Òhe Hunt for the Òruth II - Old friends

“I am the Zaraskaya city mayor! How dare you office rats arrest me and drag me here?”
“You should have thought about that earlier, before putting your hands on government funds, Mr. Pankratov.”
“Why you-! I’ll-!"
“Sit down. Rest while you can.”

Private inspector Nikolai Gromov turned away from Pankratov, who was currently sitting under lock and key, his face crimson with rage, in order to take a seat in the corridor and wait. Some moments later, the office door of Moscow’s Chief of Police opened. His assistant, a middle-aged man with a small moustache and round glasses, stepped out into the corridor and gestured for Gromov to come. He quickly got to his feet and entered the office, leaving the assistant out in the hallway with their prisoner, Pyotr Pankratov.

In the office of his immediate superior, Gromov had always felt like a dwarf amongst giants. The high ceiling, white rectangular columns holding up the walls, huge oak furniture, and long tulle curtains - they all loomed over him. Although, Nikolai himself was not a small man. He was a handsome, tall, broad-shoulder young man of three-and-twenty, with curling locks of dark brown hair and strong, thick eyebrows. Someone like him stood out amongst the crowd, attracting looks with his languid eyes but then immediately scaring them off with his grave expression and frowning brow.

The Chief of Police stood by the window, peering through the curtains out onto the busy Moscow street, when Gromov entered the room. Over the last couple days, his balding head seemed to be getting smoother and smoother, forcing him to almost constantly don a greyish wig. His back was all but twisted from the many nights he spent at his desk. The Chief of Police had two small scars - on his chin and his right temple - from his long years of service. The glasses, which fit easily on his aquiline nose, were in dire need of cleaning but, over the past week, he still had not found a minute of free time. Perhaps, with the mayor’s arrest, the local criminals would calm down for at least a week or so.

“Pyotr Pankratov, city mayor of Zaraskaya, has been placed under arrest and is being held at our chancellery, Your Excellency,” Nikolai reported with a bow, closing the door behind him. The Chief of Police nodded thoughtfully and let out a heavy sigh, for he had been a close acquaintance of the mayor’s. “Ivan Semyonovich?” Gromov queried, raising an eyebrow when his superior said nothing.

“Capital, capital, Nikolai Anatolyevich,” the Chief of Police nodded, turning away from the window. “Splendid work, as always. Although, I cannot say that I am the slightest bit surprised.” Nikolai didn’t answer. He decided to keep his opinion to himself: Pankratov had to have taken additional funds from somewhere in order to afford a summer home, three carriages, and servants - the salary of a city head of such a small town like Zaraskaya could not have afforded it all. It was thanks to all the expenses only that Gromov had first suspected Pankratov.

“A report shall be in your office by this evening, Your Excellency,” Gromov assured him, bowing once more, and he was about to leave the office when the Chief of Police called out to him.
“Wait.”
“Yes, Ivan Semyonovich?”
“I’m leaving for Petersburg tomorrow morning,” he began, moving away from the window and sitting down behind his desk. “An oral report is required, as well as a detailed account of the mayor’s arrest. You are coming with me. Do you agree?”

Nikolai didn’t think long about the proposal. He knew that if he went with him to the capital itself and successfully managed to make important acquaintances, then he may have the opportunity to achieve his dream and join the Secret Chancellery. Smiling slightly as he thought of his dream, Gromov nodded in agreement.

“As you say, Your Excellency.”
“Then go question the mayor, after which you may get some rest. I’ll come for you tomorrow at half past nine. Be ready. Understood?”
“I understand, Ivan Semyonovic.”
“Then go.”

Barely holding a jubilant smirk back from his face, Gromov saluted the Chief of Police and stepped back out into the hallway. There, he paused for a moment. Taking a deep breath and releasing with an even deeper exhale, he adjusted the lapels of his plain brown caftan and headed back towards Pankratov. He now had his usual serious expression on his face, although secretly from within he continued to rejoice at his good fortune. But, he suddenly reminded himself, it was also in part thanks to his skills; every case that he had taken on, Nikolai had eventually solved. He was known amongst his colleagues for his acute understanding and ability to easily handle not only swords but pistols also. A detective like him deserved to go to Petersburg. Finally, the moment had come.

