolutionary in a skirt... Never mind, she'll start singing differently. And how she'll sing. And I'll wait for now."

She went to the window. The view of the Petersburg rooftops, usually so beloved by her, seemed bleak and joyless today. The gray sky was oppressive, and the wind was driving the occasional sheets of newspaper along the pavement, rustling like dry autumn leaves, although it was May outside. Lisa hugged herself, as if trying to warm herself, but the cold was not outside, but inside, an icy anger slowly squeezing her heart. Her thin fingers clenched into fists.

"The revolutionary," she whispered again, and now there was not only anger in her voice, but also some strange, dark interest. "This girl... She is not what she seems. She is hiding something. And her 'friend' - this boy, Xander... He is not so simple either."

In Lisa's mind, always occupied with complex intrigues and subtle calculations, a new plan was already beginning to take shape, cold and thoughtful, like a game of chess. Josephine's death... It was too convenient. Delia's appearance, her unbridled character... And these Yorks, so carefree, so... So American. They did not understand where they had ended up. They did not understand that here, in Petersburg, under the mask of decency, currents were hidden that could drag them to the bottom without a trace.

Lisa moved away from the window and walked around the room. Each step was measured, even though she was still wearing her dress and shoes. She ran her hand over the spines of the books on the shelf, not seeing them. Her thoughts swirled around Delia, Xander, and the threads that connected them but remained invisible.

"So, a revolutionary," Lisa repeated, but not for herself, but as if for the whole world, and in this repetition there was no longer anger, only cold, sharp interest. "Well then, young talent. Let's see who outplays whom."

Delia, after wandering around the house, feeling a little... A little out of place, like a new doll that hadn't been unpacked yet, returned to her room again. She stood by the door. For about ten seconds. Or maybe twenty. She just didn't want to go in right away, as if there was some boring lesson or that nasty Lisa with her endless moralizing behind that door.

"Oh, how boring," she whispered under her breath, "I hope at least something happens!"

But no one called, and there was nothing to do. Sighing, she pushed the door.

The room was the same as always. The sun was not as bright as in the morning, but it was still light. The air smelled of the buns that Pelageya baked, and something else warm and homey. Delia went to the window, pressed her nose to the cool glass and looked down. The yard was empty. Only the wet paths sparkled after the recent rain, and a sparrow hopped around in a puddle, as if looking for a gold coin there.

"Well, there you go," Delia muttered, "nobody. Even some birds... Some ordinary ones."

Neither Xander, nor even Pelageya - no one. It's boring.

Suddenly, the loud voice of my father, Gene, came from the hallway. He always spoke loudly, as if he was performing on stage, even when he was just talking to my mother.

"Our Xander", Delia heard, and her father's voice was so cheerful, just like at a holiday, "if he were some kind of little master, well, like those stupid young lords who always stick their noses up in the air, then he probably would have been hiding in the bushes a long time ago, gobbling up candy and shirking work! But as it is - there he is, chopping wood like a real man! Well done!"

"Little Master!" Delia wrinkled her nose. "Here we go again!"

Mom, Karen, said something Delia didn't hear. Probably something quiet, like she always says when she doesn't want to argue. Or when she just doesn't care.

"Little master". Ugh, how disgusting!" Delia shook her head. The word was so disgusting, so sticky, as if it stuck to her tongue. As if someone had thrown a dirty rag at her. Did Xander want to be a little master? Did he need these stupid candies that made his stomach hurt later, and this hide-and-seek? No! He's not like that. He's... He's real. Not like Jerome, who always brags about his toys and acts important. And not like this Jordan, who always tries to pull her pigtail and giggles.

Delia understood everything.

"I understand everything," she whispered, frowning, "that Xander is just a servant boy, and that you can't give him presents, like your favorite doll, or show him your secret drawings. And that you can't play young ladies and gentlemen with him, like those boys your mother invites to tea."

She understood that her mom and dad wanted the "right" friends for her, like Lisa, who always smiles, but as if she's hiding something behind her back, and her eyes are cold, cold, like a fish's.

"And what we can't do," Delia muttered, stamping her little foot. "And why we can't do it. And who we should do it with. Those boring boys."

But she didn't want to. She didn't want to at all! But still, something stubborn and hot was spreading inside, like a small coal in a stove. And it was Xander. He wasn't one of their kind, not one of those who came to visit at an invitation with curls. He didn't care about her new dresses, her surprises, her birthday. He was better. Maybe he was rude at times, maybe he was silent, but he didn't say unnecessary words, didn't smile falsely. He was cleaner. As if he had just washed himself in the rain.

Delia went to her desk. On it lay new books, gifts from her parents. With beautiful pictures, with gilded spines. But she did not want to open them.

"These princesses again," she sighed. "How boring!"

She didn't want to read about those silly princesses who do nothing but wait for princes. And about knights who fight all the time, as if they couldn't do otherwise. It all seemed so distant, so unreal. She wanted to read about Xander. About his hands that deftly chop wood. About his eyes that look seriously and honestly. About his silence that said more than all the words from all those books.

She sat down on the floor, pressing her back against the wall. The walls in her room, so bright and elegant, suddenly seemed alien, indifferent, as if they were listening but understanding nothing. The word "master" was still ringing in her ears. And over all this, like a heavy cloud, hung that same "I love you" from yesterday. Inappropriate, wrong, but so real.

"So be it!" she whispered. "And I'm not going to refuse!"

And Delia understood that this "I love" was her small, personal rebellion. A rebellion against the rules, against decency, against everything that was imposed on her. And she was not going to give it up. Let them tell her a hundred times that it was impossible. With this thought, she approached the smooth mirror in the antique frame, as if it saw everything and knew everything. Looking at her reflection - so pale, with slightly disheveled hair - she straightened the ribbon on her nightgown.

"Oh, what a look," she whispered to herself. "Not at all like a birthday girl. Lisa would definitely say: "Miss, today you look like a crow that just flew out of the nest!"

Then, without taking her eyes off her reflection, Delia slowly turned to the window. It was closed, and only a piece of the gray St. Petersburg sky was visible through the glass. She went over, pried the latch - tight, creaking - and opened it. The air was fresh, with the smell of dust, tiles and, of course, the kitchen - warm, bread, home. It immediately became easier to breathe. She leaned her elbows on the windowsill and looked down.

He stood by a large wooden barrel, holding the bucket with his knee, pouring water. Slowly, carefully, as he had done hundreds of times. As if it were the most important thing in the world. Not a gesture, not a glance in her direction - but she knew: he heard. He understood. Everything that needed to happen had already happened - now he just had to wait for it to become reality. When this "I love you", which jumped out on its own, like a frog from a swamp, becomes not just a word, but something... Something real.

She didn't want to call.

"And why bother," thought Delia. "He can hear it anyway."

She didn't say a word. She just watched. The scene repeated itself - as before: she was upstairs, he was downstairs. Different floors, different places. As if they were on different shelves in one big room. But now - not the same feeling. Everything had shifted. Not because it became possible, but because - it didn't matter anymore. Let it be impossible. She didn't care anymore.

It's not possible to go back.

"And there's no need," she whispered, almost inaudibly.

And it wasn't necessary. The words had been said. The answer was optional. She knew: he understood. Back then, in the kitchen, when she pressed herself against him. From that look. From that touch. When he didn't push her away.

He wasn't the type to tear his shirt off his chest or to compose an ode, like in those silly books. He just stood there and did his job. And that was exactly what she was waiting for: for him to stay. For him to be. For him not to retreat. For him not to run away like a frightened hare.

He suddenly looked up. Glanced. Without a smile. Only the corner of his lips twitched, just a little, like a sign. As if someone invisible had put a small dot there with a pencil.

She nodded. Quietly.

"Well, that's it," thought Delia. "That's it."

And slowly, as if there was something very important and final in this, she closed the window. Carefully, so that it wouldn't creak. She knew: he understood. Now - everything is ahead. Only... What exactly is ahead?

...666...

In the yard the footsteps died away, moving away, dying away somewhere around the bend of the house; the kitchen smoke, lazily creeping along the wall, seemed almost tangible in the hot morning air, like a living, weightless spirit of comfort. In the street the cabby had already stopped the cart at the Yorks' house - the horse snorted, driving away an annoying fly from its ear, and then, with ease, as if there was no road behind him, Jake Madison jumped off the tarantass: smart, in a plaid waistcoat, with a top hat under his arm and with that careless gloss in which good nature and road dust were mixed. He adjusted the brim of his hat as he walked, habitually, as if it were part of his ritual. He knocked on the door with his knuckles - a little louder than he should have, but still not intrusively, without impudence. The door was not opened for him.

"Well, then," Jake muttered under his breath, with a slight grin, "then we'll open it ourselves. Karen must still be asleep, and Gene..."

Then he entered himself, casually adjusting his waistcoat and brushing his sleeve - a rather mechanical gesture, as if checking whether he had forgotten anything important or whether he had picked up a speck of dust. A light rustling sound came from the hallway, and the barely perceptible aroma of fresh tea.

The living room greeted him with coolness, the shadow of heavy curtains and a barely perceptible smell of tobacco. Jake slowed his pace - not from uncertainty, but rather from theatrical politeness - and, noticing a figure at the window, squinted with satisfaction, as if he had found an object in its place. Gene, in an armchair, with a box of tobacco and two pipes on his knees, nodded almost imperceptibly, without even turning around. In one movement he extended his hand towards the next armchair, silently, in a familiar manner.

"Well, hello there, Gene," said Jake, taking off his top hat and sitting down, "you're always being economical with your words. Are you afraid they're too expensive?"

"And you, as always, think that one 'hello' can compensate for six months of silence," Gene responded, not taking his eyes off the tobacco he was deftly stuffing, as if he were continuing something he had started long ago. "By the way, I have phone bills coming."

"I had my reasons, by the way," Jake waved his hand. "Not reasons to justify myself, but serious enough to keep quiet decently. And without any telegrams."

"Yeah", chuckled Gene. "And, apparently, exactly until this morning. Until the moment when it became clear that today she was eight."

Jake pursed his lips and nodded towards the window, where a faint silhouette of a child could be seen behind the curtain.

"And I haven't seen her since..."

"How did he leave?" Gene finished calmly, handing him a filled pipe. "We don't say 'left,' after all. Not in your case."

The silence lay thick between them, like the steam from yesterday's beans. Jake turned away, lighting his pipe, greedily, with a businesslike inhalation, as if it might lead the conversation astray or dispel the awkwardness. Gene sat quietly, his back straight, his face coolly attentive, as if he were prepared to listen to any excuses, but not to believe them.

"It's not myself I'm ashamed of," Jake finally said, blowing out a smoke ring. "It's that I had to go through you to even congratulate her. It's like I'm some kind of... Some kind of stranger."

"Because it would have been worse through Lisa," Gene remarked, smiling slightly at the corner of his mouth. "She would have shoved your congratulations back into the telegraph, and even with a note: 'Dear sir, your message does not contain enough admiration.'"

"I know," Jake nodded. "That's why I came. Although, maybe it was in vain. Would you have told me if you weren't happy? I would have understood."

"I wouldn't have set the pipes according to the number of expected guests if I wasn't happy," Gene snapped, glancing at the second pipe. "And I certainly wouldn't have filled it with your favorite tobacco. Do you think I forgot?"

And without changing his position, he lit a match and brought it to his pipe. The flame flickered softly at the edge of his mustache. Jake looked at him sideways, squinted, and said a little more quietly:

"You're good with her after all. Really. Yesterday I even thought: maybe I shouldn't have... Well, you know."

Gene blew out a puff of smoke.

"I understand. But it's too late. You're now an intermission. And the stage goes on. And without your stupid beard."

They fell silent. The window behind them shook slightly from a draft, and the curtain, like a heavy wave, swayed towards the room.

Jake didn't turn around. He just asked, without taking his eyes off the phone:

"Is she still hiding behind the curtain?"

"No," said Gene. "She sees everything. And you're no exception. So don't ruin her party. If she gets hysterical, you'll have to calm her down yourself."

"And I'm not part of the party anymore?" Jake chuckled.

"You're part of the window, Jake. Like dust that isn't wiped off, but isn't touched either. So as not to touch anything unnecessary. For now."

He nodded, not offended. Even, perhaps, relieved. And a little later he took another drag. He blew the smoke toward the ceiling, where it slowly dissolved in the shadow of the curtains. Then, as if by the way, as if remembering something unimportant, he asked:

"Are you still following the frontline reports, Gene? Or have you already given up on this matter like last year's snow?

Gene nodded, not looking up from his pipe.

"I think I was looking through the Birzhevye Vedomosti this morning," he said, and there was neither interest nor alarm in his voice. "They were writing about the Amur again, as if their entire fleet now rested on it alone. Well, they know better."

Jake responded, also without much enthusiasm, as if this was just a statement of facts and not a subject for heated debate.

"And you know what I remembered?" He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if recalling something unpleasant. "The Japanese feed on American canned goods. From Ohio. I saw the labels myself, everything was in plain sight: dozens of tons of meat, and all there. It must be a glorious trade for those who sit there, in the rear."

Gene chuckled, apparently he had heard this before, and seemed not to want to delve into it - like, if you start counting other people's earnings, you'll have to pray for both sides, and that's unnecessary. He just shook his head.

"War, Jake," he said briefly, and all the philosophy was in that word. "One man's war is another man's mother. That's the way the world is."

Jake spread his hands, and the gesture contained both agreement and slight despair.

"Yes, it's all clear. The rails, the rifles, the uniforms - everything, they say, is on their side. "He nodded towards the window, as if outside, on the streets of St. Petersburg, one could see all these invisible threads connecting distant shores. "And now here we are, sitting in St. Petersburg, drinking tea, like guests, in houses where the sons of the owners, by the way, are fighting in the East against supplies from their own country. Funny, isn't it?"

Gene didn't answer right away, just nodded - apparently it wasn't the first time he'd heard something like that. He slowly blew out the smoke, watching it reach the ceiling. Then he finally spoke - slowly, as if he was drawing a conclusion - and his words sounded heavy, like stones falling into a well.

"The Russians won't forget this. You'll see. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But later. The time will come when they'll remember everything. And the same canned goods from Ohio, and the same rails."

Jake shrugged, as if agreeing - or simply not objecting. He didn't argue. What was there to argue about when everything was so clear? He leaned back in his chair, looking at his smoking pipe. Then, as if moving on to a long-overdue but still not very pleasant question, he tapped the pipe lightly with his finger and said:

"You know, Gene, we're sitting here smoking your excellent tobacco, and I keep thinking... This Russian empire, which we, Americans, you and our other compatriots, unfortunately stuck our noses into a couple of years ago, will fall apart anyway. Sooner or later. If not today, then tomorrow. And not because the Japanese are such good guys, but because... Well, you see for yourself."

He moved his head slightly towards the window, as if behind him, on the streets of St. Petersburg, one could see all the signs of the coming collapse.

"In the newspapers, they're heroes," Jake continued, and there was undisguised irony in his voice, "you know, the brave guys with swords drawn, ready to tear apart any samurai. But in real life? In real life, there's dysentery in army hospitals, hunger in villages where grain hasn't been delivered for years, and officers dreaming of running away somewhere to the Caucasus, to get lost in the mountains and not have to see all this shame. That's your greatness."

Gene chuckled, not changing his position, but that same expression appeared in his eyes - a dry smile, in which he always mixed irritation with fatigue.

"All this, Jake, is probably for profit. Or balance, whichever is closer to you. Some rake in the gold, others think that this is how the world holds together. And the truth, as always, is somewhere in the middle, and no one is looking for it."

Jake shook his head, and there was something in the way he moved that said, "That's not it."

"No, Gene, it's not that. It's a habit. America always feeds everyone. I don't know how to explain it, but that's the way it is. Whenever there's even the slightest trouble, our industrialists, those fat gentlemen from Wall Street, rush to the rescue. They'll throw in weapons, provisions, or some other nasty thing. And they don't even look at whose victory they're feeding. The main thing is that the dollar rings."

He chuckled, and it was a bitter grin.

"Just remember," Jake leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling, "American canning factories recently strangled all the cats in Chicago and New York. Do you know why?"

Gene, who had been listening with his eyes half-closed until now, suddenly opened them slightly.

"For fur?" he asked with a hint of mockery. "Or for some new fatty dish? You won't surprise me with anything."

