Meanwhile, the day was drawing to a close, and the roofs of St. Petersburg were already drowning in a gray haze, as if the city was preparing to plunge into a deep sleep. Over the Fontanka, kerosene lanterns flared up one after another, reflecting in the blackening water of the river with trembling, golden reflections. The cold May air, saturated with the smells of dampness and spring foliage, became thicker, foreshadowing the coming night.
On Kirochnaya Street, in the spacious York house, preparations for the next day were in full swing. The kitchen, spacious and warm, filled with the aromas of vanilla, yeast and something meaty, seemed the center of the universe. Pelageya, the cook, a stout woman with red, calloused hands, muttered something angry as she kneaded dough for pies. She grumbled, and this grumbling was a constant background, like the creaking of an unoiled cart.
"What a folly, what a novelty!" she muttered through her teeth, slapping the dough. "A mountain of a feast, and what's more, a massacre! He ordered, they say, so many treats as if for the governor himself! 'An American folly', as she put it, this idea with a holiday. The young lady is nine years old, and there's as much noise as at a royal coronation!"
Her eyes, full of righteous indignation, sometimes glanced sideways at the door, behind which Lisa Roselli, the new governess, was pacing the house. Pelageya couldn't stand this 'new broom'. 'She walks like she's swallowed a pole,' she thought, 'and always tries to stick her nose where it's not wanted. But before, under Josephine, everything was homely, human!'
Lisa Roselli, as if feeling a silent reproach, walked through the rooms with an icy, almost military severity. Her steps were light, almost noiseless, but her presence was felt throughout the house. She kept an eye on everyone, as if she were commanding a garrison, and each of her glances seemed to carry an unspoken command.
Gene York sat in his office, shuffling papers, but his thoughts were far from the law. He was waiting for Karen, who he knew was somewhere in the house. He wanted to talk to her, even just to be near her.
Finally, she walked in. Karen, thin and pale, like a porcelain doll that had lost its luster. Her eyes were empty, staring into nothing. Since Josephine's death, she had seemed to retreat into herself, locked in her own grief.
"Karen," Gene said quietly, rising to meet her. "Are you okay? I wanted to..."
Karen just shook her head without looking up.
"I... I don't know, Gene. Everything is so... Everything is so empty."
"I understand, dear," Gene came closer, but did not dare touch her. His love for her was deep, but after losing Josephine he felt helpless, as if an invisible wall had grown between them. "But Lisa... She helps a lot with Deedle. You see how strict she is, but fair. Deedle... She has become a little more collected."
Karen nodded indifferently.
"Let him. Let him do it. I... I don't care."
Her indifference hurt Gene, but he understood that Karen's grief was too deep. Lisa Roselli was a godsend for him - strict, punctual, admiring his business acumen and ability to build life in an American way, in his own special way. He saw her as a support, a person capable of bringing order where he himself was powerless.
In the corner of the kitchen, on a low stool, Delia was sitting curled up. She was drawing something on a scrap of paper, oblivious to everything else in the world. Xander, her constant companion, was crouched nearby. Without saying a word, he was quietly putting chalk under her, saying with a silent gesture: 'Here, Deedle, keep drawing. Don't get distracted.' Their friendship was a refuge from the adult world, their secret corner where rules and conventions did not apply.
"What are you drawing there, Deedle?" Xander asked quietly, bending over her drawing. "Again your pegasus or dragons?"
Delia snorted quietly, without looking up from her paper.
"Not pegasus. And not dragons. I draw... I draw freedom. And how to hide it from one bore."
Xander chuckled knowingly. He knew who they were talking about.
Lisa Roselli, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway, saw this idyllic scene. Her eyebrows drew together slightly and a slight frown of disapproval appeared on her face.
"Miss," Lisa's voice was even, without a single note of warmth, but commanding, "tomorrow will be full of guests. Many important people, and also... And also ordinary people, whom your father invited."
Delia started, as if she had been pulled out of a dream, and raised her head. Her gaze, previously fixed on a fantasy world, became prickly. Xander, sensing the tension, tensed up next to her.
"You must behave with dignity," the governess continued, not raising her voice, but each word seemed to be minted in the air. "As befits a lady. No childish pranks, no drawings in front of guests. And you, Alexander," she glanced at Xander, "must be with the young lady and watch her behavior. Do you understand?"
Xander clenched his teeth. He hated it when this 'governess' told him what to do. Delia only snorted quietly in response, almost inaudibly, like an offended kitten. A mischievous sparkle flashed in her gaze at Xander, and he, catching her gaze, understood without words - it was not pies that she was expecting tomorrow. And not gifts, and not congratulations. No. She was waiting for that very moment when, perhaps, she would be able to slip away from Lisa's care. To slip away, to become herself again, and not 'Miss Delia', brought up according to strict rules. Tomorrow, in her opinion, was not a holiday, but just another strict ceremony, from which she so wanted to escape.
Pelageya, hearing the governess's voice, grumbled even louder as she kneaded the dough. 'What a snake in the grass', she thought about Lisa. 'And what did our master see in her? Josephine, although a stranger, was still one of our own, dear. And this one... Ugh!'
...666...
Evening Petersburg, covered in a grey veil, kept a special silence within itself - such that every creak of floorboards, every slam of shutters, every step on the stairs sounded especially distinct, as if in an empty theatre after the final act. In the house on Bolshaya Morskaya, this silence was broken by the clanking of suitcase locks, the rustling of silk dresses and the stifled breathing of a woman trying not to allow herself to cry.
Lily Creighton, stooped, unkempt, wearing a thin white nightgown she had forgotten to change that morning, was hurriedly folding up her blue dress with its lace trim, as if she were afraid that someone would come in and tell her to stop. Around her lay gloves, ribbons, stockings, a powder box wide open, spilling tiny white crumbs on the carpet. She picked up the things blindly, almost frantically, not because she did not know where she was going, but because she did not know what she was leaving behind.
The room, until recently the scene of salon conversations, evening teas, delicate American innuendos and Russian conversations about winter, now seemed foreign to her, stale. Morris no longer sat in his chair with a cigar. There were ashes and cobwebs in the fireplace. The curtains, heavy and burgundy, no longer absorbed the daylight - it seemed to bounce off them without penetrating. And even the stucco, which had once seemed a play of light and taste, now sank into darkness, like a dusty jewel in an abandoned display case.
With a sob, Lily sat down on the edge of the couch and froze, holding a pair of white gloves in her hand. Her shoulders shook. She was not crying - tears were held back by years of upbringing, church restraint and American stubbornness. But her body was shaking in waves. Not from the cold. From horror. From how alien this city had become, to which Morris had so passionately dragged her, assuring her that Petersburg was "the gates of Europe," that here she would learn to live differently, more broadly, more nobly.