***

The first thing Mariya did upon arriving in Moscow, was to untie her wearied horse from its carriage and find someone willing to buy the stolen coach. Of course, she could have immediately sold them together but she thought that the sale of such an expensive carriage and the horse with it would not go unnoticed. Mariya had no reason to attract unnecessary attention to herself, especially since Pankratovs already had many connections in the city, through which they would certainly attempt to track her.

Fortunately, a buyer was found. Two Poles, evidently not local judging by their constant glancing around, were arguing amongst themselves for quite some time, while beside them stood a broken carriage with a missing wheel. They had no tools to repair it and needed to go home urgently, so they bought the coach off Mariya. Now she had seven rubles.

Then, Mariya suddenly remembered her dress - she was still wearing her wedding dress. It, like an expensive carriage or a well-groomed horse, distinguished the escaped bride from the rest of the crowd, with its high-quality pale blue fabric. She needed to rid herself of it. Immediately.


So immersed was Mariya in her thoughts and scheme of how to erase all traces of her presence in Moscow, that she didn’t notice anything around her. Not the gossip of the tradesmen, nor a nearby fight, happening right in the doorway of a small tavern, not even the top of Imperial Moscow University’s tower, seen far off in the distance. Mariya only saw the surprised gazes of passers-by. Even for the Moscovian elite, such a bright and expensive gown was much too much. No, she absolutely had to get rid of it but how?

All of a sudden, Mariya remembered how her parents, years ago, in honour of their youngest daughter’s sixteenth birthday, went with her to Moscow and ordered two new dresses from the best dressmaker in the city. She had even remembered to this day where it was located. That was where Mariya decided to go.

Having tied her horse up out in the street and anxiously looking around, Mariya climbed the steps of the dressmaker’s narrow house and decisively knocked upon the door. Although the woman was surprised to see such a well-dressed young lady on her doorstep all alone, Mariya managed to overcome her awkwardness and step inside the house. She did not have time for pleasantries that wasted her time as well as the opportunity to disappear without a trace.

The dressmaker, overpowering her surprise, gladly accepted Mariya’s proposed idea. Such an expensive gown, made from exquisite fabric, could easily be sold to any rich Moscovian lady. In return, Mariya didn’t ask for much. Only just for a simple skirt of roughly woven grey wool that had been hanging on a nearby chair, a jacket made from that same wool, and a white shawl.

Even more shocked than before by the girl’s strange request, the woman first carefully examined the gown offered to her, checking the quality of the fabric and the seams. Only after all that did she nod in satisfaction and agree to an exchange, knowing that the gown could be sold for twice as much as what Mariya wanted to take from her. Thus, Mariya had successfully acquired a new dress for herself, one that would not make her stand out from the crowd of merchants roaming the street.

Having said goodbye to the seamstress, she went back out into the street, pulling tight the white shawl across her chest in order to copy the fashion of ordinary women. Now, only one thing remained - to get rid of the horse. She could get a good price for it, with which Mariya could buy herself all the food necessary before setting off for Petersburg.

Taking a deep breath and gathering her strength, Mariya untied her horse and led it down the busy street, following the example of the other sellers and shouting loudly. “Who needs a horse? A young horse, agile and calm! Who needs a horse? Selling it for cheap! Who needs a horse?”

In this fashion, she walked down the entire street, delighted that nobody paid any particular attention to her, allowing her to blend in with the noisy crowd. However, an hour had passed and still nobody had shown interest in her horse. Finally, Mariya stopped at the corner of one of the less busy streets and sat down in the shade, atop a pile of firewood. During her hour of wandering along the main streets of Moscow, she had left the merchant area located next to the riverbank and had wandered into the outdoor workyards.