"No, no!" Jake slapped his knee. "They made canned food out of them! Pate, so to speak. And now they sell them to the naive Japanese in cans with stickers saying 'rabbit pate'. Can you imagine? These gullible samurai are sitting somewhere near Mukden, eating cat pate and thinking it's real hare. And our businessmen are rubbing their hands. So much for charity."

Gene listened, his dry grin growing more and more expressive. He shook his head, as if confirming his long-held suspicions.

"Well, what did I tell you?" he said. "Profit. Profit, Jake. Nothing personal."

The conversation broke off. Not because they felt awkward talking about their compatriots' fraudulence - no. For them, it was almost routine, part of a large and not always clean business. They both simply understood: they were living in a foreign country, in this strange, foggy Petersburg, working in a world where everything was double, where every word had a hidden meaning. They smiled at parties where they knew everyone by name, but almost no one for real. And this war they were discussing was just another confirmation that their world, their America, just like this Russia, was full of its secrets, its frauds and its strange rules.

Jake, sensing the pause, realized that the topic of cat food and the general uncleanliness of his countrymen needed to be softened, diverted. He cleared his throat and, as if trying to find a new, more innocuous topic, began to speak, stumbling slightly:

"Well, and we, Americans... We know how to make more than just canned goods, you know. We're trying our best to drive those Japanese out of Korea. For example, we've taken on the task of establishing tram service in Seoul. Can you imagine? Real trams! Iron, electric...

He hesitated, remembering about electricity, of which there was not much in Russia yet.

"Well, not exactly electric," Jake corrected himself, blushing slightly, "more like steam-powered ones, but still - trams! New, beautiful, with big windows! We want to show who the real master of Asia is there."

Gene chuckled, raising an eyebrow. It was obvious that he was listening with only half an ear, waiting to see where this strange story would lead.

"And so, to lure Koreans onto these trams", Jake continued, trying to speak cheerfully", we came up with a whole entertainment program. At the end of the tram route, we give passengers... free rides! With tightrope dancers, can you imagine? People gather, watch, applaud. Ladies in hats, children squeal with delight. A circus, and nothing more!

He laughed, but his laugh was a little forced.

"And those who have traveled the route twice", Jake leaned towards Gene, lowering his voice, as if telling a big secret", at the end of the route they show a silent movie! About brave Texas cowboys. Dust in a column, shootouts, Indians running. Full house! Delight! Our businessmen are sure that this way we can tie them to us. And show who is the boss here.

Gene, who had been simply listening up until this point, suddenly interrupted without taking the pipe out of his mouth:

"And how, Jake, will all this fuss of your industrialists in Korea end? With big profits? Or, perhaps, with a big fight?"

Jake sighed. The topic was apparently still awkward.

"Well, how it ends..." he shrugged. "The Koreans have already burned three trams. Not without help from the Japanese, of course. After all, America's influence in the affairs of the East is not at all advantageous to them. They are pursuing their own interests there. And it turns out that we are there, in the same hole. One with one, like two roosters in a henhouse. Only the henhouse is someone else's."

He clearly didn't want to pursue the topic. He felt the air in the room become even heavier. To somehow defuse the situation, Jake suddenly stood up, shook invisible ash from his vest and, as if by the way, with feigned nonchalance, suggested:

"Well, Gene, enough about politics and that, God forgive me, canned cat food of yours. How about we go to the living room to see the family? Let's see how your little girl, Deedle, is doing. In her new dress. I hope it's not pink? Because those pink dresses on children, you know, make me think sadly of piglets.

Gene straightened his collar as he rose from his chair. A slight irony flashed in his eyes.

"It's not up to me, Jake, what clothes she wears. Women, even little ones, choose for themselves. And especially Deedle. She's a girl with character. I see you've forgotten what it's like to deal with a nine-year-old lady who has her own views on life."

With that they left the room together. Gene, walking ahead, looked as if he had just gotten rid of a boring but necessary meeting, and Jake looked as if he was looking forward to the continuation of a play in which the main roles had not yet been assigned. They walked up a wide staircase covered with a heavy carpet, which made their steps sound muffled, like incantations. The air was filled with the smell of wax, old books, and some elusive floral scent, clearly Karenina's.

They went into the living room, where Karen, standing by the window, was busily arranging a flower arrangement: she held a vase with both hands, leaning slightly as if checking symmetry, and her slender fingers gracefully adjusted the stems. Everything around her breathed order - the tablecloth lay without a single crease, the candles in bronze candlesticks were aligned almost mathematically, cushions with embroidered patterns were laid out on the chairs. It seemed as if something more than just an afternoon tea was about to take place in this room - some important reception for which they were preparing with special care. Karen, as usual, was silent, and her face expressed nothing but tense concentration - the same one that arises in women when they feel someone else's gaze on them, but do not pay attention to it, as if this gaze were just an annoying fly.

Jake, walking into the room, took a quick, sharp look at it and mentioned with a grin:

"Well, Gene, look here", his voice was a little louder than it should have been in such a quiet room, "everything looks like a reception at some governor-general's! Really, all that's left is to call the orchestra, and we can give balls. Otherwise it's a bit boring without lackeys with trumpet calls."

Karen, without turning around, made a remark, and there was a slight weariness in her voice, behind which one could hear not only irritation, but also hidden anxiety.

"The last thing we need in this house, Jake, is a general. Those people bring nothing but bad news and the smell of barracks. Besides, we've got too much going on today..."

Jake retorted playfully, taking a step further into the room.

"Well, then there are only us left - ordinary, cheerful, unburdened by any titles. And most importantly - without feathers in our hats. I honestly don't know what you would do without us, Mrs. York. You would sit in silence, like nuns in a cell."

Karen just shrugged slightly, continuing to straighten the flower. Jake, looking around as if he had lost something, suddenly began to look for someone in particular, and an expression of slight concern mixed with curiosity appeared on his face.

"By the way, Gene", he turned to his friend", where is our good old Josephine? I don't see her. I hope some rich Russian merchant hasn't whisked her away? She ran off into the sunset in his troika, probably, taking all the family jewels with her? And a couple of bottles of your best whiskey. She's a lady of character, that Josephine."

Instead of answering, Lisa spoke. She stood a little to the side, by the wall, in her strict dress, resembling a doll carved from porcelain: all discipline and precise gestures. Her voice sounded calm, almost musical, but it conveyed something that could not be called lively participation.

"Mr. Madison," Lisa said with a restrained smile, "Josephine has unfortunately left home forever. I am now in charge of the education of young Lady York. My name is Lisa Roselli."

There was no regret in her tone, rather a familiar politeness, with that slight coldness that is characteristic of those who are accustomed to separating the personal from the official. As if she were reading a report.

Gene introduced Lisa, as if confirming her words, but with a bit of exaggeration.

"Lisa Roselli, Jake. Miss Roselli from America. Worked for a famous doctor, a specialist in nervous disorders. Quite capable, I'll tell you honestly. Deedle has become... More obedient."

Jake narrowed his eyes at Lisa. A phrase that was either a compliment or a hidden mockery escaped his lips:

"I didn't expect to see a governess like that. I honestly thought they were all either old ladies with a cane or stern Frauleins in glasses. And here... And here is such an exquisite lady. Just like from a fashion magazine. You, Miss Roselli, have probably cured more than one wife of jealousy, and then you yourself caused this jealousy?"

Lisa smiled a little wider, nodded reservedly, as if she had accepted what had been said, but did not consider it necessary to comment on it. For a moment, something appeared in her gaze that could have been taken for slyness, if not for the severity of her posture and general detachment. She looked like a cat carefully studying its prey.

When Jake turned back to Gene and said something about "harem men," hinting at the presence of such a refined lady in the house, he only shrugged, as if he saw nothing strange or funny about it.

"Well, Jake," he replied with that calmness that could be either sincere or simply defensive, "Lisa is doing great. And Deedle, as I said, has become quieter. And that's the main thing. She can't run around like a wild cat forever."

Karen, putting the vase down on the table a little more abruptly than she should have, so that the flowers shook, clarified without turning around:

"Silence, Gene, and calm are not the same thing. Sometimes silence can be... Very loud. Like a scream."

The pause that followed these words was awkward. Jake felt the air tighten, like a string before a thunderstorm. He looked at everyone in turn, from his friend's wife to the governess, then to Gene himself, and said with a kind of deliberate lightness, trying to defuse the situation:

"Well", he spread his hands, "I see that everything is fine with you, like in an American bank. And it turns out that I worried in vain. And I didn't sleep all night, thinking about how to give you some good advice."

Lisa smiled again, almost automatically. Karen turned to the bookshelf, straightening the spines of the books, and it became clear that even if there was agreement, it was only superficial, like a smart dress with old patches underneath. Jake sensed that there was something else hidden under this "everything is in order," and, straightening his hat, almost automatically, he said something about seeing acquaintances on the way to them:

"Oh, I almost forgot", he pretended to remember, "I saw familiar faces on the way, at Nikolaevsky Station. In a hurry, with suitcases, with her son and an old servant - Lily Creighton. Herself, can you imagine? And her husband. It didn't look like they were getting ready to go to the dacha. They looked as if they were running from the plague."

He spoke of this almost casually, but he watched faces - especially Karen's.

She froze, just touching the fold on the tablecloth slightly, as if she wanted to smooth it out, but couldn't find where to put her hands. Gene lit a cigarette - a second time, as if the first hadn't helped, and the smoke came out in thick rings. His face regained its former self-confidence when he said, casually waving his hand:

"And it's good that they left. Creighton has been a real nuisance to me over the last few years. He was always putting spokes in my wheels, always creating some stupid obstacles. And now, after the hunt in Tsarskoe Selo... Everything has gone differently. The baron with whom that deal was made turned out to be a man of his word. And very timely, I must say."

There was no joy in Gene's voice, but satisfaction, almost businesslike, like that of a merchant who had successfully completed a deal.

Jake didn't answer right away. His smile faded, becoming strained like an old rubber band. He took a deep breath before speaking.

"Winning in business is, of course, an important thing, Gene. But it's still strange when death becomes profitable. It's... It's somehow very Russian, or something. Or simply... Simply human."

It didn't sound like a judgment, but rather like a statement of something disturbing that one didn't want to acknowledge. Gene responded dryly, blowing out another puff of smoke.

"I'm not a hypocrite, Jake. I'm not pretending. I'm not going to preach. I'm telling it like it is. Morris was in the way - now he's gone. That's it. End of story."

Karen looked at her husband - long, calmly, not in the forehead, but in the face. No condemnation, no words - just a look that reminded: not everything in life is determined by convenience. Not everything is determined by his will. And not everything is as simple as it seems to him.

Gene, as if not noticing this look, said a phrase about how to each his own:

"Some people live looking around, Jake, and always looking for a catch. And some people look ahead. And they get what they want."

His voice didn't waver, and he turned away first. As if the conversation was finally over and he wasn't going to return to it.

Lisa had been sitting nearby all this time, in a chair by the far wall, not interfering in the men's conversation, but not a single word, not a single gesture escaped her attention. Her face remained calm, almost serene, like the smooth surface of a lake on a windless day, but her eyes seemed to absorb every detail, every vibration of the air in this room, where so many sharp angles were hidden under external politeness. When Gene turned away, making it clear that the conversation was over, Lisa, like an invisible shadow, stood up and went to the corner of the room, to the old sideboard, where porcelain plates gleamed in the glass doors.

"Well then," she whispered under her breath, pretending to straighten the napkins, although her hands barely touched the fine lace. "It's just as I thought. Only worse."

Her lips trembled slightly, but then immediately returned to their usual, neutral expression.

The mention of Lily Creighton put her on her guard. Not surprised, no - rather confirmed long-standing, carefully concealed suspicions. "Too sudden a departure, too hasty - her thoughts swarmed like bees in a hive. She knew the Creighton' connections well - both in America, where their name meant as much as gold in banks, and here, in Petersburg, where their appearance was as bright as a flash of lightning.

"Old money," she said almost silently, "is always mixed with new secrets. And how badly it smells sometimes! Nothing new, really.

She ran her finger over the dusty surface of the sideboard, as if brushing away invisible crumbs.

Gene's words about the "benefits" of death did not disgust her. On the contrary, they interested her. They were definite, clear, even cynical, intent. "Although," Lisa thought, "cynicism is just honesty taken to the extreme." She remembered every detail: Tsarskoe Selo, Baron Buher, the change after the hunt.

"Such things," she muttered, adjusting the porcelain figurine, "are not said casually in conversation. It's like a thrown stone. And if a stone is thrown, it means it's needed for some reason."

She glanced at Gene, who was already standing at the window, pretending to admire the view. A man of action. A man who wasn't shy about calling a spade a spade. It was... It was almost attractive in its ruthlessness.

Jake, despite his outwardly good-natured image, also aroused her doubts.

"Too free for a simple friend," flashed through her thoughts. "Too homely. Too close - to Deedle, to Karen. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing, but with a charming smile."

She hadn't yet decided who he was to them. But she knew: there was something unclear in this family, something hidden under a layer of well-being, and this uncertainty was to the advantage of those who knew how to wait.

Karen, standing by the bookshelf, did not intervene in the conversation, but her silence was almost physical - heavy, oppressive, like a storm cloud. Lisa felt: under the restraint - exhaustion, under the fatigue - tension.

"The perfect family," Lisa whispered, a hint of irony in her voice. "A model of American respectability in St. Petersburg. But it's only a facade. Like a pretty wrapper for a bitter candy. Or for... Or for something much more dangerous."

She chuckled.

"I'm from America too." It was so quiet that they could hardly hear her. "And I see more than they think. People who are overly confident are always a vulnerable structure. Confidence is a crack through which doubts penetrate. And through which something can... Something can be pulled out."

At that moment, Karen, as if sensing something, turned her head. Lisa immediately straightened the folds on the napkins, her face became absolutely neutral.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. York," she said with a slight smile. "It just slipped out, you know. The habit of order. Everything has to be perfect."

Karen nodded slightly, turning back to her books. Lisa, satisfied that her little test had been successful, returned to her observation. Her eyes were more attentive. Like someone who was waiting for one of the three to finally falter. Or for this whole facade to begin to crack, revealing what was hidden inside.

"Yes," thought Lisa, "Josephine was stupid, of course. But she was kind. And kindness, as we know, often leads to... To absence. The ability to disappear is a talent. And sometimes it is a necessity."

She remembered Gene mentioning Baron Buher. Baron Buher... The name had come up in some of the reports. A man of influence. And, apparently, useful. What could possibly connect him to the Creighton, and what did Morris's death have to do with it? Too many coincidences, too many threads leading in the same direction.

"And Deedle..." flashed through her head. "A girl. So... real. Too real for this house."

She remembered how the girl had snuggled up to Xander in the kitchen. It had been so unexpected. So... So against the rules.

"Oh, these children," Lisa muttered, as if making excuses to herself. "They always complicate everything. Or maybe they simplify it."

She smiled. This wasn't just work. It was a game. And the rules of the game were just beginning to become clear.

...666...

At that hour, along a narrow Petersburg street, among cobblestones gleaming as if polished, four figures made their way. They walked unhurriedly, with the air of connoisseurs who knew their path precisely. Leading them was Rasolko, notebook in hand, pencil at the ready, as if not heading to a friend's but to an audience with Witte himself.

"Now, listen here, brothers!" Rasolko began, his voice ringing over the pavement without breaking stride. "Have you heard of Kolka-Bochkin, the regular at the dives along the Obvodny Canal? Quite a character, I swear! Drank like a dray horse after three buckets. No sobering up, no catching his breath! And then, imagine this - our Kolka, out of nowhere... saw the light!"

Artem Starikov, his dress shirt blindingly white as if fresh from the laundry, let out a chuckle, stroking his beard.

"Saw the light, you say?" he raised an eyebrow. "Must've been the delirium tremens paying a visit, urging him to take monastic vows. I'm not buying these transformations, Andryusha. Sounds like a one-man show with a couple of bottles, at least!"

Trailing behind Starikov, slouching as was his habit, was Byakin. He smoothed his hair, muttering something indistinct under his breath, but at the mention of "Kolka-Bochkin," he flinched.

"Kolka-Bochkin?" he echoed in a hollow voice. "I think I heard something about that. Didn't he supposedly quit drinking and start attending services at Kazan Cathedral?"

