“What trouble?” Methodius asked. “A-a-and, my dear, one immediately sees how green you are! Who asks Death about the future! If I answer you, then I’ll have to cut you down! So, interested?” Mamzelkina glanced at Met so pointedly that he even stepped back. A hot and empty abyss blazed in Aida Plakhovna’s small eyes. “No, don’t!” he said in a hurry. “As you wish! Suit yourself, paradise saved! Ciao, clear-eyes, and you know to watch over your eidos. Perhaps your eidos isn’t better than others’. I’ve transferred many of them, I know the price of each… But indeed awfully powerful forces stand behind it, your eidos, they do, they do… Here’s like in the casino: now and then, the seven is so bound to the eight that even an ace can’t butt in! Clear?” “Clear.”

The old woman smirked. “I love intelligence. Are you indeed intelligent?” “Yes.” “That’s nice. And look after your Daphne! Indeed a painfully bright girlie – lest something doesn’t work out. Because of her. And… with her… Understand me?” It seemed to Methodius there was a hint – a very clear hint – in the old woman’s words. But to what extent her prophecy had to do with the near future – this he did not know. Buslaev felt that everything was not so simple here. Oh, how complex!

Aida Plakhovna left, dragging her legs. Her dry, efficient cough reached them from the outside, and almost immediately somewhere on an adjacent street the siren of an ambulance howled heartrendingly. Whether these events were connected, Methodius did not know. Although he would not be surprised to find out that the old woman started her work while she was still here. True pros of the necro-department never stop working for a moment. Their scythe shoots up and falls down ten times a minute.

After the departure of the industrious old woman, Methodius and Julitta remained in reception together. Julitta, on whom Mamzelkina dumped a pile of parchments requiring sorting, was again in a bad mood. After the succubae and agents, she, according to her own expression, took a long time restoring the acid-alkaline balance in her soul. Moreover, she had the usual date in the evening and had to scrape on the walls and gather together at least a bit of good emotion. Not wanting to be like a sponge taking in her dark mood, Methodius, for something to do, set off for the room adjacent to reception.

This was a tight and gloomy nook by the stairs; the furniture there was only a sofa so decrepit that Methodius would not be surprised to find out that Noah himself slept on it in his ark. Something was gnashing in the dark, exactly a key turning in a lock, and a hoarse voice said, “The old sinner Protagor said, ‘Man is the measure of all things: of things which are, that they are, and of things which are not, that they are not.’ With these words he wanted to say, ‘If a man believes in the gods, then they exist, if he doesn’t, then they don’t.’”

“Who’s here? I ask: who’s here?” Methodius nervously asked. He did not receive an answer, but wings started to flap, and Buslaev realized that Ares’ ancient prophetic raven was talking to him. The raven was so old that its feathers had come off in some places and dull pink skin peeped out. Now and then Methodius was surprised that the raven was still alive. Neither Ares nor Julitta ever fed it and generally, they extremely rarely recalled its existence. However, Methodius knew precisely that the raven was with them even in the lighthouse.

His eyes gradually grew accustomed to the semidarkness. Methodius saw that the door of the cage was wide open. The raven was sitting on the back of the sofa and looking about askance. “Pour some water for you perhaps?” Buslaev proposed. The raven ruffled up indifferently. Methodius did not know whether the bird understood human speech or thoughtlessly repeated phrases heard sometime long ago. He sat in the semidarkness, listening as the large bird stirred in the dusk, sat for nearly half an hour, thinking about something vague. At first in his thoughts was Irka, whom he had treated rather poorly, not visiting her for a long time, and then finally Daph with her enormous white wings supplanted her.

When Methodius was going to return to reception, the raven suddenly pecked the back of the sofa and said, “Into the cloth of centuries is interweaved this parable. She was a guard, and she threw onto his neck the lace with the wings, not knowing that she has to fall in love with him and share immortality with him. She did not know that the moronoid world would begin to draw her in, so that at some point in infinity hearts and fates will unite. So let the flute play!”

Methodius quickly took a step towards the raven. “What are you talking about? Daph? What does it mean?” he nervously asked. However, the bird had already become silent again and was only indifferently walking along the back of the sofa. Whether this parable was from the past or the future, whose cloth was not yet woven, it was impossible to understand. After struggling with the raven for about ten minutes, Methodius nevertheless secured from it the next phrase, “He said: Dhul-Qarnayn! Gog and Magog are doing harm to this land; shall we pay tribute to you so that you would set up a barrier between us and them?” the bird said hoarsely, finally baffling Methodius. Buslaev angrily turned and left.

He expected Julitta alone in reception, but during his absence there appeared Daphne and Tukhlomon, having already had time to forget that he had gotten it on the nose with the press, returned for some reason. “Strange that I did not hear them come in,” thought Methodius, turning around to look at the closet. “Interesting, did Daph hear how I tried to find out about her from the raven? Although, perhaps not.”

Daph removed the overalls from the cat, leaving only the collar, and now the naked and terrible Depressiac, after stretching its wings, flew around reception. Occasionally it hung onto the heavy velvety drapes or with furious mewing ripped with its razor-sharp claws into one of the spying pictures. Julitta, in her leisure fond of shooting with the pistol at the pictures or practising throwing a dagger at them, treated this vandalism with moderate benevolence.