The sun still shone in the sky above her but now it didn’t seem joyful and light; it felt hot and cruel. Looking around at the workers and craftsmen working hard in their simple shirts, at the barking dogs, and at the craftsmens’ wives’ arguments, Mariya simply shook her head. It didn’t seem likely that one of them had a need for such a purebred stallion. For a moment, she thought to let him go but, looking at the horse that loyally followed her everywhere, Mariya found she had not the hardness to do that to him.

She was already about to leave the craftsmens’ yard and go back out onto the street, having cooled down slightly in the shade, when suddenly Mariya heard an argument between two men that were standing nearby.

“I must go with you, else something will happen along the way and I won’t know of it for a long time!”
“Even if I were not so against you joining us, you still could not come with us, Arkadiy Gennadyevich.”
“Why is that?”
“Because neither you nor I have a horse to spare and we must depart today.”

In the left corner of the yard, from where one could easily observe the craftsmen, as well as all the other workers, stood two arguing men. One, a gentleman of average height with a noticeable belly and a white wig that was too small for his bald head, irritatedly tapped his black cane on the dry ground. Apparently, he was Arkadiy Gennadyevich.

The second was a man of considerable age, judging by the wrinkles on his swarthy face and graying hairs of his lush beard. He wore a simple dark-coloured suit that fit him rather poorly, the sleeves of his caftan barely containing his strong arms.

Sensing an opportunity to solve her problem, Mariya jumped down from the logpile and confidently strode over to them, leading the stallion after her.
“How can you not have a horse for me? Are you starting to forget yourself? Why I-!”
“Do you need a horse, master?”

The men slowly turned to her, staring with surprise at the unexpectedly appeared girl. Mariya waited for a short while before continuing when neither of them answered. “I beg your pardon for interrupting but I have an answer to your problem, sir. See, I have this fantastic horse that I have no need at all for right now. If you want it, I can sell it to you.”

“You… Who are you? You don’t seem to be a simple tradeswoman,” Arkadiy Gennadyevich finally responded, bending closer to Mariya to get a look at her face. Bashful for a moment, Mariya had forgotten that she could not behave as she had been taught to. She quickly pulled herself together and responded. “Well, sir, will you take the horse or not?” Mariya demanded, trying to lower her voice and add a little cockiness to it. “If no, then just say so.”

“Get out of her, girl, before I-!”

“You better shut up, Pavel,” Arkadiy Gennadyevich interrupted him, decisively hitting him on the leg with his cane. He immediately fell silent. “How much do you want for the horse?”
“Five rubles, sir. See how well-groomed he is, how obedient and calm? For such a wonderful stallion, I can’t take any less than five rubles.”

“Five rubles? Well… Of course, that is…,” Arkadiy Gennadyevich pondered, exchanging glances with the craftsmen. Seeing how Pavel shook his head, he made up his mind and gave her an answer. “I’ll take it!”
“You’ll… you’ll take it?”

“Yes, I’m buying it off you,” he resolutely told her, retrieving from the inner pocket of his silken vest a small bag that jingled merrily with every movement. Not believing her luck, Mariya barely managed to wipe the amazement off her face as she silently held out the reins to him. “Here’s five rubles for you. Make sure to spend them wisely,” said Arkadiy Gennadyevich, solemnly taking the reins from Mariya and glancing at Pavel, who stood quietly to the side, evidently disapproving.

“Thank you, sir, thank you! Thanks!” Mariya practically exclaimed with happiness, immediately hiding the money in her pocket. With a low bow, smiling widely, she ran a hand over the stallion’s back before running off, leaving them with the horse.

Running out onto the noisy street, Mariya stopped to take a good glance around and get a better look at this part of the city. In the distance, almost on the horizon, she could see the top of Menshikov’s Tower, its copper angel shining in the daylight like a moon in the night. Everywhere she heard people speaking, as if a cloud of endless noise hung over the city to which one would eventually grow accustomed to. The Moskva River ran nearby, its refreshing smell sweeping across the city on the summer breeze.