In the corner, among the silk and gilded legs of the furniture, Jerome was sprawled. He sat in a broken pose - one leg on the armrest, the other caught on the edge of the chair - and sang in a thin, deliberately careless voice:
"Bye-bye-bye, rock yourself, don't yawn..."
In his arms, wrapped in an orange shawl lining, rested a hideous doll, its head enormous, its eyes glassy, its lips red, with that unnatural scarlet that comes from varnished fruit. Its eyelids clicked as Jerome tilted it to the right and then to the left, and each time the sound, click-click, echoed around the room like a spoon dropped into an empty basin.
"Jerome," Lily said tiredly, not even looking in his direction. "Please. Don't make noise. Your mother's heart already... It already hurts."
The boy didn't answer. He just rocked the doll, bringing its face close to his. A saccharine smile appeared on his lips.
"Her name is Molly," he said suddenly. "Molly only loves me. She can't talk to strangers."
"Jerome..." Lily started, but then she wilted. Her voice broke like a broken thread. She wiped her face with her palm and stood up. "Do you want an apple? I'll get one from the kitchen.
"No," he said, annoyed, as if he'd been offered a mousetrap instead of pie. "Molly doesn't eat apples. She's allergic. And I don't want any. Everything smells moldy in here."
Lily shuddered. Her fists clenched. A sharp, crushing anger stirred in her chest - at her son, at the doll, at herself, at the city. But no words came out. She turned away, grabbed the shoes, threw them into the suitcase without wrapping, without caring - let them get wrinkled.
"We're leaving tomorrow," she said, like a death sentence. "Forever. Do you understand?"
"And Molly?" he looked up.
"And Molly, too," Lily whispered. "Yes, she, too."
Lily couldn't help but linger her gaze on the doll, on that eerie, empty-eyed Molly, whose round glass eyes clicked with every tilt of her head - clack! - like the door to a crypt. Once, at the very beginning - it seemed to be while Morris was still alive - Lily had seen her in the window of a French shop at the corner of Nevsky and Bolshaya Morskaya, between a milliner and a drugstore. Then the sun had beaten straight into the glass, and the doll's hair - bright yellow, synthetically smooth, with an absurd pink ribbon - seemed golden. Molly's gaze was innocent, almost stupid, and Lily, pausing a step, suddenly decided: buy it.
"Aren't you a little early for girls' toys?" Morris asked with a grin when she brought the box home. He had been drinking, but not to the point of insanity - just that 'evening Morris' whose eyes narrowed and hearing sharpened.
Lily smiled tensely:
"You said it yourself, Jerome needs to develop affection. Care. Warmth. You yourself complained that he is rude and greedy."
Morris shrugged. He was not a sentimental father, more of an observer, exasperated and distant. But then he took the doll from the box, turned it over in his hands, squeezed its cheek with his thumb, and, as if condescending, said:
"The plastic is good quality. The Germans probably made it."
That was the decision. Jerome didn't sleep until midnight that night. He ran around the house with Molly, sang to her, told her that "Daddy is with us now," called her "little sister," and even put a napkin in the dresser - "for her underwear." Lily, she remembers, was touched - it seemed that here it was, tenderness, here, finally, something had awakened in the boy.
But now... Now, watching him, nine years old, sitting in the chair, sprawled out as if there were no bones in him, swaddling this dead thing with painful seriousness, whispering something to it about 'snow cradles' and "terrible people with hands like rakes - now Lily felt something sticky and dark rise up inside her. Disgust.
As if to myself.
As if on that day when she saw in the shop window not a doll, but an image - a "cure" for the future that she was afraid of. And she herself let this silent symbol of illness into the house. She chose it herself. She handed it over herself. She approved it herself.
Jerome looked up at her. There was a cold gleam in his eyes. No childhood, no light. Just something predatory, cautious - like a child who has learned not to look his mother in the face, so that he can better guess by the tone of her voice.
"Molly says," he said quietly, "that we don't want to go to America."
"We?" Lily whispered, feeling her throat tighten.
"Me and her," Jerome answered, hugging the doll tighter to his chest. "Because she won't be happy there. It's too dry there, and angels don't sleep at night."
"Jerome," Lily said, slowly folding the silk scarf as if it were the last thing she could control, "you can't take her with you."
She didn't look at him directly - her gaze slid like a blade along the edge of his shoulder, then along the cover of the chair, along the floor, and only at the very end - to his fingers, clutching the toy with a death grip. Her voice was even, almost colorless, but the tension stuck in each word gave away: she was on the edge.
"It's unnecessary," she continued, as if explaining the obvious. "We only take what's necessary. It's... It's a childish thing, Jerome. You've grown up. It's time to leave such... Such amusements behind."
But her voice betrayed her. The word "fun" came from her lips with a contempt that could not be disguised. It hung in the air like a drop of poison in clear water.
Jerome did not answer at once. He continued to swaddle Molly, carefully, with a methodical obsession that would have aroused suspicion in adults. His fingers, white with the effort, curled as if they were not blood but icy mica. The doll's hair, wet and matted, shiny with water and brilliantine, clung to her forehead as if it were wax. It smelled of foul dampness, like moldy clothes taken out after a flood. It smelled musty, and Lily suddenly felt as if the whole room were filled with that noxious odor: the sink, the hair, the hair grease, Jerome's sweat, all mixed together.
"She's mine," he said sharply, without looking up. "I won't give her to anyone. No one dares."
The words sank into Lily like nails. She felt a prick in the pit of her stomach, something inside her that responded with fury and despair: she had lost. Lost to the boy, the doll, the city, her husband, even death.
"You..." she said, hoarsely, as if she were suffocating, "you cling to her like a mother. Like a shield. But she's not alive. This... This is a fake. A fake of life. This is pathology."
"You're the pathology," Jerome hissed, his voice ringing with rage. "She's kind. She doesn't yell. She doesn't tell me I'm wrong."
Lily took a step. The handkerchief fell from her hands. Her face flushed red, her shoulders shook. She stepped toward the chair, jerkily, without a trace of self-control, with that wild inner pressure that only women who are driven into a corner have.
"Give. Her. Here!"
"I won't!" Jerome yelled. "Molly doesn't want to be with you!"
She grabbed the doll. He grabbed it. The plastic body cracked like a dry board. The shoulder snapped. The doll's eyes, from the sudden movement, slammed shut and opened again, making that disgusting sound, like the snapping of a rat's mouth.
"Let go," Lily couldn't hold back any longer. "You won't take her. Not on the ship, not to America. She's not a person. Do you hear me? She's trash. Dead trash!"
"She's alive!" Jerome shouted, his face distorted, tears appearing in the corners of his eyes. "She's better than all of you!"