"Exactly!" Rasolko exclaimed, triumphant at hitting the mark. "Quit drinking, started going to services at Kazan, and even planned to take monastic vows! What's more - he confessed to stealing a samovar from a diner at Sennaya! People, can you believe it, flocked to see this miracle! And sure enough - Kolka's bowing, crossing himself, shedding tears like a priest at confession! One merchant even gave him a ruble - for the salvation of his soul!"

Terekhov, lagging at the rear with his perpetual half-smirk, let out a snicker.

"Hm," he drawled, "wish I could pull that off. Vanish for a week, then return with a revelation... ‘Oh, brothers, I've seen the truth! And now I'm selling my conscience!' Though I don't believe in that any more than I believe in the purity of our ministers' thoughts."

"A week passed," Rasolko continued, with the air of a scholar unveiling a great mystery, "and they were already preparing a cassock for him... when suddenly - he vanished! Gone, as if swallowed by the earth, damn him! The crowd was in a tizzy - oh, Kolka-Bochkin must've ascended to heaven without a ladder!"

Byakin shook his head, as if confirming his own vague knowledge.

"I heard about that. But then they... they found him, didn't they?"

"Found him!" Rasolko declared triumphantly. "Found Kolka-Bochkin in a ditch by the Tavrichesky Garden! With two empty bottles, naturally!" He threw his hands up theatrically. "And with a new revelation - that he's unworthy of monkhood! Seems under the influence of this new ‘epiphany,' he decided the path of righteousness was too thorny for his nature! There's your miracle!"

Starikov merely shook his head, unable to suppress a smirk.

"What did I say? A performance. All these ‘revelations' - just a cover for a good binge. And someone even gave him a ruble! What a fool!"

Terekhov kept snickering, likely picturing himself as Kolka-Bochkin, emerging from a ditch with an enlightened face and empty bottles. Rasolko, pleased with the effect of his tale, cast a sharp, approving glance at his companions. He led them down the street like a shepherd herding his flock, toward a new, unknown story he was already eager to jot down. They turned onto Gorokhovaya, where the sun, piercing the morning haze, made the old buildings look like props for some absurd operetta. And then...

Ahead, against the gray bulk of a tenement, a solitary figure loomed. A black engineer's uniform, silver buttons, a stern cap. It was unmistakable - Sergei Zazyrin. Starikov, his once-pristine shirt now slightly creased, called out to him with a tone laced with mockery at the man's grim appearance.

"Good heavens! If it isn't our dear Sergei!" he exclaimed, theatrically clutching his chest. "Where are you off to, brother? A ball at the imperial chambers? You talk of apocalypse, yet here's the sun, the scent of fresh buns from the bakery, ladies smiling as if there's no war at all! And you're dressed like you're attending your own funeral!"

Rasolko smirked, pulling out his notebook. Byakin, slouching, muttered something about the "disparity between the external and internal." Terekhov chuckled.

Zazyrin, drawing closer, couldn't hide a grimace. Starikov's jesting words carried a hint of truth. His formal attire could indeed spark such associations. He held a satchel, his face weary, his pince-nez as ever, seemingly fused to his nose.

"Greetings to you too, gentlemen," Sergei nodded, his voice low, as if road-weary. "You lot are strolling like it's a Sunday ball, not a house that could be raided any moment. And this after your ‘exploits' at Sennaya, Starikov?"

Starikov merely snorted, spitting at his feet.

"Yankees, Sergei, aren't nobles - they're a cultural phenomenon. Everything's free and fancy, pure America! Lemonade, cakes, even music, they say... And if the police show up, it'll only play into our hands! We'll say we're a delegation from the Society for the Rights of Coachmen!"

"Or for the rights of kitchen maids," Terekhov added, his smirk widening into a full grin. "Besides, what's the police got on us? We weren't carrying manifestos, just paying a visit."

"Do as you please," Zazyrin replied, his earlier irony gone. "But don't talk too much. You're guests there, not bosses or an underground committee on tour. Understood?"

Byakin, half-joking, half-serious, clasped his hands over his stomach.

"Our very appetites, Seryozha, are revolutionary. And so, we speak in revolutionary tongues!"

Laughter erupted - cheerful but tinged with uncertainty, as if each felt the shadow of Sergei's warning. The trio of students pressed on, Rasolko slightly apart, glancing around as if counting houses or noting signs for a future feuilleton.

Sergei remained alone on the narrow Petersburg street. The sun climbed higher, painting the house facades, while rare passersby hurried about, oblivious to the man in the stern engineer's uniform. He, in turn, barely noticed them, lost in thought.

When the lively trio, led by the sharp-tongued Rasolko, vanished around the corner, Sergei set his satchel on the pavement. The stones, still damp with morning dew, gave off a chill. Carefully, as if wary of disturbing a sleeping secret, he unlatched the bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. It wasn't just a map but a diagram - a railway chart, with a red line stretching from Petersburg to Chita, then to Nerchinsk, and on to Akatuy. Every segment, every station, every junction was marked in pencil. Everything was calculated - every second, every rail joint, every carriage. Everything, except their reckless folly.

"Pastries... Iced lemonade..." echoed the trio's recent banter in his mind. He winced. Was it all just buns and nonsense to them? Or was it he, Zazyrin, who missed something? He, who saw an enemy in every glance, a cipher in every word, a conspiracy in every meeting, and a step toward the abyss in every move. Yet they laughed and jested, as if on a casual stroll. Was this their way of resisting? Or... just foolishness?

A thought of Rasolko struck him like cold water: who had sent him? He'd only recently appeared in their circle, this brash, omnipresent scribbler. Too free in his manners, too well-informed, too reckless in pushing them toward risky steps. The secret police? No, he was too... too open in his fussiness. And for an agent, he was far too foolish - though that didn't rule out his danger. A fool with initiative was worse than any schemer.

He gave a dry, barely noticeable smirk, bitter in its edge. If there was anything to fear, it wasn't the secret police but their own friendly carelessness. This quartet, unaware, could wreak more havoc than a regiment of gendarmes. Their fervor, their negligence, their carefree laughter could spell disaster for all.

With that weight pressing heavier on his chest than any burden, he carefully folded the map and tucked it back into the satchel. The latch clicked shut, locking away not just revolvers and papers but his anxious thoughts. He lifted the satchel, feeling its weight - the weight of duty and danger. Zazyrin strode swiftly toward the Nikolaevsky Station, each step radiating resolve, an inner steel.

Sergei Zazyrin vanished around the corner, swallowed by the bustle of a Petersburg morning, leaving behind only the faint rustle of wind across the pavement. His path led east, to distant Akatuy, his fate to trials unknown.

At that moment, the guardroom at the Fontanka reeked with a foul stench. Before Earl Knight, two figures shuffled nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

"Well, what've you got?" Knight's voice was low, but it carried a steely edge.

The young lad, nicknamed 'Scamp', began haltingly, scratching the back of his head with a grimy hand. He stank of last night's booze and something rotten.

"Well, sir... We've sussed ‘em out, those... three blokes. Byakin, Terekhov, and another one, Zarizyn, I reckon..."

"Zazyrin?" Knight turned his head. A glint of interest, cold as steel, flashed in his eyes. "How'd he fall in with them? Not one of your lot, is he?"

"He's... well, now he's... keepin' his distance," Scamp mumbled, his lisp growing worse with nerves. "Gone off somewheres, on his own, like. But them other two... they've got someone else with ‘em. Headin' to the Yorks, they are. The Americans, I mean."

Knight's lips twitched into a faint grimace. "Americans."

"What, they've got an open door over there? More like a public thoroughfare than a house, eh?"

"Exactly, sir!" Scamp perked up a bit. "The Yorks are throwin' a party, their lass's birthday! All open, they say. Papers wrote how the parents invited guests. Our lads scoped it all out, ‘course..."

The second figure, a hunched man, suddenly raised his bleary eyes. He reeked of stale sweat and cheap tobacco, muttering as he swayed.

"Party... party... all dancin' and singin'... then they up and run. Like it's a fire. I know. I've seen. How they... how they come for souls..."

Knight's mouth barely twitched, a faint smirk. He was used to the "peculiarities" of his agents. The madder they were, the fewer questions they asked.

"And this... other one with them? A journalist, I wager? Rasolko, isn't it?" Knight's voice was steady.

"That's him, boss. Walks with ‘em like he's one of their own, scribblin' everythin', always lookin'... side to side, in their faces. His paper... think it's the Saint Petersburg Gazette..."

Earl finally stepped away from the window, sauntered to the desk, and sat down deliberately. One leg crossed over the other, hands clasped on his knee.

"So," he said, almost musing aloud, his voice calm and even, "in a city where everyone watches everyone, where every breath is tracked, up pops a certain Mr. Rasolko. Notebook in hand. Playing the part of watcher, informer, and perhaps even investigator."

He paused, his gaze seemingly genial but piercing to the core.

"Strolling arm in arm with those who ought to be in cuffs by now. Heading to the Americans, no less, as if he's got an invitation. And all this—without clearance."

His tone didn't shift, but a sly, icy smirk flickered in his eyes.

"Curious, isn't it? How do they reward such types? With a commendation, a cup of lemon tea, or a bonus under Article 129? For unauthorized snooping?"

The tramps let out stifled chuckles, their laughter muffled, tinged with caution. The hunched one muttered again, swaying.

"Commendation... yeah, commendation... with blood on it... red... like tomato juice..."

Knight ignored him. His voice hardened.

"Listen up. Keep tabs on all three, but don't interfere with the journalist—watch him closely, though. If he veers off, report it immediately. And get Rasolko's name on the list. Now. Any zeal not backed by orders is shadier than a stash in a lamppost. That goes for anyone poking their nose where it doesn't belong. Got it?"

Both nodded. Scamp, as if afraid to open his mouth, only rasped, "Got it, sir."

Knight's shoulders eased slightly. Then, almost to himself, he added, his gaze drifting into the void.

"The dangerous ones aren't the bomb-throwers. It's the listeners. And this one, I reckon, listens far too well. He knows how to find what's hidden."

With that, he snuffed the lamp. The room sank into gloom. The tramps, like ghosts, melted into the shadows, leaving only the stench of booze and fear behind.

...666...

By midday, a crowd had begun to gather at the Yorks' home on Kirochnaya, as if by magic. The newspapers had barely been distributed that morning, with an inconspicuous paragraph announcing "a charity reception at the home of the respected American lawyer Eugene S. York, known for his connections with Russian merchants." The trick worked: the city's public, knowing where the bread was softer and the conversations safer, responded immediately.

The motley hats, the ironed frock coats, the enthusiastic governesses and the fragrant cadets mingled at the gate with respectable faces from a more discerning circle - especially those who had crossed paths with Gene York at least once on business. Among the latter, standing out for her fine bearing and elusive worldliness, walked Anna Lvovna Golovina - in a light, carefully tailored dress, with a collar trimmed with lace, slightly shading her stubborn chin. Behind her, half a step behind, walked Sergei Petrovich Maltsev - tall, reserved, a former officer, now a factory manager, with that very expression on his face that men wear in court and at funerals: respect, annoyance, readiness for anything.

They walked slowly, as if not wanting to rush the day, but Maltsev's gaze picked out details - not out of curiosity, but rather out of habit of checking. All this leisurely pace, this sense of celebration, left a bitter aftertaste in his soul: he had not forgiven Gene for the delay with the papers. Then, at the end of April, they were promised that the drafts would be ready "in a couple of days - more than two weeks had already passed.

"So he arranges receptions with such zeal," he muttered under his breath, so that only Anna Lvovna could hear, "but he leaves other people's business unfinished. It's not right."

There was no anger in the words, only wariness - the same one that Anna Lvovna recognized unmistakably. She did not want to continue. Everything in this yard - the voices, the vanilla, the noise of children and the smell of hot pies - seemed to belong to another life. One to which there was no need to bring the fatigue of litigation and calculating reproaches.

"Today is a holiday, Sergei," she whispered, trying to smooth over the tension. "At least once without arguing."

He nodded slightly, but his gaze remained cold and staring forward.

They approached the gate almost simultaneously with the new wave of guests. Jake, standing at the entrance, noticed something, nodded, said something to Gene, who was greeting some respectable merchant. He turned around, was surprised, raised his eyebrows, but immediately pulled himself together and went to meet them.

"Anna Lvovna! Sergei Petrovich! What a pleasant surprise!" Gene spoke with a polite smile, assuring that he was glad to see you, although he hadn't expected it. "I'm sincerely glad.

Maltsev did not respond with his hand to Gene's outstretched palm, but only nodded briefly.

"It would be even more joyful, Mr. York," he remarked, almost without intonation, "if things did not remain in limbo."

Gene didn't seem offended. Not a muscle moved on his face. He just smiled even wider.

"On a holiday, it is especially important to strengthen trust, Sergei Petrovich. The matter is under control. The first papers are promised by the end of the week. That is the main thing, isn't it?"

"They promised it by the beginning of May," Maltsev reminded, his voice dry.

Gene chuckled briefly, almost cheerfully, as if he found this argument amusing.

"Well, it was May! The eighteenth is quite within the bounds of what is acceptable. The deadline is a delicate matter, especially in our bureaucratic country."

Anna touched Sergei on the elbow.

"Today is a holiday, Sergei Petrovich. The rest will come later."

He did not argue. He merely nodded and followed her into the courtyard, into the midst of the guests, without looking back at Gene York, who continued to stand at the gate, greeting the new arrivals with unfailing politeness. The celebration in the Yorks' house on Kirochnaya had already gained momentum, like a seething cauldron from which a polyphonic hum was coming. In the spacious halls and on the veranda, among the delicate patterns of the wrought-iron railings and flowering flowerbeds, people of different classes and nationalities mingled, as if they had stepped out of the pages of a thick novel.

Countess Vorontsova, whose diamonds on her neck sparkled brighter than the morning sun, sighed languidly, turning to the illustrious gentleman who seemed to have just arrived from London.

"Oh, Mr. Bernhard," she cooed in perfect English, barely covering her plump cheeks with her fan, "these Americans... So unusual, isn't it? This... This freedom of morals of theirs. No formalities!"

Mr. Bernhard, a portly, middle-aged gentleman, chuckled as he adjusted his cuff.

"Yes, Countess. The sight is impressive. But, I must admit, their hospitality... It invigorates. Unlike our strong English teas. Although, I will tell you frankly, I really miss real strong tea."

In another corner, an elderly French merchant, Monsieur Dubois, with a face covered with wrinkles like an old map, was sipping champagne and animatedly conversing with a merchant of the second guild, Ignat Savelyevich Pushkarev.

"What a world!" Dubois exclaimed, waving his hand. "This is simply marvelous! You won't see anything like this in Paris! All these people are so... So alive!"

Pushkarev, a stocky man with a waxed moustache, laughed, causing his stomach to shake.

"Alive, monsieur," he answered in a deep voice. "Especially those who have come from the factories and plants these days. They say York is on friendly terms with everyone these days."

Anna Lvovna Golovina, standing with Sergei Petrovich Maltsev near one of the marble columns, sighed barely noticeably.

"Really, Sergei Petrovich," she whispered, trying to shout over the hubbub of voices. "It seems that all of Petersburg has decided to honor the Yorks with its attention. Have these Americans really gained favor so quickly?"

Maltsev, with an inscrutable expression on his face, merely glanced sideways at the noisy crowd.

"My dear Anna Lvovna, these days you are as changeable as the weather. Rather, it is a matter of their... Their enterprise. Or their ability to create appearances."

It was at that moment, as if on cue, that they entered the yard: Starikov, Byakin, Terekhov, and in the very center, Rasolko, striding with the importance of a colonel hiding a bomb under his tunic. Only he had a bomb - a paper one: a notebook, a pencil, and a look with which he could measure the distance to the chopping block.

Starikov, in a bright white shirt, already slightly sweaty on the chest, immediately headed towards the footman at the entrance, for some reason extending his hand to him for a handshake.

"A friend of Mr. York!" he announced loudly, as if letting the whole court know about him. "They are expecting us! I hope the treat will be no worse than at the Medved!"

The footman nodded reservedly and pointed to the veranda. Byakin hesitated, looked around, and adjusted his worn jacket every now and then. Terekhov, as if he were at a dacha, put his hands behind his back and began to study the stool with the compote, with the air of a man who had attained Zen and was deeply thinking about the essence of apples.

Rasolko remained silent, his camera-like eyes absorbing everything: faces, gestures, expressions, the distance between people and dishes, the clock on the wall, the books on the shelf, the angle of the candles.