Suddenly, her moment of calm observation was interrupted by the uncontrollable gurgling of Mariya’s empty stomach, thanks to which she was reminded of one very important thing: she wanted to eat and she wanted it now.

Turning around, she intended to return to the trading district and buy herself the most delicious foods, when all of a sudden Mariya saw a face she knew. Sergei Petrovich, accompanied by his posse of friends with whom he had chased after her mere hours ago, stood about seven hundred yards away from Mariya and calmly looked out onto the Moskva River. He spoke relaxedly with his friends, however, she noticed how his gaze was directed not at the river but at the street and everything around him.

Mariya stood frozen in shock in the middle of the street. She did not know what to do. Her hands began to shake, her knees weakened, and her heartbeat rang in her ears. What was she to do?

Run.

Mariya began to run in the opposite direction. She had acted without thinking, for her thoughts stopped and ended as they flickered for a moment in her mind with each infrequent breath. However, Mariya knew one thing was certain: she needed to run as fast as possible. She hadn’t been spotted.

A stranger appeared in her path, into whom Mariya painfully crashed, almost falling to the ground.
“Ouch!”
“Are you hurt? My apologies.”

Raising her gaze from the dust ground beneath them, Mariya looked into the stranger’s eyes and, in an instant, lost herself in them. They were golden, like ancient amber, covered in dark specks of hazel. Like puddles of molten gold, which she wanted to dive into and descend in the endless luxury.

She sharply came to her senses. It seemed that the stranger had asked her something and she forced herself to break the oh-so-pleasant trance she’d been in. Shaking her head, Mariya jumped back away from him, though she didn’t want to do so. The stranger turned out to be a young man, several years older than her and a head taller, despite the fact that Mariya was not a small young woman.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked, his calm voice sounding familiar to her. Mariya shook her head, finally fully dispelling her sweet stupor. “Everything is fine with me, sir,” she sharply answered, brushing the road dust off of her dress. Glancing over her shoulder, Mariya saw to her horror that Pankratov, his attention attracted by her sharp cry, was walking straight towards them. “What is the matter? Is someone following you?” the stranger inquired, noticing her fright. “Oh God!” Mariya muttered under her breath, before going around him and hurrying off. But that, too, did not last for long.

Having reached a turn in the road, Mariya was about to turn around the corner, when suddenly a decadent carriage drove out from around it, straight into her path. Seeing the running girl, the coachman tried to slow the horses down but it was too late. Mariya froze in her tracks. Though her thoughts screamed at her to run away, her limbs refused to move and she silently watched as the horses reared up above her, seized with fright.

At the last second, when Mariya already thought that at any moment she’d feel huge horse hooves kick her in the head, the brave stranger rushed to her rescue and pulled Mariya to the side and out of the carriage’s path.

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” he demanded, grasping her by her shoulders against the wall as he worriedly looked her over. “Let me go, I need to run!” Mariya hissed in reply, trying to free herself from his grip but his hands were too strong, heavy even. Despite her flushing cheeks, she was still able to control herself and think of the approaching Pankratov. If he saw her face even out of the corner of his eye, she was done for. Mariya had to keep running, not play around with strangers.

“Mariya! Masha, is that you?” A familiar female voice suddenly rang out. Pulling her gaze away from the courageous stranger, who evidently would not leave without an answer, Mariya immediately recognised the young gentlewoman leaning out of the carriage that had almost run her over.
“Kseniya?”
“Yes, it’s me, Masha! Lord, it is you!”

Finally managing to push the stranger away from herself, Mariya determinedly ran up to the carriage and leapt into it, leaving the stranger behind without a word. Pankratov, to whom the girl’s face seemed somewhat familiar, watched all this with confusion. However, he immediately explained it all to himself: obviously, she was the lady’s servant. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he returned to his friends. The stranger, not understanding anything at all, remained there by the road, staring after the carriage as it moved on.