A jerk. A crack. Something crunched in the area of the doll's neck. Molly twisted out of Lily's arms, hanging by her hair in Jerome's fingers. And at that moment, for a moment, it was as if the whole house had fallen silent: Lily was looking not at the doll, but at her son's face - at those dead, shining, deathly-steady eyes from which all boyish fear had disappeared. Only something black and terrible remained - something that loved the dead more than the living.
"You're not my child," she said almost in a whisper, not believing that she was saying it out loud. "You… You're a monster. And I gave birth to you myself. Myself! Why didn't I have an abortion then?!"
Jerome, as if hypnotized, pressed the doll to his chest and slowly turned away. Lily stood there, breathing heavily, her face burning, and in this fire anger, despair, fear, humiliation merged together - everything that had been accumulating for weeks, maybe even years, under this roof, in this city, in this dead house. It seemed that another moment - and she would break into a scream, break so that the windows would shake, the neighbors would wake up, the dignity imposed by upbringing would collapse. Her voice trembled, but held, filled with pain, cutting like a finely honed knife. Her words fell like stones, one after another:
"We're leaving. Tomorrow. This is not up for discussion. Don't argue with me. That's it."
She breathed heavily, her heart pounded in her chest, and her fingers clenched into fists - as if only this mechanical force kept her from screaming, from tears, from madness. But the storm inside had already broken through the barrier - and burst out. The words flowed like hot solder, with a hiss, with a crackle. They contained everything: anger, bitterness, hopeless passion, the fury with which bridges are burned because they can no longer walk on them.
"You think this can go on?" she almost shouted. "You think all this is normal? This thing in your arms... This dead... This dead toy!" Lily gasped, her face twisted. "How much longer are you going to whisper to her instead of living? How much longer?"
Jerome looked at her, unable to look away, and there was not so much surprise in his eyes as confusion. For the first time he had seen his mother alive. Not tidy, not reserved, not the mistress of the house, but a woman on the edge, frighteningly real, with steel and fury in her voice. He held the doll tighter, as if she were his protection, his meaning, his breath. For the first time he was afraid not of Lily, but of life, in its unbearable nakedness.
He stood awkwardly, his round, ladylike bottom thrust out behind him, tightly encased in fashionable but ridiculous trousers, and held the doll in his arms, the very same dead thing she had bought him, foolishly hoping that tenderness was something that could be put into one's hands. He held it in his fingers, as one holds the last thing when the world falls apart. Delia York, alive, impudent, disobedient, was disgusting to him - because she was real. This plastic one did not argue, did not breathe, did not twitch - she gave in.
Lily looked at him and didn't recognize him. And in that ignorance there was guilt: she had created him, she had brought him to this. He was a reflection of her fear, her broken marriage, her escape from reality. But now it was too late. All that was left was to destroy what was stopping him from living. Or at least try.
"Russia is perishing," she said quietly but passionately. "It is decaying. In chatter, in gossip, in weakness. Only those like Stolypin are still holding it together. An administrator. A nobleman. A man. One of the few who has not caved in. And the sovereign..." she took a step. "He has already lost everything. Only slogans and smoke remain. 'Workers of the world..." she spat. "Let them shout. Let them drag us into the squares. Let this country go to hell. But without us. We will not wait for them to devour us too."
Her gaze bored into Jerome, as if he were not her son but the embodiment of all this corruption, brought into the world by mistake. He was silent. He clutched the doll, its eyelashes piercing his chest like stinging needles. His fingers trembled, his eyes glittered: anger, humiliation, fear. And when he, almost in a whisper, almost sobbing, uttered something sharp, unclear, but full of despair, Lily stepped toward him, grabbed the toy, yanked.
He grabbed hold. A squeal escaped him - not a child's, hysterical, animalistic. He did not give it up. She tore. The doll cracked. The plastic creaked.
"Enough!" she screamed. "You won't be like this! You won't be weak, tearful, smelly... Pathetic!" Her hands were shaking, her face was red, the veins on her neck were bulging. "You're not a girl! You're not... You're not this!" She jerked.
The doll crunched. The head flew off, rolled across the floor, hit the leg of a chair and froze, its empty eyes clicking one last time. Jerome froze, as if he himself had been broken. His lips trembled. His cheeks burned. The tears did not flow - they just trickled inside. Lily, still breathing heavily, threw the remains into the corner. The plastic hit the wall.
"We're leaving," she repeated quietly, but in a way that would not be disobeyed. "Tomorrow. You'll forget her. You'll forget Russia. You'll forget... You'll forget all of this."
She turned away. She went to the bag. She opened it. She began to carefully pack away the silver spoons. Her fingers trembled, but she acted precisely, without stopping. Each movement was an act of liberation. Or destruction. Her last words sounded like a curse, like an angry prayer, a whisper into an empty room:
"Let them take this house. Let them run it. If they even let anyone live there."
"Stupid," he muttered, barely opening his mouth. "Just stupid..."
He said this after she had already left. Not loudly, but with the air of spitting in her back. Jerome stood in the shadows, his cheeks still burning - from anger, from humiliation, from an insult he did not acknowledge, because he was not a woman to whine.
"She threw a tantrum, as if I were her enemy... She broke everything herself, she broke it all," he said, almost hissing, and kicked the chest with his toe. The scratch on the varnished lid was long, with a splinter - excellent. Let him see.
He stamped his feet as best he could, like an adult, and went to his room. The door slammed shut with a bang - some pleasure at least. That's it, Mom, the theater is over.
He collapsed on the bed, still dressed, and stared at the ceiling. His legs dangled, his shoes dangling - one almost flew off.
"Sitting with her on the train... Listening to her mutter about her 'salvation'... Ugh," he muttered, turning to the wall.
But in my head, it's not her. Not Philadelphia, not the "new life." It's Delia. Delia York with that nasty boy.
"Now that's going to be fun..." he whispered. "They'll stuff themselves with pies and run around like idiots. And everyone will forget... As if I never existed."
He imagined Delia in her stupid dress, batting her eyelashes, this Xander shoving some sticky candy at her, everyone laughing.
"Oh, Deedle, you have such a holiday, such a wonderful day!" he mimicked in a squeaky voice, curling his fingers. "Oo-o-o, you disgusting little squeaker..."
He closed his eyes, but opened them a minute later. Too many thoughts. His body itched, as if from irritation. Something had to be done. Something real.
He jumped up. He took from the drawer something that had been lying there for a long time. A crumpled sheet of paper, dirty, with a stain on the edge. A leaflet. It had not been given to him, he had simply picked it up in the garden. Even then it seemed that he would need it.
"Look at this piece of paper..." he whispered and grinned. "A rare piece of crap. And it will cause trouble, trouble...