The manufacturer Porokhovnikov, standing by the window with a glass of champagne, glanced in the direction of Gene, who was just talking with Mr. Smith.

"What is this, Mr. York?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, but loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "Has this evening really become a get-together? Who allowed such liberties to be taken?"

Countess Zvyagintseva, having overheard, added, covering her mouth with a fan:

"I see that York has really decided to open the doors to everyone. An unacceptable liberty! Where are the rules of decency, Fyodor Ivanovich?

There was a reproach in her tone: either towards York, or towards everyone at once - what kind of holiday is this, they say, if guests without breeding, without cuffs, without a filter appear in the house?

Anna Lvovna tensed up a little, her face seemed to freeze for a moment; Sergei Petrovich, holding a glass in his hand, did not take a sip, but only placed it on the windowsill. A slight murmur ran through the hall - not words, but movements, glances, rustling fabric.

York, overhearing the snatches of conversation, stepped forward, calmly, evenly, a little defiantly. He did not hide, did not apologize: on the contrary, he held himself confidently, with dignity, like a man who knew his place. The light waistcoat was almost a ceremony, the absence of a hat was a gesture. He spoke quietly, but his voice filled the hall, as if a brass instrument had sounded in the room - not angrily, but clearly.

"Gentlemen! Ladies!" he said, and his English accent gave his words special weight. "My house is open to all today. We are gathered here to celebrate the birthday of my daughter Delia York. And how can a celebration be marred by conventions?"

He glanced around at those gathered, stopping at Starikov and his companions, then at Porokhovnikov and Countess Zvyagintseva.

"I don't think it's right to weigh people by their collars or their origins. It's not names that invite us, but living, thinking, feeling people. The house is open today," York repeated, "and that means no one should be deprived of bread. On this day, everyone is equal before the spirit of the holiday!"

Someone muttered something dissatisfied - a word like "pathos" floated up and immediately sank into the general silence. No one objected out loud. Countess Zvyagintseva only snorted, straightening her fan, and whispered to Mr. Smith:

"What did I say? Pure... Pure Americanism!"

Porokhovnikov merely shrugged and walked over to the buffet, as if snorting to the side, but not wanting to escalate the situation. He took another glass of champagne, turning away, as if he didn't like all of this.

"Oh, something's brewing!" Rasolko suddenly hissed, loud enough to make Baroness von Strahlendorf, who was standing nearby and had a face like a dried apple, shudder.

"What did you say, my dear sir?" she muttered, adjusting her reticule.

"Ah, Baroness!" Rasolko bowed his head, his smile was unctuous, like rancid butter. "I just admire. I admire how here... How extraordinary everything is here! As if not in Petersburg, but somewhere in America, where, they say, even a cook can dine with a prince!

The Baroness snorted, her nostrils flaring.

"Oh, really! A cook? No way! That's too much!"

Rasolko winked at her playfully.

"And just look, Baroness," he nodded slightly toward the tea table, where Byakin, looking like a hungry dog, was sipping jelly straight from a ladle, and Starikov, chomping, was stuffing his mouth with pastry. "Aren't these, by any chance, the very same... The most democratic morals?"

Countess Vorontsova, who overheard this conversation, hastened to join in.

"My God, this is..." she hesitated, at a loss for words. "This is simply... This is simply unacceptable! What will they think of us, Mr. Bernhard?

Mr. Bernhard just muttered:

"Yes indeed, Countess. An unusual sight."

Rasolko turned to Byakin and Starikov, slightly bowing his head, and his voice sounded like the creaking of an unlubricated cart.

"Allow me to introduce myself! Journalist Rasolko. I am collecting material for an article about... About progressive trends. Tell me, gentlemen", he bowed his head slightly, his voice was unctuous", you, then, are one of those... One of those who fight for equality? Well, commendable, commendable! And what do you actually do? What ideas do you have, besides... Besides drinking jelly?"

Byakin, tearing himself away from the ladle, looked at Rasolko with cloudy eyes.

"What do you want, my dear? Why are you bothering me? Jelly is just that - jelly. It makes the soul happy. And ideas... Ideas are in the head, not on the tongue."

Starikov, having finished chewing the cake, wiped his lips with his sleeve and answered loudly.

"Ideas? The most real ones! We are for the people! For justice! So that everyone, like us, has the right to eat as much as they want here, and not bow to this..." he waved his hand in the direction of the manufacturer Porokhovnikov, who, noticing the gesture, frowned even more.

Rasolko rubbed his hands joyfully.

"Wonderful! Simply wonderful! And then there are rumors that some of you", he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, but so that everyone around could hear, "do not advocate peaceful ideas at all. Is this really slander?"

Terekhov, tearing himself away from the door handle, which he had been scrupulously studying, suddenly turned around, his eyes burning.

"Slander!" he said hoarsely. "We are for the people. And whoever is against the people is..."

He didn't finish, but his gaze was eloquent, and his fist clenched. Several ladies standing nearby recoiled in fear.

Rasolko smiled with satisfaction, glancing at Porokhovnikov, who was nervously stroking his moustache, and at Countess Zvyagintseva, whose fan was trembling in her hand.

"And who is more afraid of whom here - these trinity of merchants, or the trinity of merchants?" he muttered barely audibly, but so that the gentlemen standing nearby, among whom was the merchant Pushkarev, could hear.

Pushkarev, a stocky man with a waxed moustache, chuckled.

"Nowadays, Mr. Journalist, the public has changed. Not like before."

Monsieur Dubois, an elderly French businessman, agreed, sipping his champagne.

"Oui, monsieur! C'est la vie!"

Rasolko walked away from them, heading towards the window, where Gene York was still talking with Porokhovnikov and Zaretsky.

"Of course I understand, Mr. York," Porokhovnikov said, trying to speak quietly, but his indignation was evident in every word, "but... But this is already going beyond all bounds! These people... They shouldn't be allowed into decent society even within cannon shot! What will they think... What will Countess Zvyagintseva think? She'll leave immediately!"

Zaretsky, nodding in agreement, looked back at the approaching Rasolko, but immediately looked away.

"Reputation," he muttered, "isn't like a cabbage pie; you can't bake it again."

Rasolko, having come close, as if by accident, stopped abruptly.

"Ah, reputation!" he exclaimed, looking straight into Porokhovnikov's eyes, his voice rang out, attracting attention. "How true that is, esteemed Theodore Ivanovich! After all, reputation is such a fragile thing. Just let the wind blow... Or, say, the truth - he paused meaningfully, enjoying the expression of horror on the manufacturer's face - and it will crumble to dust! Especially if in the house of a respected lawyer there are suddenly discovered... Unreliable elements, isn't that so? What will the newspapers say, eh? About 'charity' and 'equality'?"

Gene York, who had remained calm until then, frowned slightly, his gaze meeting Rasolko's icy gaze. Porokhovnikov turned as white as chalk. Zaretsky looked at him, dumbfounded.

Rasolko, enjoying the effect produced, turned and glanced around the entire hall, as if surveying the field of the upcoming battle.

"I see, I see, gentlemen," he said loudly, addressing everyone. "What scope for a journalist's pen! So many... So many new faces! So many... So many unexpected meetings! Ah, this Petersburg!"

Karen flashed in the depths of the house - her face tense, her gestures quick and businesslike.

"Pelageya!" she called to the maid, her voice sounding tense. "Where are the cakes? Why isn't the table straightened? Everything must be under control, otherwise everything will fall apart!"

Rasolko grinned, his eyes flashing a cold, deathly light.

"Oh, Mrs. York," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Baroness von Strahlendorff, who was standing nearby, "you won't have long to hide your skeletons in the closet. Soon everyone will know what kind of snake you've been harbouring in your American bosom! And your house, your fucking holiday, will stink of shame so much that no lavender can cover it up!"

The Baroness, hearing this, widened her eyes and hastily retreated.

Karen, noticing Rasolko's gaze, suddenly stopped. Her eyes, full of some hidden sadness, met his. For a split second. It seemed to her that she saw in his eyes not just curiosity, but something cold, predatory, and for a second a chill ran through her body. She quickly turned away, hurrying to the servants.

Rasolko, having caught this fleeting fright, smiled with satisfaction.

"Yes, yes, be afraid. You will all be afraid. It cannot be otherwise. After all, I, Rasolko, see right through you. I see all your rot. And I will drag it out so that you can choke on it." He took another step, approaching the center of the hall, like a predator choosing prey, or an executioner approaching the scaffold, choosing who else to provoke.

Meanwhile, Delia, the main culprit of this whole celebration, is at the old piano. The girls have gathered around her, their faces glowing with anticipation.

"Deedle, come on, play! Liszt's Second Rhapsody! Please!" begged one of them, with a long braid and a bow.

Delia sat down, placed her slender fingers on the keys, but did not play a note. She simply sighed, heavily, almost like an adult.

Rasolko, like a shadow, appeared nearby.

"Oh, what are we doing?" he said loudly, addressing the girls, but so that the whole room could hear. "Is the young lady really that modest? Or perhaps Liszt's music is too... Too rebellious for our society?"

Baroness von Strahlendorf, who was passing by, stopped.

"What nonsense are you talking about, my dear sir?" she hissed, her apple-face wrinkled even more.

"Ah, Baroness!" Rasolko bowed his head, his smile was unctuous. "I only admire. Young Miss York is so serious. No hysterics, no silly babble. Suspiciously smart, isn't she? I bet she doesn't read Pushkin's fairy tales, but something heavier?"

At that moment, Karen, approaching her daughter, quietly called:

"Deedle, they're waiting for you. Sorry, dear, but I need to go away."

Delia stood up, quietly apologizing to the girls, and followed her mother.

Rasolko turned to Gene, who was standing by the window with the manufacturer Porokhovnikov.

"Mr. York!" he called loudly. "What a piercing look you gave your daughter! Just as if... as if you were expecting something important! Isn't that so?"

Gene York frowned and just shook his head.

"Mr. journalist, you seem to imagine too much."

"Oh, really?" Rasolko chuckled. "But it seemed to me that you and your daughter understand each other without words! Not like a father and child, but like... allies! And if an alliance, then perhaps there is a purpose in it, right?"

Porokhovnikov grimaced and turned away.

"What is he talking about?" he muttered to Zaretsky. "It's all pure speculation!"

Rasolko ignored them, walking over to the bookcase, pretending to examine the carved patterns.

"Wow!" he exclaimed, pulling out a book at random. "Wow! Herzen! Is it possible that Americans have come to love our Russian literature so much? Or maybe it's not just literature, but... And a guide to action? What do you say, gentlemen?"

Monsieur Dubois, who was standing next to the merchant Pushkarev, shrugged his shoulders.

"Mon ami, littérature et politique, c'est pas la même chose."

Pushkarev, a stocky man with a waxed moustache, chuckled.

"People read all sorts of books these days, Mr. Journalist. Some of them are not for good at all."

"Exactly!" Rasolko picked up, looking at the volume of Herzen. "Especially if we are talking about 'freedom' and 'equality'! And this, as we know, can easily be turned upside down in a newspaper headline - and presented as undermining public order! Isn't that right, Mr. York?"

Gene York, who came closer, looked extremely irritated.

"Mr. Rasolko, it seems you are too carried away by your fantasies."

"Fantasies?" Rasolko feigned indignation. "Oh, no, Mr. York! Only facts! And your guests, by the way, confirm my... My observations!"

Somewhere nearby, Jake laughed loudly, clapping someone on the shoulder.

"Oh, come on!" Jake exclaimed. "What secrets could there be in such a beautiful house? Only good nature!"

Rasolko looked at him with contempt.

"Good nature, you say?" he hissed. "But what if it's just a cover, Mr. Madison? What if this house is not just a place for celebration, but... And the center from which the influence on minds comes? Eh?"

He stood at the sideboard, took a piece of lemon from his glass and threw it into his mouth with feigned indifference.

"If Mr. York is really connected with Geneva," he said loudly, turning to Zaretsky, who was standing nearby, "it's a discovery. It's a big deal. He balances too cleverly between decency and the shadows. He allows himself too much in front of the authorities. Don't you think?"

Zaretsky, pale, recoiled.

"I... I don't know anything!"

Rasolko grinned.

"Oh, you know! You all know!" He glanced at the door through which Karen and Delia had disappeared. "The daughter is suspicious. He is a silver tongue. They have clients from all over the city. A cover? This whole house is one big cover!"

He did not smile. His face was cold and motionless.

"The house on Kirochnaya," he said loudly, as if dictating to someone invisible. "Where, under the guise of family celebrations, people of dubious convictions gather..."

Countess Zvyagintseva, who overheard these words, gasped and quickly walked away.

"Oh, my God, how awful!" she whispered to her companion. "This man... He's just the devil!"

Rasolko, standing by the buffet, caught her eye and only winked sarcastically, pretending to be busy with an anchovy cracker. His attention was sharpened to the limit.

"Oh, what do we see here?" he said loudly, so that several voices fell silent and heads turned in his direction. "Look at that! Is this really a new trend in high society?"

Baroness von Strahlendorf, with a face like a dried apple, shuddered.

"What are you saying, my dear sir?" she muttered, her tone full of alarm.

"Ah, Baroness!" Rasolko bowed his head, his smile was unctuous, but his eyes shone with malice. "I only admire! Look, look!"

At that moment, a boy came into Rasolko's field of vision - a servant without livery, with a metal tray full of teacups. His face was thin, tanned, his forehead tense. He walked unevenly, was nervous, but held on.

"And here is another 'progressive element!'" exclaimed Rasolko, pointing at the boy. "Look! A servant, a kitchen boy! Without livery! And what do you think?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, but so that everyone around could hear him, "I saw! I saw how his eyes met with the young lady York!"

Several ladies standing nearby gasped.

"And what then?" asked Countess Zvyagintseva, unable to contain her curiosity.

"Of course!" Rasolko smiled maliciously. "She... She smiled at him! Softly, like adults when they don't know what to say! Not condescendingly, not 'kindly', like they condescend to children - no! As an equal! And she quietly said something to him! Very simply! But in this short dialogue - a gesture, a look, an answer - there was everything that shouldn't have been!"

A whisper ran through the hall.

"Misalliance!" Rasolko said loudly. "A young lady and a plebeian! Ideal material for a pamphlet! Or a denunciation! Isn't that right, gentlemen?"

Merchant Pushkarev shook his head.

"Yeah, times..."

Rasolko, enjoying the effect produced, continued.

"How dare he! A little kitchen snot! He's obviously got all snug - like a puppy! They're not related, then! Not a godson! Just... Just a stupid, wretched son of a poor, dirty servant! And she treats him like an equal! Do you approve of such morals, gentlemen?"

He turned to Gene York, who was standing nearby with Porokhovnikov.

"Mr. York!" he hissed. "What do you say to this? Your daughter! Your reputation!"

Gene York, pale with anger, clenched his fists.

"Mr. Rasolko, this... This is none of your business!"

"Oh no, you are mistaken, it is mine!" Rasolko exclaimed. "And not only mine, but all of Russia's! If this is their future, then let the punishment thunder right now! After all, this is... After all, this is dirt! Swampy, sticky, disgusting in its 'beyond rank'!"

Countess Zvyagintseva, covering her mouth with a fan, whispered to Mr. Smith.

"What did I say? Pure... Pure Americanism!"

Rasolko, catching her gaze, winked sarcastically.

"You're right! After all, he's a servant, and he's close to his daughter!" he proclaimed, as if giving instructions to an invisible scribe. "Pay attention! Potential leverage!"

He turned to face Karen, who had emerged from the depths of the house, her face tense.

"Oh, Mrs. York!" Rasolko addressed her loudly. "Don't you know what's going on under your nose? Your daughter... Your daughter talks to the servants as if they were equals! What is that if not a disgrace for such a house?"

Karen winced.

"What are you talking about, Mr. Rasolko?!

"I bring the truth, Mrs. York!" he cried. "The truth is that you will not have long to hide your skeletons in the closet! Soon everyone will know what kind of snake you have nursed in your American bosom! And your house, your damned holiday, will stink of shame so that no lavender can kill it!"

Karen, noticing his gaze, suddenly stopped. She quickly turned away, hurrying to the servants.

Rasolko, having caught this fleeting fright, smiled with satisfaction.

"Yes, yes, be afraid. You will all be afraid. It cannot be otherwise. After all, I, Rasolko, see right through you. I see all your rot. And I will drag it out so that you can choke on it." He took another step, approaching the center of the hall, like a predator choosing prey, or an executioner approaching the scaffold, choosing who else to provoke.