***

Sitting across from each other inside the mother-of-pearl carriage, the young women did not speak for a long time, neither of them uttering a single word. They stared at each other, each of them looking longingly at the other’s face, remembering every flaw, every movement, every feature. Mariya knew - felt - that she would have to tell her the whole truth. About her parents’ death, about the sudden middle-of-the-night departure from Petersburg, and about everything that had occurred since.

But, every time she wanted to speak at least half a word, Mariya couldn’t find the words to say. Rather, there were too many of them. She wanted to say too many things at the same time. Barely parting her lips, she immediately shut them and looked down, cheeks blushing with shame. Yes, yes - Mariya was ashamed.

At last, Kseniya could not take it any longer and quietly asked, her voice devoid of anger or resentment: “Mariya, where have you been? I have not seen you for the last two years… What happened to you?”

Her words brought a bitter smile to Mariya’s face and with it arose the memories of their lasting friendship. Earlier, before there was the hellish fire in which her parents died and she had to go to the countryside with the Pankratovs, Mariya had lived in comfort and did not want for anything. She wore fashionable dresses, drank coffee in the morning for breakfast, and rode everywhere in carriages. Her father had even undertaken the task of teaching her how to fence, but only when her mother was not home. They had had everything.

Lady Kseniya Dolgorukova was her best friend. As the eldest daughter of Duke Mikhail Ivanovich Dolgorukov himself, she enjoyed a very high position in Petersburg society. The girls did everything together - danced at balls, walked through flower gardens, and gossiped at night when they occasionally spent the night at each other’s houses.  They had known each other since childhood and it seemed that their friendship would never end but then, tragedy struck.

Mariya had to, without saying goodbye, leave the burnt remnants of her family home and disappear, as it had seemed to her then, forever. Now, when Kseniya sat right in front of her awaiting an explanation, Mariya felt guilty.

Kseniya had changed a lot over the last two years, though Mariya had recognised her right away. She had grown noticeably, transforming from an innocent girl who hid from the night thunder into an exciting young woman of eighteen. As a little girl, Mariya had always secretly envied Kseniya’s beauty but now she was even lovelier.

Her hair, the same black colour as the midnight sky, was just as straight and long as it had been two years ago. Those olive eyes of hers, the corners prettily raised, had always reminded Mariya of a graceful leopard wandering through forests and mountains as it hunted. She wore a crimson gown, the edges of which were hemmed with small multi-coloured flowers made of lightweight silk. Over her hair, styled according to the latest fashions, sat an elegant tricorne hat made of beige felt, from under which a light cap ribbon poked out, sewn with snow-white pearls that ideally matched the hat’s long ostrich feathers. The final touch were a pair of beige gloves and a fan.


Compared to Mariya’s simple dress, devoid of any flowers or pearls, she seemed like a goddess, the lady of ethereal beauty.

“I…I…,” she tried to answer but Mariya’s words were cut short by a piercing sob. Her lips moved, trying to form words, although there was no sound. Mariya felt like she was short of air. She tried to breathe it in, feel the pleasure of breathing at least once, but her breathing was too rapid and the tears in her eyes hurt her throat. Finally, Mariya managed to utter but two words: “Forgive me!”

Without saying a single word, Kseniya sat down next to her and tightly hugged Mariya, pulling her whole body to her. Mariya immediately wrapped her arms around her, embracing Kseniya just as warmly, burying her head in her shoulder to muffle her sobbing.

“P-Please forgive me, Ksenyushka! Please, I beg you,” Mariya whispered in her ear when she had finally calmed down, her sobs growing quieter and quieter. “Of course I forgive you, Masha, of course! Why are you saying such nonsense?” Kseniya answered, tears in her eyes, unable to hold it back any longer and starting to cry hearing Mariya’s sobs.

For a long time, the young women did not say anything else, comfortingly stroking each other on the back as they hugged tightly, all their resentment and grief coming out through their tears. Eventually, they let go of each other but continued to hold hands. Wiping the remnants of teardrops from her eyes, Kseniya queried: “So what happened to you, Masha? Why did you leave so unexpectedly then, without saying goodbye to anyone?”