He put the piece of paper in his robe pocket and found a gold coin, the one from his father. Heavy and flat, like a badge. "This is what it means to be a man," Morris had said, handing it to him, looking over the doll. Jerome hadn't understood it then, but he kept the coin.
He tiptoed out into the corridor. Everything was asleep. The lamp downstairs was burning dimly. Theodore stood by the stairs, stooped, in a washed-out waistcoat. Jerome approached silently.
"Here," he whispered and handed him a coin. "For silence."
Theodore blinked, as if he didn't understand at first. Then he muttered:
"I don't need it, young master... I don't need it...
"We have to, Teddy, we have to," Jerome snapped. "Just take it, got it? To Kirochnaya. To the Yorks. Put it in the box and leave. So that no one sees. Tomorrow morning. Mom will be asleep."
He took out a leaflet and thrust it into the servant's hand. The paper was damp. Theodore sighed like an old dog.
"It's dangerous... Someone else will see... There...
"Let them see," Jerome interrupted. "Let them explain now. I can imagine how much fun they'll have."
He grinned. His face, smooth and shiny with cream and powder, twisted into an unnatural, stinking grin.
Theodore silently crossed himself - quickly, as if he was hiding this gesture from someone. He took the bundle, sighed, and disappeared.
And Jerome went back into the room and slammed the door behind him with such anger, as if he wanted to pay her back himself. Let her hear. Let her know that this was the end. 'Stupid old witch!' he breathed through his teeth and hissed like a cat. The chest was scratched, the doll was dead, and she was marching back and forth as if she were commanding a regiment. Yes, he could have... He could have... Oh well. 'Die there with your spoons!' he hissed, throwing himself onto the bed.
He lay down, as always, decorously, as if he had been asleep for a long time. But inside he was burning. It was really burning. His heart was beating not in his chest, but in his throat - it was just trying to get out. The pillow stank of perfume - his mother's, disgusting, floral, like the aunts' at the opera. He pulled off the pillowcase, threw it under the bed and stared at the ceiling.
"She killed Molly. My wife. My real wife. With her fat hands. Vile!" His lips trembled.
He wanted to howl. But he didn't. He just looked up and whispered:
"Molly... Molly, dear... You're dead now.
He saw everything: as if they were walking down a passage, a long one, with a carpet, and dolls on either side. Everyone was looking, everyone was delighted. And the priest - no, not a priest, let him be some Lutheran, no big deal - said: "Do you agree, Jerome William Creighton, to take this beautiful lady..."
"Agreed!" he shouted, jerking.
He hugged the pillow to his chest and whispered as if it were Molly.
"My little one, my beloved... You are now my wife!"
They would have a house - a doll's house. Everything pink. Beds - two. Carpets - velvet. They would have a daughter. No - three. Or five. All dolls, just as beautiful. The girl - with white hair, the boy - with eyes like Molly's, cornflower blue.
"We would call them... Missy, Totty, Mimi, Tilly..."
He laughed - quietly, shrilly, angrily.
"And Deedle would never have come. Never.
Delia. Stinky Delia. Laughing, she has a skipping rope, bows. And that Xander, the kitchen cockroach, is jumping next to her.
"Ugh!" he yelled. "Disgusting! Dis-gus-ting!"
They will eat the pie, but he will not. He is in mourning. He is a widower. His wife died. Plastic, yes, so what?
"She's better than all of you! Better than your froggy eyes, Deedle! And her hair isn't smelly like yours!"
He sat up in bed, shaking.
"We would live on an island. Just me and Molly. Without you, everyone would die, yes! And I would build a house! And Molly would knit, and we would eat sugar!"
His eyes filled with tears again. He buried his face in the pillow, pressing it as if he wanted to breathe life into it.
"Molly... Please... Come back to life... I beg you... I won't tell anyone... Just come back to life..."
He sobbed, wiping his lips with his palm, smearing brilliantine across his face. He knew: tomorrow they would leave. And the doll would remain here, like a corpse. And Delia would eat pie. And Xander would serve it to her. And he? He would be on the train.
"With them!" he hissed. "With them! Damn them all..."
And if he can't be happy, then neither will they. Not Delia, not that fat Xander, not their stupid, cheerful guests. He'll ruin everything for them. He's already thought of it. And let Mom sleep. No one asks her.
"I'll arrange everything," he hissed. "My way."
At this time, the servant Theodore was sitting on a stool, his legs tucked under him, his shoulders hunched. The lamp crackled, occasionally flaring up a little brighter, as if it too was afraid. A tiny flame trembled at the end of the wick, illuminating both the icon and the table, and Theodore himself, whose face seemed old and gray, like an old cassock. The room smelled of burning and cold soup. On the shelf stood a jar of honey, an uneaten loaf of bread, a broken cross - everything was as it always was. Only the coin - someone else's, a gold one - did not fit into this silence. It lay in his palm like someone else's fate, heavy, hostile, like a piece of someone else's soul that had to be carried to confession.
He crossed himself, slowly, pausing on his forehead, as if he hoped that the gesture itself would fix everything. The icon, black with soot, barely discernible, was like a witness to him: he spoke to it as if it were alive.
"Forgive me, sir... I didn't do it out of malice..."
He stopped short, fell silent, and glanced sideways at the door. The house was quiet. Only somewhere in another room a tree creaked, and it seemed to him like a step - soft, uncertain, like that of a dead man returning to see who was running the place without him.
Theodore shuddered and crossed himself again.
"Lord..." he exhaled, "am I to judge? He is your son, sir... Let him be..."
He did not finish. The words were stuck in his throat. He put the coin on the table, away from him, like something dirty. Then he pulled the same bundle out of his pocket - the paper was warm from his body, smelled of tobacco, the boy's hands, something sour. He unfolded it, glanced at it. The words were not for him, not for a peasant, to read this. "People... Freedom... Down with the Tsar... Stop drinking our blood..." Theodore winced as if in pain and looked at the icon again. The eyes of the Mother of God were empty, worn away by time, but it seemed to him that she was looking sternly at him. Like Morris when Theodore once broke a vase in the dining room and stood there clutching his hat, and the master was silent and simply looked, as if he was expressing everything at once - rage, regret, and grief.
"And you, sir... You would know what to do..." he muttered and sighed heavily.
But Morris was not there. It was night, there was a piece of paper, there was a coin, and there was this order - not from the master, but from his son, strange, broken, with a dead doll and eyes like an owl. And Theodore - alive, trembling, of no use to anyone, still knew: he would go as ordered. Not for money. For a debt. Because this was not just a boy. This was the last of those who called him "Teddy". And when the last one is called, you do not disobey.
He stood up, folded the leaflet back with difficulty like an old man, and put it in his pocket without looking.
"Forgive me, Lord..." he whispered again and blew out the lamp.
...666...