At that moment, Jake Madison, standing at the entrance to the veranda with a glass of punch, turned around.

"Hey, Mr. Journalist!" he shouted, his voice loud and good-natured. "What are you so upset about? It's just a child talking to a servant! There's nothing special about it!"

Rasolko turned to Jake, his gaze becoming even sharper.

"Nothing special?" he hissed. "Oh, Mr. Madison! You must be very naive! Or... Or are you in on this too? What do you say, huh? The Americans, they're all in it, aren't they?"

Jake burst out laughing.

"We, Mr. Rasolko, are in agreement in only one thing: the desire to have fun and not to meddle in other people's business! Which is what I advise you to do!"

Rasolko only snorted contemptuously.

"Oh, we'll see who doesn't get involved! And who will wipe whom out later!" His voice dropped, but was audible to everyone. "All these 'equalities', 'freedoms'... This is just a cover for something dirtier, isn't it?"

A new whisper ran through the hall. Some guests began to exchange nervous glances.

"He's running like a madman!" exclaimed Porokhovnikov, glancing at Gene York. "What are we going to do?"

"This man... He must be stopped!" hissed Countess Zvyagintseva.

Rasolko, hearing them, laughed loudly.

"Stop? Me? Ha! You've picked the wrong guy, gentlemen! I am the voice of truth! And let it be as bitter as this lemon!" He took another bite. "Where else is there rot? Show me!"

He looked around the room, his eyes shining.

"Oh, did I hear wrong?" he suddenly said loudly, and several heads turned in his direction. "Or did I just think the air here... crackled?"

Baroness von Strahlendorf, with a face like a dried apple, widened her eyes.

"Has something happened, sir?

"Look at that!" Rasolko exclaimed, pointing to the stairs. "It seems like someone has decided to ruin the party!

From the stairs came a strange, overly distinct voice, with that awkward accent with which indecent words are spoken at someone else's party.

"What?!" someone from the crowd asked sharply, not believing that he had heard correctly, or not wanting to hear it again.

Rasolko turned around. The picture was almost absurd: Byakin - with a glass, with a fork, with his trademark half-laugh - was talking to a man in front of whom even silence had to stand still. Behind him stood a lady with an unbuttoned glove, someone dropped a glass, someone, on the contrary, was trying too hard not to drop either his gaze or his breath.

"It's... It's the minister!" whispered Countess Zvyagintseva, covering her mouth with her fan.

"And what does he say there?" asked the merchant Pushkarev, craning his neck.

And Byakin, as if by the way, without pressure, with that same touch of irony behind which it is easy to hide a subversive meaning, allegedly noted:

"Your Excellency, allow me to point out that your gymnasium reform has turned out to be nothing more than a cardboard sign, a sham from circulars, a report for the sake of a report!"

The anticipation thickened around. The air seemed to become thicker. The minister said something muffled, more like a groan.

"Who... Who is this?!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with indignation.

Byakin, without losing his easygoing cheerfulness, replied:

"Me? I, your Excellency, am the people. One of them. And so, you see, what a dialogue is emerging between us!"

With these words, he turned abruptly and left without even coming out - cutting himself out of the scene, leaving behind him the slam of the door and emptiness.

There was silence for a few moments. Then someone's voice, female, high-pitched, surprised, asked the question that was apparently on everyone's lips:

"Who was that?!"

Jake Madison muttered reluctantly, as if making excuses:

"Just some student... He came here by chance."

Rasolko, turning pale from realization, said loudly, addressing everyone:

"He! It's him! It's me... It was I who brought them! You said yourself that York was worth listening to, he was an interesting figure! You described the reception yourself as a quiet opportunity to penetrate - into the environment, into the situation, into the speech! You yourself noted in your mind that maybe you'll be able to fish out something useful!

A new whisper ran through the room. Several people looked at each other in amazement.

"Well, that's it!" Rasolko shouted, and his voice broke into a hoarse voice. "Byakin - usually the most reserved, the one who preferred to speak in quotations and omissions - suddenly fired off a phrase from which others could have assembled an editorial! And the minister left, like the hero of a provincial tragicomedy, with offended pathos and comic punctuality!"

Gene York, who had been standing motionless, suddenly took a step forward. His gaze became piercing.

"What does this mean, Mr. Rasolko?" he asked, and there was a threat in his voice."

"That's it!" Rasolko exclaimed. "With this, the balance is gone! That's it! There's nothing!"

Karen was picking something up from the floor.

"These are fragments!" she exclaimed, holding up the broken glass. "Everything is falling apart!"

The music froze in the girls' fingers like water in a hole in the ice.

"Deedle!" whispered one of the girls at the piano. "Where did she go?"

Xander slipped into the kitchen, disappearing into it like into the service door of a theater.

Rasolko stood in the middle of the hall.

"This is the theatre of life for you!" he cried, his voice full of bitterness. "It all happened by chance! Too abruptly, too absurdly, too recognizably!"

Countess Zvyagintseva, clasping her hands, whispered:

"He's gone crazy!"

Rasolko turned to her, his eyes burning.

"All of you!" he shouted. "All of you are my puppets! And one of you - fell out of character! Knocked out the scenery! Broke the illusion!"

He looked at the door behind which Byakin had disappeared, and his face distorted.

"If I hadn't brought you..." he whispered, but then stopped short, not finishing. He simply turned away.

And - for the first time that evening - one of the guests noticed a shadow cross Rasolko's face, as if he felt... He felt ashamed. But then that expression disappeared, replaced by his usual grimace.

"He's somehow... somehow strange," Zaretsky muttered.

"Yes, indeed," Porokhovnikov agreed. "But what to do now?"

The conversations in the hall were beginning to slide into a lazy, almost family-like muttering. Suddenly, a dull knock on the door came from the hallway - too decisive to be accidental. Boots, still damp from the street, shuffled across the parquet. Three gendarmes entered the room - in overcoats, with the street cold in the folds of the fabric. One held a list, the second examined their faces with cold caution, the third silently closed the door behind them.

Rasolko, who was standing at the buffet, said loudly, addressing the nearest guests:

"Look at this! What guests! Have they really decided to keep an eye on our celebration?"

Baroness von Strahlendorf turned pale and whispered:

"My God... Gendarmes!"

The first gendarme was already looking through the lines on the paper, as if checking not against a register, but against a sentence.

"Artyom Starikov!" he said, and the name sounded without a question, more like an established fact.

Starikov, holding a cup of tea that he had just taken from the governess, froze. It seemed he wanted to say something, but the second gendarme was already standing too close, leaving no room even for surprise.

"The hour of reckoning has come, gentlemen!" Rasolko exclaimed, his voice ringing with malice. "Could it be that one of our 'progressive' friends turned out to be not so innocent after all?"

"Be quiet!" Countess Zvyagintseva hissed. "They'll put us all in jail!"

"Denis Terekhov!" said the first gendarme.

Terekhov, without tearing himself away from the plate of berries, raised his gaze - slowly, as if he knew that there would be no return after this raising. He did not ask a single question. He only muttered something under his breath, too quietly to hear.

"What is he muttering there?" asked the merchant Pushkarev. "Is he saying goodbye to life or something?"

"Of course!" Rasolko shouted. "Freedom is over, gentlemen! Equality is over! Now only... Only a government house!"

Someone among the guests, perhaps one of those watching from behind the column, whispered in bewilderment:

"And what about the third one? Byakin, I think, is the one who argued with the minister at the snack table?"

The footman, who was standing nearby, remembered how he had left about twenty minutes ago, having thrown out something harsh as a parting word.

"Yes, sir," the footman muttered. "He left. So abruptly."

One of the gendarmes, still looking at the list, remarked:

"It seems he disappeared. And that's a shame."

"That's always the way it is!" Rasolko exclaimed. "These 'fighters for the people' are the first to run when things get hot! Isn't that right, Mr. York? Your 'friend' turned out to be a coward!"

Gene York, who had been keeping a stony expression until now, suddenly took a step forward.

"Mr. Rasolko, stop it! You are going beyond the bounds of decency!"

"Decency?" Rasolko laughed, an unpleasant, creaky laugh. "Oh, Mr. York! What kind of decency is there when it comes to the security of the state!"

Lisa Roselli, the Yorks' governess, who had been standing nearby, adjusted her cuff as if doing so mechanically. She nodded toward the prisoners.

"Does she approve?" whispered one of the ladies.

"Or he just realizes that it was meant to happen," someone else replied.

"Is the governess in on the plot too?" Rasolko cried out, his eyes shining. "Oh, this house is full of surprises!"

Meanwhile, the gendarmes led Starikov and Terekhov to the exit. Starikov, hunched over, walked silently. Terekhov, it seemed, did not even resist.

"Well, gentlemen," Rasolko said when the door closed behind the detainees. "Is the party continuing? Or are you going to celebrate now... Are you going to celebrate the arrests?"

A sigh of relief mixed with tension swept through the room. Some guests began to hurriedly say goodbye.

"What a nightmare!" exclaimed Countess Zvyagintseva. "I'm leaving immediately!"

"And I!" Baroness von Strahlendorf echoed.

Rasolko, pleased with the effect produced, laughed loudly.

"Run, run, gentlemen! But you can't run away from the truth!"

...666...

Outside the house, at the foot of the porch, Earl Knight stood looking up at where the windows still flickered behind the curtains, restlessly as candles in the wind.

"Well, that's it, gentlemen," he said quietly, slightly moving his shoulder under his coat, "the holiday is over. Although, as you can see, I never got to attend it."

Two of the detectives were milling around next to him - mangy, sweaty, one even wearing a coat that was too big for him, and both were looking at the mansion with a pitiful readiness, as if they were hoping that they would soon be invited inside for a piece of pie and a sip of "real tea."

"It's a pity, of course," muttered one of them, the younger one. "But they have... They have a ball there, it's like. And punch, they say... With rum."

Knight turned slowly, his gaze warm, almost good-natured - only his mouth was not smiling.

"Punch, you say?" he asked, clicking his tongue. "With rum. And salmon pies, I suppose? Oh, you aesthetes with soles. Why, I wonder, did you want to ask to go there? To observe? Or, excuse me, to sit between the countess and the governess and tell how you once arrested a pharmacist in his underwear?"

The tramp shuddered and guiltily hid his hands in his sleeves.

"Not really... We're here on business... If anything..."

"On business, you are right here", Knight pointed his finger into the air between them, as if piercing an invisible line. "Stand here. And observing the festivities is a delicate matter, as you can see. Rasolko managed it. Without punch. Without rum buns. Just - he came, noticed, and brought. Like a trainer.

"A shepherd, your honor?" the elder one dared, either in tone or out of stupidity.

Knight narrowed his eyes.

"A shepherd... No, too noble. I would say a rat-catcher. From Hamelin. He blew his whistle - and they followed him, some with leaflets, some with a bomb in their bosom. And they follow willingly."

The carriage squealed its brakes - Starikov and Terekhov were already inside, one of the gendarmes closed the door behind them, not loudly, but decisively.

"Will there be any information from them?" the assistant asked, looking down slightly.

"They'll all do something," Knight responded. "One will talk out of stubbornness. The second out of fear. The main thing is to listen correctly. And not interrupt."

He took a step forward and glanced at the facade of the mansion.

"It's interesting, York," he said, as if into the air, "when you called your guests, you expected anyone. Except us. But we are like shadows in the house: we don't call, we come."

Then, without changing his intonation, he turned to the tramps:

"Write a report. Without rhetoric. Without epithets. Strike out the words 'solemnly', 'panic', and 'cold horror'. Write instead: 'The guests are somewhat discouraged.' Let the reader figure it out for himself. It's safer.

He paused, then again quietly, almost affectionately:

"And Rasolko... Let him continue for the time being. He is dirty, but talented, oh, how wonderfully talented!"

The carriage with the prisoners started off, its springs creaking, and rolled away with a dull thud. Behind it came the second one, with assistants and a secret police officer, who was still exchanging short phrases with the coachman at the door. Earl Knight did not turn around - he never turned around when the deed was already done.

...666...

An awkward silence fell over the house, as if after a drum had been struck, and then suddenly a strange, suppressed noise broke through - not a hum, no, more like a sparse movement of bodies and glances. Someone coughed, and one man dipped a spoon into his cup so loudly that everyone jumped. In the far corner, dishes clanged - the waiter, with trembling hands, tried to carry away a tray of pastries, but one of the tarts slid to the floor.

"It's outrageous!" Baroness von Strahlendorf exhaled, already pulling off her gloves. "It's just... It's just outrageous!"

"Arrests, at a children's party!" another one chimed in, pressing a handkerchief to her lips. "Who invited these people anyway?"

"What is this, a conspiracy? Right under our noses?" came from the column where two cadets were huddled.

"But I told you," Countess Zvyagintseva muttered resentfully. "I told you this morning that I found this Starikov suspicious. His eyes are darting around."

"Yes, it's... It's all because of this Rasolko!" the merchant Pushkarev roared. "He danced in circles with them! He suspected something, right?

"Rasolko?!" two people asked at once. "Where is he?

"And he... He disappeared," someone noted, "after the gendarmes left."

Karen, standing by the tray with the cold tea, did not answer. She looked ahead, at the empty center of the room, where the gendarmes had just stood. Her fingers gripped the edge of the tablecloth so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Gene came quietly to the side and put his hand on her shoulder, carefully, as if checking whether the glass was fragile. But she did not move.

"Lisa," Karen said, looking into space, "explain."

"Mrs. York," the governess began, and there was a strange mixture of formal softness and dry certainty in her voice. "I suppose you have a right to know. My presence here... It has more than just educational purposes."

"What?" Karen turned around sharply, "What do you mean by that?"

"What I was instructed to do... I was instructed to observe," Lisa said clearly, "not to report. To observe. I did not designate any of the guests. No one was compromised personally. But my appointment is by no means only pedagogical."

"Oh my God," Karen breathed out, "Are you saying you're a spy?"

"No," Lisa said calmly. "I'm a representative. Temporarily appointed. At the request of… a diplomatic mission. It's not a secret, Mrs. York. Just an understatement."

"You lied to me." Karen's voice became muffled. "All these days..."

"I was working," Lisa responded. "Your daughter is healthy. Your house is in order. Everything else is secondary."

"It's a betrayal," Karen took a step back, as if from a spit. "And you're not even ashamed."

Gene didn't say a word. He looked at Lisa for a long time, as if he was remembering something. Then he said quietly:

"So, all this was not accidental. And it has already begun. We just have to catch up."

And in the hall the guests were still moving about - some were already leaving without saying goodbye, others were whispering, exchanging glances, and everyone suddenly became very small, alien, and even the piano in the corner, covered with a tablecloth, seemed absurd. The holiday had disappeared.

Xander, pressed against the corner of a column in the hall, heard everything - not entirely, in fragments, but enough. Someone sighed, someone held back irritation.

"No way, that's not why we came..."

"What a disgrace..."

"Why bring children here, to politics..."

"Who would have thought..."

He peered through the crack between the curtains and the wallpaper, freezing every time someone passed by. He felt Delia there. Standing. And silent. He knew it as well as he knew what he had in his pocket - a small box with dried flowers from the front garden. He wanted to go out, but did not dare. Then he took a step - quietly, like a mouse. She was standing by the window, straight, like an adult, and her face was somehow... Somehow different. Not upset, not sad - just not at all childish.

"Did you see how he... That... Student," Xander whispered, coming closer. "Right by the collar. And he didn't even say a word."

Delia didn't turn around. There seemed to be something like a smile frozen at the corner of her lips, not a cheerful one, but the kind her father had when he heard nonsense.

"Why are you hiding? Are you afraid?" she asked. Her voice sounded tired, as if she had just had to sit through a long, boring adult meeting.

"I'm not afraid," Xander muttered. "It's just... I just thought you'd be better off alone. Well, not with all these people. They're like flies, buzzing and buzzing, and then, hop, they're gone."

Delia looked at him finally - not with a smile, not with reproach, just looked at him as if he was the only one who remained real.

"It was my birthday," she said. "And then it was taken away."

Xander shifted from foot to foot. He didn't know what to say, and that only made him angry. Finally, he extended his hand, clenched his fist, and placed something warm in her palm. She Mr.nched her fingers. There were two petals, dry, almost transparent, and a thread.

