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.