The May morning of the 18th, still very young, was just beginning to breathe over Petersburg. The gray pre-dawn haze still hung over the roofs, enveloping the city in a special silence, only occasionally broken by the distant clatter of hooves on the cobblestones. In the corner room on Sredny Prospekt, where Sergei Zazyrin lived, semi-darkness and coolness reigned. As always, dampness blew from the corner - the wall was leaking, leaving ugly stains on the wallpaper, and there was such a draft under the window that in the evenings the candle flickered as if alive.
Sergei woke up before dawn. Not from the noise, not from the cold, but as if someone invisible but powerful had shaken him from within, pulling him out of a short, restless sleep. He lay on a narrow, sagging bed, looking at the cracked plaster above him, and felt his head buzzing from yesterday's argument in the tavern.
"Byakin is a chatterbox, Terekhov is a blockhead, Starikov is pushing leaflets right onto Sennaya, like blind policemen..." thoughts swarmed in his head like a flock of annoying flies."
He mentally cursed their recklessness, but he was angry not so much at them as at himself.
"I begged them not to get into trouble, not to take risks, not to get into trouble... They didn't listen."
And all because of Rasolko. Where did this guy come from, as if he had fallen from the sky?
"The secret police? No, too stupid to be an agent. Or is that why he's so dangerous? In his stupidity, in his recklessness, lies a threat that could destroy everyone."
He rose slowly from the bed. His body, young and strong, still ached from sleepless nights and nervous tension. He stretched, rubbing his stiff shoulders, and felt the chill of a draft. His worn but neatly cleaned shirt hung on a nail in the corner. He pulled it on, then his coarse cloth trousers, his worn but still sturdy boots. Each item of clothing reminded him of his situation, of the fine line on which he balanced - between student poverty and the secret, dangerous world of the underground.
He went to the washstand and brushed the dust off the cracked mirror hanging above it. The dull reflection showed him the grey circles under his eyes, evidence of the sleeplessness that had been his constant companion for the last few months. He ran his hand over his cheek, feeling an old scratch, a mark left by the linden branches when, tormented by guilt over Alikhurov's arrest, he had jumped three times, like a madman, from the window onto the tree.
"Alikhurov..."
Images whirled through my head, such as the last words of my mentor, spoken with inhuman calm:
"If you continue to have such ideas, our future revolution may not take place. Get away from me!"
Then he remembered the cold, glassy gaze of the gendarme at the carriage, then the hat thrown from the window by the maid, when he, Zazyrin, climbed the linden tree in despair, like a madman, trying to rewrite the teacher's fate. No, he did not run away - he tried to understand, tried to reach that moment when it was still possible to change something, when there was still hope.
He walked up to a small table on which lay several pieces of dry black bread and a mug of cold tea. He took one piece and brought it to his lips, but the dry crust seemed to get stuck in his throat. There was no taste. His head continued to buzz, and his heart beat with a special, dull heaviness.
And suddenly, like a flash, a thought pierced:
"Deedle... Today is her birthday."
He remembered. He remembered the little American young lady, her clear eyes and childish impudence. He loved Delia, loved her sincerity, her inquisitive mind, her amazing ability to penetrate to the very essence of things, bypassing the tinsel of adult conventions. He remembered their chance meetings - in the bookstore, in the bakery, and that special one, in Mikhailovsky Garden, where she, this little jackdaw, so simply and directly asked about the war, about justice, about why. Then, in that frosty February, he, without knowing it, opened up a corner of his world to her, shared thoughts that adults tried to hide from children. And now this knowledge, this trust, became a heavy burden for him. Come to her party? No, impossible.
"How I wish I could see her today, congratulate her. Let her see that there are people who remember her not only among the nobility..."
But no, today he had to hurry to Nikolaevsky Station. A train to Chita, and from there to Nerchinsk and further, to Akatuy, to that God-damned penal prison where his friend, his comrade, his elder brother in spirit, Vyacheslav Griftsov, languished. Sergei felt an invisible thread of surveillance stretching behind him.
To show up at the Yorks would mean exposing himself and Griftsov, cutting off all the threads leading to his friend's salvation. Every minute, every step mattered. His three comrades - Byakin, Starikov, Terekhov - were too reckless. He saw their fervor, their readiness to act without thinking about the consequences.
"Who knows what could have come into their heads under Rasolko's influence!"
This new, incomprehensible man, who appeared as if out of nowhere, aroused Sergei's acute suspicion.
"Maybe he convinced them that under the guise of a children's party they could pass a note to Deedle informing her of my plans - so to speak, to force them to sign my death warrant?!"
Zazyrin understood that he was to blame: out of stupidity, he once opened up to the girl and told her about his beliefs back then, in the park in February.
"What if these three decided to tell her about the plan to free Griftsov, conceived by Yemelyanov and Alikhurov? A disservice," he thought, "after all, Alikhurov is no longer at large, and they are climbing in, risking everyone.""
He couldn't let Delia, with her stubborn, locomotive-like soul, get drawn into this. She wouldn't betray him, no. Sergei was sure of her childish sincerity and straightforwardness. But her mother was a weak, grief-stricken Karen, her father was a pragmatist, a lawyer for whom reputation and order were above all else, and all three were Americans, strangers in this dangerous world, who did not understand its unwritten rules.
"They won't be able to protect Deedle from interrogations, from suspicions, from the dirt that inevitably sticks to those who have come into contact with politics, even for a moment."
Sergei clenched his fists. He fell in love with this girl for her bold, lively nature, for the spark of rebellion that burned in her gray eyes, for her amazing ability to ask questions that pierced the falseness of adult conventions. Sergei remembered their chance meetings - in the bookstore, in the bakery, and that special one in the Mikhailovsky Garden, that frosty February. Then, without knowing it, he opened up a corner of his world to her, shared thoughts that adults carefully hid from children. And now this knowledge, this trust, became a heavy burden for him.
"I know: I am being watched. After the ball, where Alikhurov gave me the task, the Okhrana probably took note of me."
He sat down on the windowsill, where the dust, settling in layers, seemed part of eternity itself. He took Ulyanov's tattered book, What Is to Be Done?, from under the table. The notes in the margins, made by his hand, crooked, hasty, inky, had already been read to holes. The pages, yellowed from time and frequent leafing, rustled under his fingers. He had long been disillusioned with Ulyanov's ideas - after Griftsov's arrest because of a similar book, because of that very spark that was supposed to ignite the flame. Then, in February, it seemed to him that just a word was enough for the world to change. Now he knew the value of that word.
But Delia... He remembered that day in the park. She listened to his speeches about the Tsar, about the injustice of the landowners, and in her eyes burned not childish faith, naive and blind, but strength. Incomprehensible, but deep, capable of crushing.