“There was a fire,” Mariya began with a heavy sigh. “Everything on our estate was completely burnt down. And… Mother and Father… d-died.They couldn’t be found during the fire and when they did find them, it was already too… too late.”

“That is why you had to leave so urgently, right?” Kseniya guessed, having kept silent for a little while, obviously reflecting on what Mariya had just told her. “Yes, that is why,” nodded Mariya, her gaze falling on their clasped hands. “These two years, I lived with the family of my sister’s husband. It was to them that I went then. And now…”

“What now?”
“Now I’m all alone.”
“Why is that? How?”

“I ran away,” she answered quickly. “They wished to make me marry their eldest son so that they could get their hands on our family’s money. You see? They wanted to ruin me - my life - for money’s sake!” All the rage, all the anger that Mariya had pent up over the Pankratovs all these years suddenly resurfaced. Her hands clenched into shaking fists and her cheeks reddened suddenly.


“What do you intend to do now? Have you given it much thought? Where will you now go?” Kseniya asked with a frown, anxiously looking at Mariya. “They’re chasing after me. The Pankratovs hunt me as if I’m an animal, so I cannot stay in Moscow. I need to run as fast as I can, otherwise-” Kseniya grabbed her by the shoulders, her eyes shining at the sudden possibility that she could help her friend. “Then come with me. I’m going to Petersburg tomorrow morning, back to my house, and you can join me.”

Mariya remained silent for some time, not knowing what to answer Kseniya. On the one hand, she had to flee to Petersburg, to the capital, where the Pankratovs would never find her and, after all, the Dolgorukovs were far from strangers to her. But on the other hand, Mariya still felt guilt and shame. Shame that she had disappeared for so long without even saying goodbye to them before leaving and for this brazen way of invading their lives. No, it wouldn’t be right of her.

Evidently noticing the doubt and probable refusal in Mariya’s eyes, Kseniya hurriedly reassured her friend. “If you are concerned about Mother and Father, then don’t fret,” she smiled. “To them you are like a second daughter. They had even hired a private eye to try and track you but he had been unsuccessful.”

“I love your parents very much, too, Ksenyushka, but…,” Mariya hesitated, feeling Kseniya’s eyes almost burn through her. “But I am so ashamed that I don’t even know how I’ll look them in the eyes.”

Kseniya stared pensively at her reddened face, a little surprised by her frank feelings but when Mariya leaned across to the carriage door, about to jump back out onto the street, the Duke’s daughter suddenly asked: “And are you not ashamed to abandon me?”

Mariya immediately grew still. Kseniya’s voice tone was not at all joking or amused, and hearing her voice, Mariya’s hand slowly lowered away from the door as she returned to her seat. “Are you not ashamed, after two years, to give me hope like this and then go disappear again?” Kseniya calmly asked once more, but she could hear the restrained disappointment. Taking a deep breath, Mariya turned to her and, smiling faintly, said: “I… I will leave with you. I won’t abandon you, friend.”

***

Dead silence hung over the room. Only the tall grandfather clock, tucked into the far corner of the room, seemed to break the silence. If not for a set of candles, all of different heights and stages of melting, placed in various corners of the room, it would have been even darker than it was outside. But, even with these candles, it was still dim and even murky.

The room was obviously a bedroom; against one wall, there was an old four-poster bed; under the window opposite stood a heavy wooden secretaire and, to the right of it, there was a cabinet with all the things necessary for the morning toilette.  The bedroom belonged to a man, judging by the razor that lay in the basin by on the cabinet and the worn-out military uniform hanging proudly on the door of the open wardrobe, covered in a thin layer of dust.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps rang out on the staircase. They drew closer, stopping at the bedroom door. There was a loud swishing in the keyhole, after which the door opened and an old man came into the room, his loud coughing almost knocking him to the ground, if not for his servant, a man about twenty years younger, who managed to grab him just in time.

