Nikita never returned for the rest of the day's lessons. No one lingered by the classroom door to walk me to the next period. Instead, I drifted into step with Dasha—thankfully, our schedules overlapped for two more classes.
I found myself enjoying her company. We shared the same taste in books—both English and Russian classics—and had laughed over our mutual fondness for Private School and the travel show Heads & Tails. Like me, Dasha dreamed of seeing the world. On her list were Japan and the United Arab Emirates; mine, oddly enough, was Lake Baikal in the dead of winter.
The cold scared me, but I clung to the belief that the right clothing could solve almost anything. I'd spent hours staring at photographs of Baikal's thick, glassy ice—deep cornflower-blue cracks threading down into blackness, as if the entire lake had frozen solid. I imagined standing alone in the middle of that endless mirror, my breath clouding in the air, the world reduced to silence and sky and ice. That moment of stillness would be worth the long flight, the jet lag, and three layers of thermals.
At the end of our last class together, I pulled out my phone and showed her pictures I'd found online. She leaned closer, eyes bright with unfeigned admiration, and warmth bloomed in my chest.
"Wow! I'd love to see that," she said.
"Too bad it's not happening this year," I sighed.
"Yeah," she agreed, her tone tinged with disappointment. "Probably not next year either. You have to go in winter for it to look like that. Who knows how our first year will even go?"
"Do you know where you're applying yet?"
"I think so. I'm still torn about the faculty. And you?"
I slung my backpack over my shoulder as we left the classroom together.
"No idea. I haven't even chosen the city yet."
"I get it," she said. "It's hard starting from scratch somewhere new. I don't think I could do it."
We reached the ground-floor recreation area. I dropped my backpack onto a bench, shrugged into my jacket, and wound my scarf around my neck. Through the small window at the duty desk, I saw the snow had stopped. Then I remembered—Kostya wasn't meeting me today—and muttered a curse under my breath.
"Something wrong?" Dasha asked.
"Unfortunately," I admitted, pulling out my phone before realizing I didn't have Diana's number. Irritation prickled—today had been unraveling from the moment I woke up, and this was just the latest knot in the string.
"I need to call my dad," I said. "Diana was supposed to give me a ride, but I think she's already left."
"Can't you call her?"
"I don't have her number." I smiled faintly at the absurdity: hours ago I'd been discussing supernatural creatures with a girl I barely knew, yet I hadn't thought to get her friend's contact info.
"Let's check outside—maybe she's still in the car," Dasha suggested.
I could have hugged her. She was an island of calm in the chaos of my day, and I clung to that. One more setback and I might have fallen apart completely. A strange thought slipped in—what if Dasha herself wasn't human? What if she was… something else? How much truth hid in the stories meant to frighten children into guarding their lives? The more I thought about it, the more I realized I barely understood the world I was living in.
Lost in these musings, I followed her outside—and there it was, the familiar silver car, parked exactly where it had been that morning. But Diana wasn't in sight. Instead, Stas leaned casually against the hood, his graphite coat short enough to bare his wrists to the cold, arms open in an easy gesture.
Spotting us, Smirnov raised a hand in greeting. I stepped toward him, but Dasha hesitated. Then the passenger-side window slid down and Tatiana's head popped out.
"Hey, girls! Let's go get costumes. Stas can drive us."
When had Rostova gotten in with Smirnov—the same Smirnov who usually avoided everyone? I glanced at Dasha and saw the same question in her eyes.
"I can't," she said at once. "I didn't bring any money." Her polite smile carried a quiet sadness.
"No problem, I'll cover it," Stas replied, circling the car and swinging the door open with a flourish. "Hop in."
I hesitated. I was supposed to go straight home with Diana, but now the car was in Stas's hands, and they were headed to shop for costumes. It wasn't in my nature to make Tatiana happy, but in this case, I saw the opportunity—she'd see for herself I had no interest in Stas. Besides, I still had a story to finish—the one I'd started in the cafeteria about Dracula's brides.
As Dasha climbed in, I stepped closer to Stanislav and murmured, "Kostya won't let me."
"How do you know?"
The question caught me off guard.
"This morning, he had to get someone to drive me to school."
Stac's expression softened with understanding. "He's just afraid to leave you alone. I get it. But there's no more Kserton maniac. You and I both know that."
"Yes, but my father's still uneasy. He needs time. Please—take me home first."
Stas's eyes widened. He glanced over his shoulder toward Tatiana, as if checking she was still occupied with Dasha, then leaned closer until his breath warmed my ear.
"What if I call Kostya and ask?"
Skepticism prickled at me, but I remembered how warmly my father had always spoken of Stas—and that they already had each other's numbers. I gave a reluctant nod.
He slipped his phone from his coat pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and raised it to his ear. To my surprise, Kostya didn't object to the trip. Stas's smile deepened as they spoke, as if the conversation were not only easy but pleasant.
"Well, that's settled," he said after hanging up. "I'll take you home after, of course. I'll drop the girls first—you'll be the last. Then we'll talk." His eyes locked on mine, holding the challenge there for a moment before he nodded toward the passenger seat. "Now get in before Tanya starts asking what we're whispering about."