"She can grow up to be anyone - a revolutionary, a hero. That's why I trusted her in the park," he thought, looking at the pages of the book, which no longer gave answers, but only multiplied the questions. "But now this trust could become my fatal mistake."
He had to warn her, but he couldn't. The risk was too great. Today he had to leave Petersburg to save Griftsov and carry out the task assigned to him by Yemelyanov and the late Alikhurov: deliver two dozen revolvers to Akatuy and establish contacts with the railroad workers who were ready to rebel against the Tsar. One wrong move, and everything would collapse.
With these thoughts, Zazyrin rose from the windowsill. The wooden floor creaked under his boots, responding to his determination. He went to his suitcase, which stood by the wall, almost merging with the torn wallpaper. The suitcase, simple but strong, had been given to him in that secret house where he had appeared after the ball, following Alikhurov's last instructions. He carefully unfastened it, as if opening a chest with treasures, or rather, with a dangerous secret.
From his bag he pulled out a bundle wrapped in coarse canvas that smelled of something factory-made, new. Unfolding it, Sergei saw the suit of a railway engineer - a black uniform with shiny buttons, as if polished to a shine, a cap with a stiff band and formal trousers, pressed as if they had just come from the iron. The clothes seemed new, they still smelled of cloth and starch, the smell of someone else's life, but now his. Having exchanged his worn student clothes for this uniform, Sergei felt something inside him change too. He went to the mirror of the washstand, which, although cracked, still reflected him with amazing clarity. In the reflection, a completely different person looked back at him - not a revolutionary student with a pale forehead and tangled hair, but a stern, smart officer, or perhaps a graduate of a cadet school, ready for service, for subordination, but at the same time for action. His face became more serious, his gaze - more piercing.
He winked at his reflection. 'Not for nothing', flashed through his mind, "not for nothing, from the end of February until the end of May, Yemelyanov, Alikhurov and other members of the squad forced me, Zazyrin, to participate in stagings - an assassination attempt on the Tsar and to practice other possible situations during the revolution, in order to be ready for anything!" He learned to shoot a gun, and now his hands, recently accustomed to the pen, held the revolver tightly. He learned to perform acrobatic jumps, to overcome obstacles - his body became obedient and strong. Everything that could be useful in the coming struggle was now a part of himself. These training sessions, which had seemed then a heavy burden, a senseless and exhausting occupation, now gave him confidence, hard as steel.
Sergei remembered with a grin how absurdly it all had begun. Mid-February, Kolpino. The frost nipped at his cheeks, and the air was clear as crystal. Griftsov had just been arrested in Kolpino near Darya Mironovna's house; they were going to take him to St. Petersburg. And he, Sergei, then still a youth, reckless and full of despair, burst into the station. In his hand was a lady's revolver, borrowed from Darya's desk - a tiny thing, essentially a toy in his trembling fingers. He made his way through the carriages, through the stench of coal and the heavy, sticky smell of human fear, until he reached the driver's cabin. He threatened the driver and the stokers with this toy, this tiny pistol, demanding that they leave so that he could hijack the train! How absurd!
"Yes, I have grown and become more experienced in many ways since then!" A bitter smile touched his lips as he recalled that scene.
Then he was simply thrown out of the carriage, like a master who had gone off the rails, a crazy individual who didn't understand what he was doing. And if it weren't for his future friends from the workers' squad, he would have remained lying there, on the dirty platform, until the gendarmes arrested him, twisting him around like an escaped criminal, right under the crowd's nose.
But things turned out differently, and fate, or perhaps providence, brought him under the bright eyes of Yemelyanov. A veteran of the Crimean War, a man of stern character and insightful mind, Yemelyanov headed the Kolpino underground. It was he who discerned in the impetuous youth the beginnings of talent, a spark of true devotion to the cause, a readiness to go to the end. Yemelyanov, without ceremony, forced Sergei to study the works of Marx, Engels and Ulyanov under the pretext of gaining preparation to save Griftsov! The hours spent in Yemelyanov's dark, tobacco-smelling apartment, reading boring, at first glance, folios, in long conversations, were not in vain. In the end, he was prepared for combat, for underground work, for a life where every step could be his last. And yesterday, finally, he was given a task - the most important in his life.
He must arrive in Akatuy under the passport of the late railway engineer Tikhon Tikhonovich Vasilchuk. His goal is to prepare the railway workers of this remote village for the future uprising, for the great storm that was to sweep away the old world. But there, in this God-forsaken corner, he is ambushed at every step by the Black Hundreds from the Union of Michael the Archangel, fanatical and ruthless people.
"This will not be an easy task!" Sergei's heart sank.
He knew he was heading into danger, but there was no turning back. There was too much at stake.
Gathering his strength, Sergei straightened his uniform, winked once more at his reflection in the dim glass, as if saying goodbye to his past life. He grabbed the suitcase with weapons, which seemed heavy not from the weight of the revolvers, but from the burden of responsibility, and resolutely stepped out into the street. His thoughts, recently chaotic and anxious, now acquired a goal, clear and distinct as a shot: to save a friend, to fulfill a duty, not to let down those who believed in him.
...666...
That same morning Theodore, the Creighton' servant, stood at the iron gates of the Yorks' house, his head bowed low, as if hiding his face from the first slanting rays of dawn. The sun, not yet strong, was only a thin, pale thread breaking through between the tall, gloomy houses, and the street slept a deep, serene sleep, enveloping everything around with the pre-dawn coolness and silence that seemed to ring in the ears. Theodore's thin, withered fingers, covered with calluses from many years of work, clutched a greasy, rough envelope, and the paper crackled in his hand, dryly and brittlely, like a fallen autumn leaf caught in a draught. His soul, it seemed, crackled in the same way.
He looked up, cautiously, as if afraid to disturb the silence, and saw a sign with a house number. Kirochnaya. And, a little further, the Yorks' house. This house, as if snatched from another fairy tale, always seemed a little unreal, alien to Theodore. His eyes stopped on the mailbox - green, peeling from time and bad weather, but with some special, American neatness, it stuck out right next to the gate, above the wrought-iron threshold. This box seemed alien to him, an uninvited guest in this old Russian city, as if someone had slipped it to him secretly. Theodore looked around: empty. Not the cabby who usually dozed on the box, not the janitor who was already sweeping the pavement as usual, not a single living soul. Even the skinny, eternally pugnacious cat who usually divided the territory under the windows had disappeared, as if sensing something was wrong.
He approached the gate slowly, almost silently, like a cautious thief afraid to give himself away. He stopped. He crossed himself quickly, almost nervously, touched his chest with his finger, and his lips silently whispered:
"Lord, don't blame me..."