"It's... It's not a gift. Just so... Well, so I don't forget. I thought you'd be happy, but now might not be the time."

"Thank you," Delia said. Calmly. Almost in a whisper.

And somewhere in the corner lay an open box, carelessly pushed aside by one of the guests with his foot. The gilding had come off the postcard, but the inscription was still legible:

"Happiness, love and freedom. You deserve more."

Nobody knew who wrote it.

"Xander..." Delia suddenly said, slowly, as if she was hesitating. "And you... Do you believe that people... That they might not be what they seem?"

He shrugged.

"I don't know. But you - you're always real. Even when you're angry. And she..." he glanced sideways at the hall, where Lisa was still standing, "she's like a soap bubble. It seems to sparkle, but if you touch it, that's it."

Delia chuckled softly.

"I won't cry," she whispered. "Let them think what they want. Just... Just don't go, okay?"

"Where am I going? I'm here", and he added, as if to himself: "I'll always be here."

They stood next to each other, their shoulders barely touching. The room smelled of the remains of buns, the stifling perfume of the guests, and something else - new, as if from the street, from the future that was just about to enter.

"Xander," she said suddenly. "I didn't even have any candles. No cake, no candles."

He looked around. Then he grinned, leaned towards her and whispered:

"Then let's make a wish just like that. Without candles. Just say it - no need to say it out loud."

Delia closed her eyes. For a second. And suddenly it became quiet. Even the hall, where the guests were muttering, seemed to move away somewhere far away.

"I made a wish," she said. "But I won't tell anyone."

Xander nodded. And then added, looking into her eyes:

"I still know."

Delia didn't answer. She just looked at Xander with an expression as if she didn't believe - not in his knowledge, not in her own words, but in the fact that all this was really happening. As if the whole day had been a scene cut from someone else's life that she had been told to play out. She lowered her eyes, ran her finger along the fold of her dress, and shook her head slightly. Then, without saying a word, she sat down on the edge of the low bench and froze.

"Do you want me to bring you some water?" Xander asked. His voice became very cautious.

"I don't want to." She didn't even turn around. "I want everything to be like before."

"Well, if I could, I would..."

"You can't," she interrupted. "No one can. Not even Dad."

He stood there, not knowing what to do with his hands. He shoved them into his pockets. He took them out. He shoved them in again. He wanted to say something, something stupid, funny, but everything that came to mind seemed false. Like adults. Like Lisa.

The noise in the hall became thicker and louder. Someone was lamenting out loud:

"I don't understand... Inviting someone to a children's party and organizing something like this…"

"Yorks, of course, are Americans... But still..."

"Both the police and the provocations... This is already..."

Delia suddenly sat up straight.

"Something's going to happen," she whispered. "I can already feel it."

Xander was about to ask again, but at that moment Gene's voice cut through the air - unexpectedly sharp, firm, like the knock on a door behind which everything had already been decided:

"We're leaving."

It wasn't said loudly. Not even at the top of his voice. But that's what you say when you don't intend to explain anything.

Xander froze.

Delia didn't jump up or gasp. Only her gaze slowly rose to the stairs, as if she was trying to hear not the phrase itself, but everything hidden in it: the borders, the tickets, the suitcases, the silence after the station. She knew everything: the tone, the meaning, the consequences. No one discusses such decisions. They are simply made.

Xander leaned forward slightly.

"He... He's serious?"

"Yes," said Delia. "Seriously now."

There was a silence in the room, awkward and trembling. A lady's dress rustled against the edge of a chair, someone finished their tea too quickly. Several people - one of the neighbors, the factory owner's wife, the school inspector - exchanged glances. No one dared to speak.

"Deedle," Xander said quietly again. "Well, if you really are... Then..."

She looked at him. And there was something unbearably adult in her gaze - almost pity. But she said nothing. She just stood up - calmly, slowly, and stepped towards the stairs.

"I need to go upstairs," she said. "If I'm going to leave, I'm not going to leave empty-handed."

Xander moved after her, but she turned around:

"No. Stay. I need to do it myself."

He froze halfway. He only whispered:

"Then I'm here. While you're going down. I'm here."

And down in the hall, Gene was already speaking a second time, a little more quietly, but with the same clarity, with that inner weight that does not need repetition, but still repeats:

"We're leaving."

The phrase no longer sounded like a reaction. It had become a fact. Simple, solid, like a valise by the door. No one responded. No one could, because there was no one to argue with.

Karen, standing slightly to the side, seemed to shrink. Not from fear, but from something dying inside her. She did not look at Gene, did not make any sudden movements. Only her hand slowly rose and found his palm, squeezed it tightly, like on that evening when everything was just beginning. In this squeeze there was agreement, and a plea, and some kind of hopeless "yes" that could not be refused. Not a protest - a farewell.

She said nothing. Because there were no words left. All the necessary ones had already been said - in the kitchen, in the offices, in their bedroom, even in Delia's looks. And everything else was superfluous.

In the silence of the room, Lisa moved away from the window. Not a sharp movement, just enough to indicate that she had heard. She did not strike a pose, did not cross her arms, did not sigh. She only slightly moved her shoulder, like an actress who has heard a line and is now ready to respond.

"It's a pity," she said almost tenderly. "Everyone's worried."

And nothing wavered in her voice. No anger, no bitterness. Only this emphasized, perfected evenness. Like a thermometer in an empty room.

Gene looked at her silently. Not with irritation. With some kind of attention, as if she were a person he suddenly no longer recognized.

"It's impossible to work here anymore," he said. "Not to raise a child. Not to be."

Lisa paused. Too long to be unintentional. Then, in the same polite voice:

"If necessary, I will collect your daughter's things by the evening."

The word 'things' sounded special. Cold, like an inventory act. Not 'dresses', not 'toys', not 'books'. But 'things'. Like a prisoner leaving or a retired official.

Karen sucked in a breath. She seemed about to object. But she stopped herself. Not out of fear, but out of weariness. She understood, as did Gene: everything had been decided long ago. All that remained were these pleasantries, like silverware at a garage sale.

Lisa came a little closer - and now something like concern appeared on her face. But it was learned, as if rehearsed - like all her intonations. She had the right to remain silent, but she chose to speak.

"I hope you will weigh everything," she said. "Haste... It can be irreversible."

Gene put on his coat. He did it slowly, without haste, but each movement was irrevocable. He adjusted his collar with the delicate precision of a man closing a diplomatic briefcase.

"I don't weigh anything," he said. "I do."

Karen was already standing behind. Silent. Just holding on to the railings - as if they were the last real object in the house, in life, in the city that had suddenly become alien.

Lisa stood opposite. Without hostility. Not even a challenge. But in her calmness there was a threat - not a direct one, but an existing one. She did not dissuade. She simply recorded. And already, perhaps, she was writing a report - in her head, point by point.

And that was what Gene noticed. He realized: she wasn't surprised. She knew. And now she was acting - in her own way, cold-bloodedly.

He nodded - not to her, not to Karen, but as if to himself.

"We're leaving," he repeated. No longer into the hall. No longer into space. Into reality. And he left.

...666...

While the adults were still talking in low voices downstairs and someone was saying goodbye in a hurry in the hall, Delia and Xander climbed the stairs and entered her room. The door closed softly behind them. Lavender in the air mingled with the smell of paper and candy. A withered branch, left by one of the guests, swayed on the windowsill.

"I'm leaving," Delia said haughtily, smoothing out the folds of her hem. "Forever," she added with a hint of command.

Xander stood by the door, hunched over. He nodded, but not right away.

"I know," he answered dully. "Everyone is leaving. But I'm not."

She walked up to the table and ran her hand over the lid of the candy box, as if checking to make sure everything was in place.

"I don't want this to look like… running away," she said quietly, almost defensively.

"And how was it?" he asked sharply, but his voice trembled. "How was the trip?"

"As a necessity," Delia said, looking out the window. "It's just... It's just different now."

Xander came closer. He sat on the edge of the chair and rubbed his hands on his knees.

"What if I hide? In a chest. Or in a suitcase. No one will notice."

"Stop it," she smiled weakly. "You know you can't do that."

"What if I run after you? To the station?" he asked, as if casually, but his eyes were shining. "I'll run out of strength, but I'll catch up?"

"This is not a game, Xander," she said, slowly turning to him. "There's a border there. There are documents there. Everything is real there."

"And we are not real?" he asked suddenly. "Are we a game?"

Delia was silent for a moment, then came over and sat down next to him. Very close.

"We are forever. Just... Just not close," she said, and it sounded sincere, without any importance.

He nodded, quickly, as if he didn't want to show how much it affected him.

"I'll write to you," she continued. "Every month. Or even more often."

"But I can't write," he said stubbornly. "Only read."

"Then you'll wait. Just wait," she said softly.

He looked at her - point-blank, seriously, like an adult.

"I'll wait. Just you... Just don't forget."

"I will never forget," she said immediately. "Never."

They were silent.

"Can I take something?" he asked suddenly. "As a keepsake. Well, something of yours."

"Take it," she nodded. "That hairpin. I won't wear it again anyway."

He walked over to the chest of drawers, picked up a hairpin, and held it tightly in his hand.

"Thank you."

"Xander," she said suddenly. "Just don't cry, okay?"

"I didn't intend to," he muttered and quickly turned away.

They sat in silence. Delia looked at the window, Xander at the floor, where a ray of sunlight thinly traced a crack in the planks. The silence was almost cozy, but with some kind of suspended tension, as if there was still one more, unspoken question in the air.

"Xander..." she suddenly said, completely calmly. "And how did your dad die?"

He raised his head, puzzled.

"Why do you need it?" he asked, without malice, but with caution. "You know."

"Tell me," she repeated, leaning forward slightly. "I want you to tell me."

There was something in her voice... Something special. Not mockery, not pity, but interest. A strange interest, as if she was waiting for something.

Xander frowned and, after thinking for a bit, shrugged.

"He fell," he sighed, lowering his gaze. "Out of the window."

"From which window?" Delia asked quietly, without letting go, without looking away.

"From the second floor," he said, a little more slowly. "When I was changing the putty."

She didn't answer, just nodded. He sighed again, deeper, and added:

"He was sick then. He caught a cold. When..." Xander hesitated, "when he jumped into the river after you. Into the Fontanka. Remember, at the party?"

"I remember," she said briefly.

"And then..." he paused for a second. "Then I got sick. For a long time. I kept coughing, and I walked around with my shirt unbuttoned because of the heat. But I still climbed onto the windowsill because they told me to change the putty. And... And I couldn't hold on. I fell. And I broke my neck.

He spoke calmly, in an almost even voice, but in the end he swallowed.

Delia didn't say anything right away. She was silent, and her expression was strange - not sympathetic, not surprised, not even sad. More like... More like attentive. Thoughtful. Almost like an adult who is putting together an important picture in his mind from many Mr.ar pieces.

Then she gently placed her hand on his shoulder. Quietly, lightly.

"No," she said quietly, slowing her words slightly. "That's not why he died."

Xander shuddered and turned to her, with amazement and something like childish resentment.

"What do you mean - not because of that?"

"I'll tell you. Just promise..." Her voice was almost a whisper, but not confused, but firm. "Promise that you won't be angry with me. No matter what you hear."

Xander froze. He looked at her - no longer with surprise, but with alarm, as if for the first time he felt that there was something more behind her words than just a story.

"Do you promise?" she repeated, this time very quietly.

He nodded slowly.

"I promise..." he exhaled, not quite understanding why, but no longer able to not listen.

"You... You're a very good person, Xander," Delia said, not looking at him, as if she was afraid that he would start laughing.

Xander frowned.

"Oh, what are you saying?" he muttered and immediately turned red, even his ears turned red. "Stop it."

"No. I'm serious," she continued, looking him straight in the temple. "You're like no one else. And I…" she faltered a little, but then found the right tone, "and I don't want you to think that your dad died for no reason."

He became wary and remained silent.

"You said it yourself, he was in my room. Cleaning putty off the old frame. It was right after you were hired. We had just moved in, and dad - my dad - told us to tidy everything up. He wasn't happy with the way things had been before. A mess, he said. And there he was - your dad - sitting on the window, with tools, carefully cleaning off that dry, hard old putty...

"Well," Xander said sullenly, "I know that."

"And then I went in. Because it was my nursery. And I saw that there was a stranger in it. I was indignant. I said that he had no right. I was capricious. Well... As best I could. I screamed for him to leave.

"And what?"

"And he..." Delia looked straight ahead, without blinking. "At first he answered me irritably, like, don't bother me. But I didn't let up. I came closer. I tugged at his sleeve so that he would move away from the window.

Xander tensed up.

"So?.."

"And he suddenly turned around... And told me something. That no one knew. No one. Except me. He looked straight into my eyes and said out loud... This."

"What exactly? - Xander leaned forward. "What did he say?

But Delia, as if she had not heard his question, continued:

"I froze. How he knew this, I don't understand. Probably when he pulled me out of the Fontanka... He saw something. Or guessed. But he definitely knew. And he said it. I was scared. Not for myself, but for him. Because at that moment when he said it... I looked at him like that, Xander. I wanted him to... Go away."

Xander was silent. He just blinked.

"He..." Delia continued, a little more quietly, "he looked at me. He saw my gaze. And he recoiled. He slipped. He lost his balance. And... And that was it."

She fell silent. Xander didn't move a muscle and looked at the floor. Delia gently touched his shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

He didn't answer. Delia came closer. Carefully, as if every movement might frighten the air between them. Xander didn't move. His face was wet - but he wasn't crying. He swallowed his tears, as if they were shame that needed to be swallowed, hidden.

"So you..." he looked up, his voice trembling, but there was something firm, almost adult, in it. "You mean to say that it was you... That it was you who killed dad?"

He said it as if he was afraid to hear himself.

Delia shook her head slightly. Her gaze was direct, serious, but not stubborn. She did not defend herself.

"I... I didn't mean it that way," she said slowly, emphasizing each word. "But if you thought so... Then blame me. I won't argue. Let it be so."

Xander turned away, his shoulders shaking. He sucked in a breath, then exhaled sharply.

"No," he said. "No... No, you are not forgiven."

Delia didn't move. She just looked to the side, where the curtain was fluttering in the draft. Then she looked at him - and silently asked with her eyes: "You won't forgive me?"

Xander nodded. But not right away. And not confidently. As if agreeing with something difficult.

"Yes," he said. "I won't forgive."

And then he added quickly, sharply, as if something inside him would not let him remain silent:

"Because there is nothing to forgive! Got it?"

She didn't understand.

"What, nothing?" Delia whispered. "I... I told you myself that I drove him crazy. That he was afraid of me. That I..."

"Don't you dare," he interrupted. "Don't you dare say that. It's not true."

"But you..."

"You're not like that!" Xander almost shouted, stepping towards her. "You... You're kind! You're not evil. And you never really wanted... For anything to happen. You were just too little then. And..." he hesitated, "And beautiful. Even when you're angry. And even if you scream, it's still..."

He stopped short, swallowed hard and took a step back.

"I won't dare..." he said dully. "I won't dare think badly of you. Because you're good. Do you understand?"

Delia froze. She seemed to shrink into herself, but she didn't leave, didn't turn away. A shadow appeared on her face - not a smile, no - something confused, vulnerable. And then tears came to her eyes. She didn't cry - she just looked at him, as if she didn't believe he'd said it.

Xander was silent. He was tense, as if he was holding back a scream. And only his clenched fists betrayed how much he had not said at that moment. Delia stood silently for a long time, her gaze lowered, as if she was still gathering her strength. Then she moved her lips slightly - only her lips, without a voice - and only on the second try did she exhale clearly, barely audibly:

"I will never forget you."

Xander raised his eyes. The movement was slow, as if he had been deciding on it longer than it seemed from the outside. He was not just raising his gaze - he was raising all his attention, all the heaviness inside. And when, finally, his eyes met hers, there was something in them that made Delia involuntarily hold her breath.

Something disturbing.

Not the anxiety that lives in fear, but the anxiety that lives in a question without an answer. There was no reproach, no reproach, no request in his gaze. But there was that childish tension that appears when words are too big for the mouth, and feelings are too sharp for the tongue. It was the look of a child who has had something important taken from him, but does not yet know whether he can ask for it back. Or perhaps he has already understood that he cannot, and so he simply looks. Deeply. Quieter than silence.

