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.