The leaflet in his hand, crumpled, with a sooty corner, smelled of other people's hands - the hands of the boy Jerome, and something else, elusive, dangerous, repulsive. He did not read it - he did not want to defile his soul with these words that seeped through the paper like black poison. He knew that they wrote about the Tsar, about blood, about retribution - words that froze his soul and made his heart skip a beat, words that seemed to be enough to ruin the whole world.
Whether it was shame or fear, he felt like the worst sinner. All his life, from his youth, when he first came to the Creighton house, he had served faithfully and truly the late master Morris. Ah, what a master he had been! Strict, but fair. Not like those of today, who only think of themselves and look at people as furniture. And now, at the word of his son, at the whim of that foolish boy Jerome, he, Theodore, a simple man, but with a conscience, was forced to commit a dirty trick.
"It's not godly," he whispered to himself, his gaze darting from the mailbox to the sky, where the pre-dawn stars were fading. "It's not humane... You never know what's written there, but what if there really is trouble? A trouble that can come from one piece of paper, like from a match thrown in the straw."
He imagined for a moment how this piece of paper would fall into the hands of the owners, how they, these dear Americans who lived here quietly and peacefully, would suddenly encounter Russian grief, Russian unrest. His heart ached, like an old wound aches when the weather changes. But Master Morris, God rest his soul, always said:
"Teddy, you are an honest man, you won't let me down."
And Theodore didn't let anyone down. He didn't let anyone down. And then...
But Jerome, even though he was a boy, was still a master. And the son of the deceased. And the master's orders - they are not discussed. It is like a commandment that entered the flesh, absorbed with mother's milk. How can you refuse? Especially when he looks at you with such eyes - not childishly angry, but not adultly meaningful either. The eyes of a man who has lost himself.
He pushed the paper into the crack, almost gently, as if afraid of damaging it or what it carried. The paper fell in with a light, barely audible rustle. That's it. The sin was committed, and there was no turning back. Someone else's sin, but still - by his hands.
He drew back as if from a fire, and ran without looking back. He ran without stopping until he turned the corner, where the cart was waiting in a dark, damp alley. The horse, an old nag, snorted, sending clouds of steam into the cold air, and jingled its harness. Theodore slowed, breathing hard, and leaned against the rough wall of the house. He saw them: Mrs. Lily Creighton, wrapped in a traveling shawl, as if hiding from something invisible, and her son, Jerome, with an inscrutable, somehow triumphant face. They were already seated in the cart, with a modest bundle and a bulky, stickered suitcase lying beside them, ready to go.
Theodore, breathing heavily, came closer. The cart creaked under his weight.
"Where have you been, Teddy?" Mrs. Lily said impatiently, her voice sounding sharp, like the crack of a broken branch. She didn't even look at him, only adjusted her shawl. "We're late! The steamer won't wait!"
Theodore bowed his head so that Lily would not see his face, covered in sweat and worry.
"Forgive me, madam... It happened..."
Jerome, sitting opposite his mother, spoke up, and there was a strange, almost exultant anticipation in his voice. He looked at Theodore, and there was something in that look that sent a shiver down the old man's spine. It was the look of an accomplice, the look of one who shared a secret.
"Teddy was just checking that everything was in order with the luggage, Mom," Jerome said, deliberately casually. "We need to make sure nothing was forgotten."
Lily snorted in displeasure, but did not object, only straightening her shawl again.
"Get in, Teddy," Lily said, waving her hand toward the driver's seat. "Let's not waste time."
Theodore, somehow hunched over, climbed onto the box. He felt Jerome's gaze on him, which seemed to burn right through him. The boy grinned again, and Theodore, glancing at him, saw an unkind, malicious light in his eyes. "Look at you, little devil!" Theodore thought, shrugging his shoulders. "What are you planning, Lord..."
The carriage moved off, slowly turning out of the gateway onto the still sleepy street. They were leaving. From the short, fragmentary conversations with them the day before, it was clear that they would be going to a ship to America that evening. And what was there? The New World. Freedom? Theodore did not know. He had never left the confines of his native land, and thoughts of overseas distances seemed to him ghostly and incomprehensible, like dreams of paradise. He gripped the reins tightly, feeling their roughness in his palms. But he knew for sure that he had left his conscience in Petersburg, like a heavy stone that would now lie on his soul, haunting him, until his dying hour. He felt as if he had not simply thrown a piece of paper into a box, but had given up something important to be torn apart, something living, had torn something away from himself. And this weight, invisible to others, pressed on him more than any suitcase he had to carry.
...666...
Meanwhile, in the Yorks' house on Kirochnaya, in the narrow living room with embroidered curtains and ribbons laid out on the table, Karen opened the window, letting in the morning coolness - languid, heavy after the musty night. The air smelled not only of moisture, but also of something anxious, indefinite. It was a special day - Delia was turning nine. Everyone tried to act as usual, as if they did not notice this coolness, as if they did not feel how something else was hanging over the house, besides the smell of baked goods and candles that Pelageya was already preparing in the kitchen.
Gene came back from the porch. He was holding a crumpled piece of paper in his hand, which he tossed carelessly onto the table. There was no stamp or address on it, as if it had been thrown through the open gate and landed right on them.
"This is nonsense," muttered Gene, adjusting his collar. "It must be from those... What are they called... Who stick their stupid proclamations on every wall."
The paper was faded, as if it had been wandering the streets for a long time, and the lines on it were torn, careless, as if written in a hurry or with a trembling hand. Gene's eyes, sliding over the text, caught familiar words - about blood, people, rot. The same ones he had seen on the walls of houses and on lampposts.
Karen, who was standing nearby, came up to the table. She glanced at the sheet of paper and instantly turned pale. The content was not new to her, but in the handwriting, almost childish, terribly simple, there was something that frightened her. As if the letter was written for the feeble-minded, but this deliberate simplicity seemed ominous. A bitter thought flashed through her mind: whoever wrote this must have known that they were celebrating today and wanted to remind them - about the city, about the country, about their situation. To remind them ominously, almost like a curse cast upon their small domestic world.
Gene seemed to be losing interest in the paper. To him, it was just another harmless madness of street pranksters. He just shrugged and turned away.
"Just another paper rebellion, dear. No need to worry. What do we have today? Deedle should be down, and Pelageya promised pretzels."
Karen, her fingers shaking, carefully placed the leaflet on the dresser, next to the morning paper. She glanced quickly at Gene.
"You'd better think about who's distributing these leaflets," her voice was gentle, but there was a steely note in it. "Especially when strangers show up in the house..."
Gene chuckled as he began to fill his pipe with tobacco.
"You mean our new governess, Lisa? Come on, Karen. She... She's very efficient. And she looks after Delay well, no worse than the late Josephine.
Karen flinched slightly at the mention of Josephine.
"No worse?" She turned slowly to him. "Josephine loved Deedle as if she were her own. And this... Lisa... She seems cold to me. And then, you know, it seemed to me that she didn't love Deedle, didn't even care about her. Didn't you notice?"