The old man, still doubled over from coughing, grabbed the servant’s hand and let him, taking small steps, lead him over to the bed. He was many years old, most of which he had evidently spent in the saddle and on the battlefield. The old man’s thin grey hair had begun to fall out long ago, and now there was barely any of it left. On his cheek was a large white scar, a reward for a well-fought valiant battle in the name of the Motherland. Apparently, in his youth he was a truly handsome young man - broad-shouldered, strong, with an attractive square jaw and eagle nose. But now, it was all covered with wrinkles and folds. His hand, its former strength lost, lay on his heart in an attempt to calm his uneven breathing.

The servant, making his old master was comfortably seated, went over to the cabinet to fill a glass of water, the jug filled that morning, and served it to him. Gratefully accepting it, the old man drank all the water in almost one gulp.

Now that the coughing had passed for the moment, the old man sighed with relief and groaned, stretching out his thin legs. “Thank you, Grisha. I don’t know what I would do without you.” The servant put the glass away. “You would have long been in Heaven, sir,” he answered practically, obediently bending down to help pull off the old man’s sturdy leather boots. “That’s true. If a month ago, when my heart began to hurt, you had not been there, Grisha, then I truly would have left this world already,” the old man agreed without taking any offence, quickly crossing himself.

Having taken off his boots and thrown off the day coat from his frail shoulders, he sat down more comfortably on the bed and was going to finally lie down, when he suddenly remembered something important.

“Grisha, I have an assignment for you. It is very important.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I need you to find a young woman and bring her to me.” Noticing his servant’s surprised look, the old man clicked his tongue, shook his head, and waved him off. “Come off it, you fool! I must speak with her, understand?”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
“But in no way must you frighten her, else you will ruin everything. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. What am I, a wild animal to frighten young women? What should I call her?”

Something changed in his heavy-lidded eyes. His firm gaze softened for a moment, gazing far off into the distance. Finally, he noticed the expectant assistant and gave him his answer.

“This girl’s name is Mariya Alekseyevna Yelagina.”

***

Somewhere far, far away, it rained. No, not rain - it was an absolute downpour. The kind that left a sharp frost on the skin, seeped into the blood, as the cold froze it. The kind that made you empty inside, filling your mind with all sorts of sad memories and thoughts.

A river flowed nearby, its banks barely holding back the seething stream, swelling with every second. Tree branches, weighed down by dark leaves that grew heavier with each raindrop, hung sadly down. The moon hid behind thick grey clouds; only the stars, playfully twinkling in the night sky, shone in the midnight storm.

But he could not care less.

He stood in the middle of a small graveyard of a nearby town, arms folded. Dressed in all black, his face completely covered by the shadow from the cocked hat on his head, he stood silent and just stared. He stared at a grave, small and modest.

Through the shadow, something akin to tears could be seen on his young face. Or maybe it was just rainwater, slowly flowing down his smooth cheek. Squeezing his dark, long eyelashes shut and wiping his reddened eyes, he pulled a bouquet of red and wite carnations out from under his cloak with a heavy sigh. He’d seen them in a field along the way and made sure to gather some. Despite a couple of missing petals after a long ride, he still carefully laid them on the grave, bowing down to it.

“Forgive me.”

Straightening up, the young man’s demeanor changed drastically. The drops on his cheeks dried up; his shoulders straightened out; those limp hands clenched into tight fists; his eyes, filled with an unquenchable melancholy and hopelessness, turned stony in an instant.

“I won’t let them simply forget about you. They think that, since you are dead, no one else will remember you. That’s not true. I will fight for you every day ‘til I destroy every single one of them. The Yelagins will remember you.”

Having said so, the young man bowed low before the grave, lowered his hat even more and pulled a black kerchief up to cover up his lower face, then turned abruptly and left the graveyard. All that remained as a reminder of him was the bouquet of wild flowers lying on the grave.