Although I was no longer part of the performance, Dasha and Tanya had persuaded me to wear the costume of Dracula's bride. My classmates insisted that I was an essential part of the team, a kind of talisman who would watch from the crowd and signal movements in case anyone faltered. The idea was flattering, though the girls had to remind me that I barely knew the choreography, having missed all the rehearsals. Still, their insistence lifted my spirits.
The last two days at school slipped by almost unnoticed, except for the moments when Nikita appeared in my line of sight. Each time I saw him, I questioned whether I had made the right decision. Tanya had been right about one thing: breaking up over the phone was wrong. No one deserved that. Only now, watching the pain flicker across Nikita's face, did I fully understand it. His familiar, once-beloved face lingered in my mind, stubbornly refusing to fade. My feelings had quieted under the shadow of the danger Karimov had brought into my life, but what else could I do? My family had already suffered too much.
I pulled a spacious gray cloak over my costume, its soft lining warming me against the chill. It was so loose and voluminous that it almost reached my knees. I could only hope I wouldn't freeze on the way to the disco. After all, the costumes of Dracula's brides—more akin to belly-dancing outfits—were hardly suited for late October in Ksertoni. While my father and I had been in Rostov, a cyclone had swept over the city, blanketing the streets in snow. By Tuesday, some of it had melted, but the largest drifts remained stubbornly in place, a silent promise that winter's remnants would linger until spring.
Kostya waited patiently, watching TV, while I finished styling my hair in the bathroom. For the first time in months, I dug the straightener out of the cabinet and attempted bouncy curls, following an online tutorial. Skill—or the lack thereof—was evident: my curls were uneven, far from the smooth perfection on the screen. Still, I was pleased. For once, I had achieved something I could call success. What I didn't like was how much time it had taken. I thought of girls who woke early each day to tame their hair, apply makeup meticulously, eat breakfast, shower, and prepare themselves. No wonder my mother only bothered with makeup on special occasions.
I didn't know how to draw eyeliner precisely, so I dabbed pastel shades onto my eyelids with my fingertip to add depth, then tried to thicken my eyebrows with short pencil strokes. Next came the false eyelashes. My first attempt ended in disaster: too much adhesive, sticky strips clinging to my fingers. On the second try, I pressed the lashes into place with tweezers, and they held.
Satisfied, I left the bathroom and called to my father, but received no answer. Entering the living room, I saw him spring from the couch, pressing his phone between shoulder and ear as he hurriedly donned his jacket.
"I'm already leaving," he said into the phone, then ended the call and turned to me, a disappointed frown on his face. "Damn it. Even if we rush, I won't be able to give you a ride."
"Don't worry," I forced a smile, hiding my disappointment. "Work is work. I understand."
I wasn't lying. Urgency in Ksertoni was rare. Over the past two months, I should have grown accustomed to my father's absences, yet after the maniac's death, I still hoped for calm. If only I could shield my parents from all harm. Not every choice rested in my hands, but accepting reality was difficult. A nagging doubt had lodged in my mind, whispering that no decision I made could protect my loved ones from every visible and invisible threat.
"Dad, has anyone in our family ever had an allergy like mine?" I asked. My father rarely discussed such matters, which always seemed odd. Now, his expression turned flat.
"Yes. My dad and I. Just don't touch anything similar again. Even if you're unsure whether it's aconite. Just don't touch it. And if you do, wash the spot thoroughly with water."
Hearing this surprised me. If Kostya had the same allergy, perhaps it wasn't so alarming. Maybe I was overthinking it. If he wasn't worried, I shouldn't be either.
"You never told me," I said. My father shrugged and busied himself, pocketing keys and other items.
"Will you find a ride?" Kostya called from the hallway, putting on his shoes.
"Yes. I'll call Tanya. Maybe we can take a taxi together," I replied, searching for my phone.
"Great. I left money by the mirror. Have fun! Try to be back not too late."
"Okay."
Once the door closed behind him, I dialed Tatiana's number. She picked up after the third ring, her voice hard to make out over background noise.
"Hello?"
"Tanya, how are you getting there? Kostya left on a call, and I spent forever on my hair. There's no way I'm riding my bike. Maybe we should order a taxi for both of us?"
"I'm going with Dasha," she paused, then continued after a moment's thought. "I'll call her. How about we meet at your place in half an hour?"
"Perfect! Thanks."
Before she hung up, I thought I heard a man's voice faintly in the background, but dismissed it as imagination.
I opened my browser and found a taxi service number, ordering a car to arrive around the time the girls would get to my place. As the kettle boiled for tea, my phone vibrated—an unknown number. Panic shot through me. Had I miscalculated? Was the taxi already here? How much would waiting cost?
"Hello, I only need the car in half an hour," I stammered, beginning to explain.
Then a sharp, hissing sound cut through the line. I recoiled.
"A-a-a-sya-ya-ya," a wheeze echoed.
"Hello? Who is this?" I asked, my voice trembling, but the name was repeated relentlessly.
A high-pitched female laugh followed, sending shivers down my spine. Worst of all, I immediately recognized it.
"Galina?" I whispered, my voice cracking.
The connection went dead, leaving only short beeps. I frantically called back, but a mechanical voice repeated endlessly: "The number is not available. Please try again later."