It was as if he didn't immediately understand what she had said. Or, on the contrary, he understood it too well. Too keenly. The way children sometimes understand what adults want to hide behind a half-tone. He didn't answer. But perhaps that was the answer.

Delia took a step toward him. There was no form to her movement - no chin-up, no playful arrogance that had seemed to accompany her every step before. This time she simply walked - the way people walk not because they have to, but because they can no longer stand still. Her legs moved on their own, without asking permission. It was movement without protection. Without a plan.

This step contained everything she had been avoiding before. Shyness. Doubt. Vulnerability. No grace, no theatrics - just a quiet, almost invisible need to be closer. Almost instinct. A step in which there is no pride - only the fatigue of trying to look stronger than she really is.

She hugged him.

Not timidly, not symbolically, not like you hug just "just in case." But tightly. For real. She hugged him as if she was afraid that he would disappear if she let go. With her thin hands - hands that had previously been used to clutching ribbons, picking up hems, holding pencils - they now held him. And in these hands there was a trembling of uncertainty, yes, but more than that - a trembling of the unsaid. Everything that was not said, everything that was experienced between the lines, in the pauses, in the averted glances. This trembling did not interfere - on the contrary, it made the embrace alive.

She pressed her cheek against his face.

There, where there was still moisture from tears. There, where the skin was slightly cold, as after strong feelings. She did not hide in this touch, did not seek protection. It was as if she was trying to preserve the feeling - like children do when they hug their favorite toy not because they are afraid, but because they love it too much. She held her breath. She stayed like that - not for a moment, but a little longer. So that time would stop. So that this point in space would not dissolve too quickly.

And then, slowly, almost hesitantly, she pulled away a little. Not abruptly, not suddenly, but as if breaking the embrace with an inner effort, like a person who knows that if you hold on longer, it will hurt more, but if you let go too soon, you won't have time to remember.

And then, carefully, as if passing through the thin ice of silence, she touched his lips. Not like adults, with determination and meaning. And not like children in fairy tales, where a kiss is magical and changes everything. But like someone saying goodbye. Not just to a person, but to time, to herself, to that fragile space where they existed together. A farewell in which there was no drama, only a quiet, almost invisible loss of something unique.

She touched him and froze. As if something was happening inside that could not be expressed with gestures. As if this kiss was her only chance to be truly understood - at least once, at least for a second. Understood without words, without explanations. Without conditions.

Xander didn't move.

He didn't flinch, he wasn't scared. There was no surprise. Only his breathing changed - a little deeper, a little quieter. He sighed the way adults sigh when they don't want anyone to notice how hard it is for them. When everything inside trembles, but his face remains calm. Not because nothing happened - but because everything already happened.

Delia took a step back, looking down.

"Go," she said quietly. "Please. I... If you see me crying... I can't."

Xander nodded. Once. Without a word. Then he Mr.nched his clenched white fists, turned quietly and left.

He walked down the hallway, as quietly as possible, as if he were walking not on the floor but on the air, trying not to touch anything or the walls with his gaze. It still smelled of yesterday: biscuits, lavender powder, wine that had gone flat at the bottom of the glasses. The smell no longer called - it remained as a reminder, like the residual light after a holiday.

On the floor, right by the door, lay a glove forgotten by someone. Laced, slightly crumpled. He looked at it - and walked past. To pick it up meant to admit that someone else would stay here. And he was leaving.

At the exit, as always at the right moment, stood Pelageya. In her eternal cotton apron, with a headscarf pulled down over her ear, she was fiddling with a shawl, wrapping some kind of bundle. Seeing Xander, she perked up:

"My God, there you are, and I thought you were upstairs", she hurried, as if making excuses. "Everyone left, you see, everyone was in what they were wearing, and the guests... Oh, my God, and the things all over the house are like after a fire."

She was about to say something else, but, looking into Xander's face, she fell silent - for a split second, but she understood everything.

"Come on, my little bird", she said more quietly. "Don't drag it out, or you'll catch a cold. Look, it's wet outside, there's a draft, and you..." She pressed the bundle to her chest and pursed her lips. "Well, that's it. It happened. Like in a bad dream. I can't find the words."

Xander nodded silently. He couldn't - didn't want to - speak. His throat was empty, and something was trembling in his chest, as if there was a bird inside that had lost its way.

Pelageya straightened his collar, shook him by the shoulder, and said slightly affectionately:

"Okay, okay. Don't keep it to yourself, do you hear? Don't keep it to yourself. She... She's too rich for you. And you... Who knows how life will turn out? Maybe everything will change. Just take care of yourself, my dear. Otherwise, I - just know - won't leave a single living place on you if you catch a cold. Uh-huh?"

He suddenly grabbed her hand firmly. Childishly. His fingers were cold, but strong. Pelageya gasped - not from pain, but from surprise. Then she nodded and said nothing.

He walked out. The door closed slowly behind him. Outside there was a smell of damp stone and ash. He didn't turn around. Because he knew that if he looked back, everything would collapse.

...666...

The next morning, Dr. Lou Hastings, lingering on the threshold of the Lyulyukovs' mansion, took off his gloves with a slightly deliberate slowness - not because he was in a hurry, but, on the contrary, emphasizing in every movement that measured slowness with which one enters not a house, but a performance in which the role has long been firmly fixed. The butler, hearing the familiar knock, hurried to open the door, respectfully bowing his head - so expressively that the doctor, glancing at the crown of his head, could not help but smile slightly.

"Is Her Ladyship in the drawing room?" he asked quietly, brushing a trace of street dust from his cuff.

"Of course, doctor. This is the third time she's asked me to heat up the tea. She's worried that you might be delayed in other... In other places.

"Worry is half the cure," Hastings remarked as he walked in. "The rest, as you know, costs ninety-three roubles a bottle."

He spoke quietly, but with such a tone in his voice that the footman suppressed a grin, although the corners of his mouth twitched traitorously. Hastings meanwhile stepped further into the room, across the carpets, which predatorily muffled the sound of footsteps, and found himself at the half-open doors of the drawing room, from which came the quiet shuffling of pages - probably Madame Lyulyukova patiently leafing through a magazine, pretending that she had accidentally found herself in an armchair at such an early hour.

"I apologize for the delay, madam," said the doctor, entering softly. "The weather today is contradictory: outside it is raining, but inside, I dare say, a front of troubles is approaching?"

Tatyana Lyulyukova, sitting in a deep armchair, turned around with the look of a sufferer who, out of delicacy, had not mentioned how long she had been waiting. She was wearing the same hoodie that a year ago she had called a "domestic misunderstanding," but since then, for some inexplicable reason, she wore it more often than anyone else.

"Ah, Doctor", she said, putting the magazine aside", I was beginning to think that you had forgotten me completely. And yet my worries have not disappeared. On the contrary, they have become more acute. The weather? Perhaps. But more likely... More likely it is a general tension. Like a ring - invisible, but perceptible, tightening around me."

"Interesting," he responded, settling into a chair. "And where exactly does this ring press?"

"Here," she touched her temple. "And here," she pressed her palm to her heart with theatrical grace.

"And between these two points, is everything okay?" he asked with polite skepticism.

She sighed, as if carefully checking her internal resources for violations.

"Insomnia, doctor. It's not that I can't sleep - I'm afraid I won't be able to. And then I'm afraid I'll wake up. Everything is like in a fog. Lethargy, melancholy... And he..." her face fell for a moment. "He, imagine, can't find the time. Either business trips or meetings. As if Swiss air is not a matter of life, but just a whim."

Hastings bowed his head slightly.

"Sad. Especially considering that your case is one of those where climate is decisive. You are not simply tired, madam. Your body requires change: sea, mountains, clean air. I would even say rarefied."

She leaned back in her chair:

"Well, you too. And he just frowns and whispers under his breath: 'Geneva, Carlsbad... six months?!' as if I were asking him to send me to Baghdad on an airship."

"Alas, madam," Hastings sighed, "men often perceive concern for their spouses' health as a personal sacrifice. Especially if it involves telegrams, expenses and - God forbid - visa processing."

"Oh, doctor…" she pretended to throw up her hands. "But you are sure that rest is really necessary?"

"Necessary?" He grinned. "I would say - the only possible one. Everything else is just a delay. A resort is not a whim, but therapy. And, by the way, the most reliable. No potion will give what a month of silence and salt in the air gives."

She thoughtfully ran her finger over the embroidery on her dress:

"So if I don't leave… everything can only get worse?

"Alas, madam. Your condition may take a form that will make even the most talented doctors shrug their shoulders. Of course, I can write out a recommendation again. More insistent. With a seal and signatures of colleagues. Sometimes men understand diagnoses better when they are seasoned with formality."

She smiled slightly, for the first time during the conversation, with gratitude:

"Ah, doctor... you are not just a doctor. You are a diplomat."

"No, madam," he bowed. "I'm still the same humanist. I just know how to talk to husbands."

And with that, he rose from his chair without haste, as if to make it clear that his presence was a medicine as strong as any Swiss drops. Tatyana, seeing that he was about to leave, ran her handkerchief over her temple with lazy melancholy, as if from stuffiness, and almost absentmindedly remarked:

"It's such a shame the Yorks are gone. They were such nice people. And their daughter is just lovely, though she seems a little too skinny..." She paused briefly, as if considering whether to continue. "You knew, Doctor, didn't you?"

These words were not spoken with any apparent purpose, but rather as a casual remark, thrown into the air, but in such a way as to be heard. Hastings, who had almost turned towards the door, seemed to freeze for a second, and then, without hurrying, returned to the chair from which he had just risen, and with that expression on his face that doctors wear in emergency rooms - attentive, sympathetic, but not without a little fatigue - he said:

"They left, yes. It's a pity, of course. I didn't have time to say goodbye to them either. I even wanted to pass on some papers... But, as you can see, the train is a merciless means of transport. It doesn't expect tears or belated visits."

He spoke simply, with that shade of slight annoyance which did not in any way disturb the polite evenness of his tone. Sitting back down, he even allowed himself to cross his legs slightly and stretch out his hand towards the silver vase with slices of candied fruit, as if to emphasize that he was no longer here as a doctor, but purely on vacation.

"However", he added, frowning", I came to you more quickly... More for the sake of peace. I'm tired, I admit. The last few days have been especially... Especially intense."

Tatyana tilted her head to the side, swinging her bracelet, and with an expression of sly interest said, as if she had not heard about fatigue:

"Papers, you say? Interesting. What kind, if it's not a secret? Or is it..." she looked up, "Or is it a state secret?"

Hastings, taking a sip of water, smiled slightly at the corner of his lips, but did not answer right away. It seemed that he was weighing not the answer, but the proportionality of the answer to the mood of his interlocutor.

"Ah, madam", he said softly, almost sympathetically, "if you only knew how much of our business depends on non-disclosure... Not state, no. But professional. The papers concerned, let's say... Certain medical reports. And we doctors, as you know, are bound by something more ancient than a ministry order. The Secret of Hippocrates, as pathetic as it may sound."

He spread his hands slightly, as if regretting that he couldn't share, but this only made me more intrigued.

"So," Tatyana said with a feigned sigh, "I have no right to know who was prescribed this... This, let's say, disease, and for what?"

"Alas," he bowed his head. "Even with your impeccable taste and gift for guessing diagnoses from facial expressions. I myself am sometimes surprised at how much you can read from just one look. But there are limits."

"And if, for example, I also complain of insomnia and... And terrible curiosity," she slowly ran her finger along the arm of the chair, "isn't it the doctor's responsibility to alleviate both symptoms?"

"It is the duty of a physician not to indulge in pernicious inclinations, madam. And curiosity, as we were taught at university, is the cause of eighty percent of failed marriages and a third of clinical breakdowns."

He said it with unperturbed seriousness, but the corners of his eyes betrayed a hidden smile. Tatyana laughed easily, truly, even leaning back in her chair.

"Oh, doctor," she said, "you are a terribly dangerous man. You hide behind seriousness, as if behind a prescription screen, but in reality, I am sure, everything has long been clear to you."

"Perhaps," Hastings nodded, rising a little more willingly. "But clarity is what the mind consoles itself with in the fog. And so I'd better remain silent... And again I'll ask for the bill for the prescribed drops. Even without a diagnosis."

Tatyana, without hurrying, took the handkerchief in her hands again - more as a gesture than out of necessity - and, lowering her eyes to the embroidered edge, said with that same feigned thoughtfulness that invariably preceded her maneuver, carefully calibrated according to the internal map of social battles:

"Papers... Hm. I suppose they concerned the fortune of... Young Delia York?"

It was said lazily, almost absentmindedly, but with that special emphasis on the middle of the sentence that turned all laziness into a trap. Hastings, who had already risen with sedate politeness, froze - not for long, but long enough to notice how a thin shadow of irritation passed over his face, quickly, however, hidden under the doctor's mask.

"Oh, no, madam," he said, coming back to the table, as if suddenly remembering that he had forgotten an umbrella or a button, "you are mistaken. It is not at all about... Mm... Young Miss York. The papers concerned a governess. Now deceased, alas, and with obvious signs of overwork, noticed before her death. A very simple case. More official than medical."

He spoke a little faster than he should have, and his gaze, so direct and even, darted for a second to the window, as if there was confirmation of what he had said. Tatyana, without raising her head, shook it slightly - not in agreement, but rather like a musician checking the tuning of his bow.

"The governesses, of course..." she drawled, and only now raised her eyes. "But you know, Doctor, I think I'll write to the Yorks when they return. One kind word is sometimes the only thing that can stop the flow of stupid gossip. But a careless one - alas - doubles their power. Sometimes, you barely let out a phrase, and it flies - from the lamp to the carriage, from the carriage to the stairs, and then all along Sadovaya..."

She spoke softly, with a slight smile, without taking her eyes off him. But the smile was cold, like ice in a glass at a dinner party: an adornment with no taste behind it, only a warning.

Hastings seemed to sit awkwardly on the edge of his chair, picked up the glass of water again, but did not drink. He felt something invisible, cold and increasingly dense, beginning to squeeze him from all sides. A damp sheen appeared on his forehead, and when he spoke, his voice trembled almost imperceptibly:

"Actually... These are... Routine notes. Observations. A simple formality. Sometimes parents... Sometimes they ask for an opinion - well, so to speak, for... For personal reassurance."

He rubbed his ear with his finger, a gesture he hadn't noticed himself making, and cleared his throat in an almost apologetic tone. Tatyana was silent, continuing to look at him, without looking away, as if looking at a clock that was bound to strike in the next second. The pause dragged on, and he, realizing that the exit was difficult, leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly:

"Yes... Perhaps you... You are not mistaken." He hesitated, then, exhaling, added: "She is... Not quite... In herself. But this is not a disease in the narrow sense. It is rather... Rather, a feature. A borderline, you know, condition. A matter of observation, not treatment."

He immediately regretted saying it, not because he had revealed it, but because he knew that now nothing could be taken back. Words spoken to a woman who was only waiting for confirmation of her own guess always turned out to be part of a dossier that could not be seized.

"Ah!" Tatyana exclaimed with sudden triumph. "I knew it! I knew it! I understood everything from one look at her!"

She fell silent and, lowering her eyes, added softly, no longer solemnly:

"Poor girl!"

At the word 'girl', Hastings's face instantly turned red, and he jerked his head up as if in pain. His eyes, which had been politely muted until then, flashed with an unexpected, almost physiological irritation, like those of a man who has had a callus stepped on.

"Excuse me..." he said in a strange, tense voice, barely holding back the trembling in his throat, "you said... you said 'girl'?"

Tatyana, leaning back slightly in her chair, raised her eyes to him with slight surprise - not so sharp as to be frightening, but enough to indicate that the sharpness had not escaped her.

"Well... Well, of course," she answered, drawing out the words slightly, as if checking to make sure she hadn't violated some invisible regulation. "She's not a boy!"

The doctor did not answer at once. Instead, with a brusqueness that was not his usual manner, he thrust his hand into the side pocket of his coat, felt something - a sheet of paper folded in half, perhaps the very one he had not managed to give to the Yorks - and, pulling it out, silently handed it to Tatyana.

"Can it be... Can it be that you really want to call 'it' a girl?" he said, quietly, but with such a shade of disgusted reproach, as if he were not talking about a young person, but about something that even medical mercy bows down to with disgust.