Gene finally looked up, surprise and a little irritation flickering in his eyes.
"Nonsense, Karen. You're too suspicious. Lisa is just... She's just strict. And that's good for Deedle. She's already too spoiled, especially after Jo's death. We need order, not constant whims."
Karen didn't answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"You make it sound like I don't know how to raise our daughter," she whispered, and though her voice was quiet, Gene felt the air around her fill with a subtle tension. "Or maybe you just don't want to see... Some things."
Gene sighed, blowing out a puff of smoke.
"Well, here it begins. Women's discord. However, I didn't sign up for this. I need to go."
He turned abruptly and headed for the door, leaving Karen alone in the living room. She went into the kitchen, trying to look collected, but her gaze remained tense, like a string stretched to the limit, ready to snap at any touch. And then Xander entered the living room silently with a saucer in one hand and a cup in the other. It smelled of milk, a little bread and salt - like their mornings always smelled like, when Deedle had not yet woken up, and the adults talked in hushed tones so as not to wake her up ahead of time. Pelageya rustled in the kitchen, you could hear the dough breathing as she put it on pretzels. The living room was empty.
"Thank God," Xander whispered, barely moving his lips. "The last thing we needed was that... Lisa. Always poking her nose where it wasn't wanted. Like yesterday... She picked on Deedle because of some button. As if a war had started, and not a button had come off!" He always got angry when Lisa Roselli scolded Deedle. Josephine, the previous governess, was different - soft, kind, never raised her voice. "She was the real thing," he muttered barely audibly, and there was bitterness in his voice. "And this one... This one isn't real. She's just pretending." He felt in his gut that Lisa didn't like Deedle. Maybe she didn't hate her, but she certainly didn't love her. And that was the most important thing for Xander, because Deedle was his, Xander's, even though she was a young lady. She didn't look down on him like Karen sometimes did when she was in a bad mood, or that nasty Jerome. Deedle was... Well, just Deedle."
He passed by the chest of drawers, and then his gaze caught on a piece of paper. Crumpled, alien. It lay on top of a newspaper, but it was neither a newspaper nor a letter. Something...
"Some kind of crap, that's what it is," he hissed under his breath.
He stopped. The saucer trembled in his hand. Xander slowly put the cup on the windowsill, trying not to spill the milk, and came up to it. The paper seemed ordinary - in appearance, in color, but there was something in it... Something not right. No stamps, no inscriptions, no signatures. But the letters were large, scary, somehow... Somehow angry. As if they were screaming right in his face. He leaned closer, his nose almost touching the cold air coming from the paper.
He didn't read everything. A few words. 'Tsar', 'blood', 'people', 'there will be retribution'. He didn't know exactly what those words meant, but his body immediately shrank, as if someone had punched him in the gut. His hands went cold, his fingertips went numb.
"This is bad," he whispered. "Not just a piece of paper, not someone's stupid joke. It's like poison. Like a threat disguised as words." He had seen such words on walls, in the nooks and crannies where strange people gathered, always whispering and smoking tobacco. He had heard these words spoken by men in taverns when he ran for beer. And after them, something nasty always began.
"This is a disaster," he whispered, and then became frightened that he had spoken out loud. "Fool," he hissed to himself, "why are you chatting like a girl?"
He looked around. It was quiet. Even the clock in the hall was not ticking, as if frozen in terror. "Everyone's gone... No one saw. Good." He picked up the paper with two fingers, carefully, as if it might bite, or stick like tar. It rustled, as if it were indignant, like a living thing caught by the tail. He folded it in four, watching the letters disappear, hide, as if they could be undone, locked inside the crumpled sheet.
He tucked the paper into his bosom, under his shirt, where his heart was pounding like a captured bird. And he went into the kitchen. It smelled of bread, sour dough, flour, and with this smell, familiar, native, Xander tried to drown out the nauseating spirit of anxiety. Pelageya was kneading dough on the table, covered in flour, adjusting her kerchief with her elbow. She didn't even turn around, only muttered without raising her head:
"Put some wood on it, what are you standing there for? The oven will cool down, and the pretzels won't bake themselves!
Xander walked up to the stove, muttering under his breath:
"She's always with her firewood... And pretzels... She just won't give me a moment's peace..."
Pelageya suddenly turned around sharply.
"What are you mumbling about, Xander? Come on, don't be lazy! I hear that your tongue has become completely boneless?
Xander shuddered.
"Well, he's keeping his ears open," he hissed to himself.
"I'm not mumbling anything!" he shouted boldly, hiding his gaze. "It's just... There's just not enough firewood left, that's what I'm thinking."
Pelageya narrowed her eyes, but didn't argue. "He's lying, of course," she muttered under her breath, "but let him. He's just a boy, what can you expect." She turned away and started working on the dough again.
Xander, waiting for a moment until Pelageya turned away, hurried to the stove. The door was slightly open. The coals were still smoldering there, red as angry eyes. He took some kindling and blew on it - quietly, so as not to attract Pelageya's attention. The flame flared up, fluttered, licked the kindling, turning them into bright tongues of flame. He took out the paper. He held it over the fire.
"Go to hell," he said barely audibly, not to himself, not to anyone, just into the air, so that the words would dissolve in the warmth, like the paper itself. "And there's no need to drag all this junk around the house, to fool our lords."
And he abandoned it.
The paper flared up immediately - dryly, as if it had been waiting for this, as if it wanted to burn itself. It flared up and shrank, as if from pain, from the unbearable fire that was consuming its evil words. The letters twisted, charred, crumbled. The fire went out, leaving behind only a faint smoke. There remained gray soot, ash, some kind of cold inside, as if from work done that did not bring joy.
"Well then," he whispered, "one evil less." And he spat over his left shoulder, just in case.
He looked for a long time. Nothing moved. Even Pelageya suddenly fell silent, as if she felt something, but did not turn around.
He wiped his hands on his pants, pretended to straighten the wood, closed the stove door. Everything inside him was shaking. He knew: this was trouble. Someone had brought it. He didn't know why. But he knew: this was not the place for it. Not on this day. Not with Delia.
"Let her be at peace, at least today," he muttered. "And as for everything else... We'll figure it out somehow."
He came back out - quiet, clean, as he should be. As if nothing had happened. As if he was just a boy. With a cup. Empty-handed. The clock in the hall was ticking again. And very soon Deedle was supposed to wake up. He imagined her laughing look, her light hair, and his soul felt a little lighter, as if a heavy stone had shifted from its place for a moment.
"I should pick her some flowers," Xander muttered under his breath. "The ones from the front garden by the church. She loves them. Lisa probably doesn't know what kind of flowers Deedle likes. But I do. I know everything about Deedle."