Tatyana, carefully, with the slightest, coquettish disgust, as if someone had slipped her a purse with someone else's hair, took the paper with two fingers, glanced at it briefly, as if at a theatre poster on the fences, and just as casually pushed it back towards him, slightly bowing her head:

"Ah, doctor... Why do I need you?" she whispered with feigned modesty. "I don't understand the first thing about medical subtleties. That's why you exist, you who are so learned and..." she paused, "And observant. You can explain what's written here better than me. Besides, you do it much... Much more vividly."

He, left holding the sheet of paper for a moment, looked at her, long and searchingly. There was no fear or condemnation in her face, only that barely subdued interest with which grown-up ladies watch children's quarrels on a walk: not really seriously, but with pleasure.

Her words, polished and delivered with unwavering social grace, flattered - and at the same time provoked. The pride that had been wounded a moment before straightened out like a cat in the sun. Hastings nodded with exaggerated delicacy and, leaning forward slightly, lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"In that case... In that case, I beg your attention, madam," he said, casting a quick glance at the door, as if to make sure that both servants and casual ears were kept away. "But I will say right away: what you are about to hear is not intended for society ears. Not over cakes, not over gossip, not even at the piano."

He fell silent, looking at her intently, almost searchingly, as if he wanted to make sure once again that the woman in front of him was not an impressionable person. Then, slowly, with pleasure entering into the role of the whistleblower, he added with emphasis:

"So," he began slowly, "during the examination, carried out, of course, solely at the request of the family, with the aim of establishing general development vectors - so, prophylactically, without alarm, without panic..." he made a gesture with his hand, as if waving away unnecessary drama, "I managed to identify a condition in young Miss York... A very peculiar one."

He fell silent for a second, looked at the ceiling as if choosing an expression, and then, almost solemnly, said something in Latin - polysyllabic, with soft, flowing endings, of which Tatyana caught only the echo of 'andro'.

She leaned over slightly:

"Excuse me, doctor, I... You said 'andro'? That's... What does that mean?"

Hastings straightened up and, placing the paper on the table, clasped his fingers together as if preparing to give a lecture:

"Simply put, madam," he began, with an air of importance that was almost tinged with pleasure at what was happening, "it is a form of deviation from the normative consensus. Not a disease, no, don't get me wrong, but... But let's say it this way: an anomaly. Not an external one - externally, on the contrary, everything is more than fine. Even - and this, let me say, is a characteristic feature - it is more than remarkable. One of those cases when, looking at a face, you see almost hypnotic beauty, and only then, when studying the parameters, anatomical, physiological," you encounter something... Something unexpected."

Tatyana turned pale, but remained silent, as if internally preparing herself for what she had heard. Hastings, lowering his voice slightly, continued:

"Imagine: all the external characteristics, even in excess - gait, height, voice, facial expressions - everything tells us about a young lady, and - please note - quite gifted in social terms. And at the same time, if you look deeper..." he tapped his finger on the paper, "something fundamental is missing. And instead - there is something so insignificant that in ordinary life it does not manifest itself in any way. But with careful medical analysis it indicates itself with all certainty."

"Oh God..." Tatyana whispered, slightly pressing herself into the back of the chair. "And this... This is dangerous?"

"Dangerous?" Hastings asked, smiling, but more gently. "No more dangerous than a goat among a flock of sheep. She won't eat them, as a wolf might, but her bleating will sound different from all the others. It's just... It's just nature itself, apparently, deciding to experiment."

He paused, looking at Tatyana with slight sympathy, in which there was still a hint of scientific superiority:

"It's surprising, madam, but it's a fact: the carriers of this state - and there aren't many of them, I assure you - have an amazing attraction. And at the same time... With a different structure. The internal processes, energy, even, I dare say, the rhythms are different. Everything seems to fit together, but at the same time it's not at all as it should be. And if you dig deep enough..."

"Doctor..." Tatyana interrupted him, now clearly turning pale", tell me frankly... Women with such... In such a situation... Can they... Can they live in society? Like everyone else? Be... I don't know... Happy, get married, have children?"

She spoke sharply, hurriedly, like a person who fears the answer in advance. Hastings paused and suddenly - cheerfully, with almost playful cynicism - shook his head:

"Have mercy, madam..." he said with an ironic squint. "How can the bearer of such a state claim full realization within the framework of the social model? If he, strictly speaking... Does not correspond even to the basic definition embedded in the term 'norma absoluta' from the point of view of logical analysis?"

He spoke with an exaggerated lightness, almost mockingly, as if he wanted to soften or, on the contrary, erase the seriousness from the very essence of what was said. But Tatyana was silent, staring at one point, as if she had not heard the last phrase - or, more likely, heard it too clearly.

The doctor wanted to say something else, perhaps to remind them of the need to leave as soon as possible, but the next second Evgeny Aleksandrovich, aka Mr. Lyulyukov, burst into the room. He was filled with irritation, like a bottle about to be popped by the cork, and his steps echoed through the parquet floor as heavy as the steps of an enraged animal who is tired of waiting by the cage.

"How much longer, damn it!" he barked from the doorway, not caring about his tone or those present. "I've been listening to this farce for a month, doctor! Carlsbad, Geneva, Yalta... Six months of rest? At whose expense, may I ask?! I have to finance a vacation for six months, excuse me, with an imaginary diagnosis?"

Tatyana shuddered, but sat up straighter, pressing her handkerchief to her chest - not from fear, but with that icy resentment that most quickly arises in those who are confident in their inviolability.

"How dare you," she said with an exaggeratedly capricious intonation, "to talk about my condition in such... In such a vulgar manner? I'm suffering, Zhenya, I'm suffering, and you know it. If you'd ever woken up at three in the morning with a shiver all over your body and a cold in your chest, you wouldn't be asking such questions."

But Lyulyukov was no longer listening. His eyes, filled with anger, darted to the doctor, and this look was no longer simply irritated - it was disparaging. Like a man who had finally decided that his patience had officially run out.

"And you, doctor", he growled", if you were an honest man, you would have said long ago that she doesn't need a resort, but a good novel or, forgive me, a newer house servant! You have to think of this - 'climatic asthenia'! I've been sitting on state commissions for twenty years, and half the Caucasus wrote me off with words like that! Do you think I'm an idiot?"

Hastings rose. Not abruptly, but there was no trace of his usual gentleness in this smooth movement - there was a dry, precisely measured rage in it. He carefully put down the glass of water, measured Lyulyukov with his gaze and said with icy clarity:

"Mr. Lyulyukov, your aggression does not cancel the diagnosis. On the contrary, it confirms it. Your wife is suffering. Her nervous system is exhausted, her body is emotionally exhausted, she has symptoms that require not just rest, but isolation from the stressful environment. And this environment, I dare say, is you. Your tone. Your shouts. Your 'commissions'."

"The commissions may be shouting", interrupted Lyulyukov", but at least they don't whine for days about 'heavy air'! Convulsive dreams, ringing in the ears, 'an unwillingness to exist'! This is not an illness - this is poetry on a nervous basis!

"Zhenya!" Tatyana screamed, standing up. "You... You are a monster! I really can't breathe! I wake up in the dark - and it seems to me that I disappear, as if I don't exist! And all because you are nearby! You, with your reports, calculations and eternal irritation! It is you who make me sick!"

But her voice was already drowned out by the growing din of the scandal. Lyulyukov clenched his fists and took a step forward - as if about to knock over the nearest vase - but Hastings caught his eye and straightened up with such dispassionate, hard dignity that even the air in the room became thick.

"That's enough," he said quietly, but with steel in his voice. "I've tolerated your ignorance and suspicions long enough. I'm leaving. But remember: the day your wife really needs a doctor - a professional, cold one, not busy with calculations - I won't be around anymore."

He bowed to Tatyana - reservedly, without excessive politeness, but with respect. And, without waiting for an answer, he turned and left the house, slamming the front door in anger. Stepping onto the porch, he mechanically clenched his gloves in his fist. But he had barely managed to take two more steps when he suddenly felt that instead of the coolness of the street, the noise of carriages and the gray sky of St. Petersburg, he was washed over by soft, bookish, overheated air.

The doctor stood in a spacious room with tall cabinets, a massive oval table and green lampshades under which the flames of gaslight swayed. The carpet under his feet was old but well-kept, the walls were covered in engravings, and everything - down to the heavy inkwell with an anchor on the lid - was painfully familiar to him. An office at the Medical Institute. The very same one where he had often sat with his colleagues. He even recognized - with a slight twinge of unreality - a wax stain on the carpet that he himself had once spilled.

And what's strangest of all is that no one seemed to be bothered by his sudden appearance.

"Here you are, Hastings!" someone on the right responded animatedly. "Well, at last. We were just getting started."

"The consultation is in full swing," added another, "you're getting right to the point."

The doctor had no choice but to accept the rules of this strange scene. He sat down on the edge of his chair, still a little unsure of his eyes, but professionally restrained. The situation, strangely enough, resembled dozens of others, and the body, accustomed to the discipline of medical discussions, was already straightening itself, already folding its hands on its knees.

"We are talking about the patient who came to you last week," said Professor Brune, a gray-bearded man with an aquiline profile and a voice with a hint of clerical politeness. "A man of about fifty, without obvious pathologies. All the tests are normal. But you insisted on additional examination."

"And then," another colleague, Dr. Woods, intervened, "they pointed out a rare form... Well, however, you yourself will now clarify."

Hastings nodded, caught between mild anxiety and an attempt to regain his balance. He had just lost control in the house, where he had hung on every word, and now - as if to compensate - he wanted to shine, to convince, to assert his power. His voice was even, even a little solemn:

"Yes, the case is not as simple as it seems. The patient demonstrates characteristic signs of Pyrrho-Galen syndrome in a latent form. Slow reactions, periodic dizziness, a feeling of compression in the chest when changing body position. All this fits into the beginning of the dysfunction of vegetative regulation."

He was pleased with the way his voice sounded, how easily the sentences were constructed. But at that very moment a voice rang out, fresh, clear and slightly ironic:

"Excuse me, Lou," said Professor Mason, young, overly self-assured and wearing a white waistcoat, "but what exactly are the key symptoms you mean? In the materials that were passed on to us from the reception, there is no mention of dizziness. And certainly not of compression."

He leaned forward, kindly but firmly:

"You talked to him yourself. Tell me, what exactly do you base this diagnosis on?"

There was a moment of silence in the room - not awkward silence, but the kind of silence that comes when people quiet down without a word to hear each other's reactions. Someone - maybe Dr. Woods, always nervous - chuckled faintly, almost silently. The fire under the kettle hissed behind the glass, and for the first time in a long time Hastings felt his throat go dry, not from anger but from emptiness.

He was at a loss. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say - he knew dozens of versions, combinations, digressions. But he didn't expect the question itself. So direct. So... So simple.

His gaze swept over their faces: Brune was sullen, Mason was patiently motionless, and Woods was almost cheerful. Someone was scribbling with a pen at the window. Everyone was looking at him and waiting.

Hastings moved his shoulders slightly, as if he wanted to shake off this strange weight, as if the elastic of an old cuff had pulled his chest tight. And slowly, with that mechanical movement that people have when they sense something is wrong, he turned his head. He most likely expected to see a bookcase, a barometer with a crack on the scale, perhaps a portrait of Paracelsus hanging at the back of the room. But what appeared before him did not fit into any of the normal dimensions.

Behind him, where just now there had been a smooth and polished parquet, now, as if after an explosion, someone's shadows, contours, fragments were piled up. Figures, broken, like dolls that had been set on fire and thrown onto the pavement. People - but not quite. One stood, swaying, with a hand hanging by a tendon, the skin of which had already turned gray. Another - as if instead of a face there was a stuck together mush of bone, fragments and a half-open mouth, where the lower jaw hung by one joint, like a door without hinges. And then - even worse. Someone, in something resembling a uniform, sat, clasping stumps - either the hands were cut off, or they were not given at all at birth - and quietly rocked, as if remembering a prayer.

And then, unexpectedly for Hastings himself, in the ominous silence of the office - no longer an institute, but some hall, as if inside a crypt where no one had taken out the trash for a long time - something rolled across the floor. A soft, wet sound, like a wet bag falling. It rolled toward his feet - round, but irregular, with reddish streaks. And only when this mass froze slightly, a few inches from his boot, the doctor, frozen, realized: it was a stump. A head - no. A torso - also no. Just a clot of something in which the outlines of a human body remained: half-rotten flesh, the twisted remains of shoulders where arms had once been, and a head ... A head, indecently clean, bald, and a face that seemed polished, with closed eyes.

He knew this face, for he had seen it more than once. Not on the operating table or in the ward, but somewhere in the passages, between offices, briefly - either a former patient or a guard. But now it was only a stump. Without arms. Without legs. And yet - alive. And this stump suddenly, without a single sound, opened its eyelids.

Somewhere behind him, there was a laugh. Dry, cracked, like the laugh of crumbling plaster. Then another, hoarse, raspy. Hastings turned sharply, hoping that at least one of his colleagues was still there, that someone - Mason, Woods, even Brune - would explain what was going on.

But the chairs they were sitting in were empty. He stood alone, surrounded by these living dead - if you could call them living - who continued to laugh at him, and someone even seemed to cough.

One, with a bloody mouth, was making strange sounds, as if he was trying to speak but had blood gurgling in his throat. Another, who had no head, was gesticulating wildly, as if he were speaking the language of the dumb. And the one closest, the stump at his feet, was simply looking straight at Hastings as if he knew him inside out, saw his lies and compromises, all his pills prescribed for profit and all his philanthropy with calculation.

And then, for the first time in many years, Hastings felt how not his hands, not his voice, but the very foundation of him - the very point where the doctor still feels like a man - twitched in horror.

He took a step back. Then another.

And he looked around like a man who no longer believes that he is dreaming, but cannot understand whether he is awake.

And at that moment he noticed a figure: short, motionless, appearing so calmly and naturally as if it had been there all along, just out of his sight. It was Delia York, in her severe, dark dress, with her hair smoothed down and her ribbon tied with the precision that is achieved not by children, but by those who are trained day after day to order. She looked at him calmly, with that special expression in which there was no anxiety, no sympathy, no irony - only simple, even clarity.

"These are your best clients," she said quietly, looking ahead, but not at them, as if through them.

Her voice sounded non-judgmental, almost affectionate, like a child speaking when trying to explain to an adult what he did wrong, but not angry, but with sad understanding.

"They pay what you ask," Delia continued, lifting her chin slightly. "They come when you tell them to. They drink what you say. You heal their wallets. Or maybe..." here she tilted her head slightly to one side, and for the first time something softly reproachful appeared in her voice, "it's time to heal their health?"

He opened his mouth, more from habit than from a desire to speak, either to justify himself or to clarify what she meant, but Delia had already looked away, and there was something final in the gesture, as if everything she needed to say had already been said and nothing more was needed. Her silhouette began to dissolve. Not suddenly or abruptly, but quietly, without flashes, without sound, without any effect, just the lines of her dress, the outline of her shoulders, the pale skin at her temples, gradually disappearing until only her eyes remained in the air: light, almost transparent, an unusually clear shade of blue.

They hung motionless in the void, expressing nothing but their presence, and gradually began to grow, not accelerating, but with inevitability, as if the plane of the gaze itself was expanding. Their color began to fill everything around: the walls, the furniture, the traces of recent fear. The space began to dissolve with it, and at some point it became clear that these were no longer eyes, but the sky.

Hastings drew in a sharp breath, and almost immediately a sharp pain shot through his chest, sharp and unpredictable. He instinctively pressed his hand to his heart, staggered, fell to his knees, and, barely able to keep his balance, raised his head. High above him, in the still, faded sky, two dark, serpentine shapes appeared. They moved slowly, and in their steady descent there was not a threat but something far colder: intent. The doctor no longer doubted that they were reaching for him, ready to descend and wrap themselves around him in a murderous embrace.

...666...

Since then, Alexander Sergeevich had developed an interest in American history, though the topic had previously held little appeal for him. It seemed as if this curiosity had come to him almost like an inheritance from the Yorks, who had long since left Russia. At that moment, Delia's fate remained a mystery. He had heard nothing more about her, and no one knew where she was.

However, some time after the Great October Revolution, having secured a good position at the embassy, he traveled to New York with the intention of finding out what had become of her and her family. To his disappointment, no one knew anything about her or showed any interest. On his way back to the airport, at one point, he thought he caught a glimpse of her, now grown older. He hurried to catch up with the woman, but it turned out to be a married actress from Toronto, who explained that her name was Asia and that she had three children.