Tukhlomon was hanging around Daph and whining monotonously, entreating her to let him have her wings. The agent’s face was twisting every which way and changing hundreds of sugary expressions per minute. The rather bald top of his head gleamed. The trimmed sideburns looked very appropriate. Over all he was so annoying, like he had been put together by sweaty hands. “I don’t need the wings forever! I’ll just keep them for a while! Pretty please! My cherub! How much does it cost you to gladden a sick old man? I implore you! Clearly a noble lady! Please be so kind! I thirst for Light! I’m tired of Gloom, the poor old man! I’ll kiss the hem of your dress! Smooch-smooch-smooch! Darn, a thread got stuck in my teeth! Don’t let the old soul perish!” he repeated, crawling around on his knees. Daph shook her head. She could very well imagine what happened with those guards of Light, who out of good will loaned their wings to agents. “I want to go to Eden! To sing in the paradise choir, to gobble apples of knowledge and spit out the seeds! At least let me understand, what Light is, huh? I yearn for Light!!! Pretty, pretty please!”

“Stop! Stop taunting!” Daph got mad. “Listen, Light! He never stops! Use your knee and give it to him in the nose!” Julitta, tired of listening to Tukhlomon whining, advised her. On hearing the advice, the agent helpfully started to move his nose up to Daph. “I beg you, light of my soul, please don’t trouble yourself! With a knee, or a leg, may even pull my hair out, or trample on my fingers! And if you desire to shoot me with a machine gun, I’ll even bring one! Everything for the fine noble lady! Only give me the wings, huh? Uncle Tukhlomon is so wretched, so unlucky! A sin to refuse him, big sin! To refuse Tukhlomon is the same as smacking an orphan with a crowbar!” he started to sweet-talk, touchingly puffing up his cheeks.

Realizing that there was no other way of shaking him off, Daphne decisively reached for the flute. On noticing this, the agent began to crawl away quickly. He did not fear a crushed nose or other damages, but here it was a bad joke with the flute of a guard of Light. A single unique maglody could convert him into a puddle of malodorous plasticine. “Okay, okay, Uncle Tukhlomon is leaving! Only, I beg you, no need for music! I have weak eardrums! I’m not dancing today!” he whimpered, on all fours running behind Methodius and using him as a cover.

Methodius greeted Daph. She answered him dryly, looking to the side. It seemed to Buslaev that Daphne had been diligently avoiding him for a couple of weeks already. And if she nevertheless addressed him, then she would quickly get worked up and begin to argue trifles. Methodius could not find any explanation for this. He was sure that he had not offended Daph. Although, on the other hand, he could also have blurted out something careless. It is always so with these girls. They are eternally offended by some phrase, which you yourself do not remember. “Did I say that?” “You did.” “When?”

“Depressiac!” Daphne said, with alarm looking at the cat, which, swinging on the drapes, was thoughtfully examining Methodius. “I warn you! If you, like last time, allow Mr. Buslaev to pet you and at the same time don’t scratch his face, I’ll have to wash you with bleach. Moreover, both inside and out.” Tukhlomon, inflating his cheeks and, simultaneously slapping them with both hands – a sound “puff!” came out – guffawed fawningly, appraising the scope of the fantasy of the guard of Light. “I don’t need your cat!” Methodius said, offended. “Wonderful. Because I was serious about the bleach. I don’t want your microbes on my cat,” said Daph.

“Ah, what imagination! Uncle Tukhlomon is having fun from head to toe! If you want to realize your dreams, Light, Tukhlomon will climb with pleasure into a washer so that you could start it! Can pour bleach into my ears! Can even spank with a shoe! Let’s agree on a payment! Besides your wings, I don’t need anything!” the agent started to babble cautiously. Daph looked at him with loathing. Meanwhile, Tukhlomon, having jumped to his feet, was already leaping around Methodius, exactly like a baboon out of the zoo. “My usual compliments to the future sovereign! Have you decided to wipe your feet on me? Or a fist to the forehead? It’s soft, won’t hurt your fist! Or the cheek. I’ll puff up the cheek!”

“Stop!” Methodius said. Tukhlomon was not a bit offended. “Well no, then no. It’s never too late for one good person to hit another. And indeed I, must admit, regard the matter with favour. I recently came from Ligul to Ares and to you all. Literally dashed here in a minute: one leg here, the other already there. Hurried with the speed of light!” “Consider that I’m already fainting from joy! What next?” Julitta muttered. “What do you mean ‘what next’? I came from Ligul!” Opening his eyes wide like a picture of bewilderment, Tukhlomon repeated.

“I already heard this. What does the hunchback want from us?” the witch said. Tukhlomon looked at her with mocking reproach. “What hunchback-eh is he? Yes, his stature is small, stooping a little, but not this. Is it really nice to reproach him for this? Is it really moral-eh? And where’s the heart of kindne-ss, where’s the patien-ce? Tut-tut! I have to tell Ligul how you appreciate him here! Oh, I have to!” “You mean to squeal?” Daph refined in an icy voice. “What bad words you use, girl! Squeal, fie! Not squeal but inform in the name of triumph of law-eh and order-eh!” Quick to take offence, the agent corrected.

“Tukhlomony, my little dead fish, cut the sound! Else, I’ll force a woollen sock down your throat! You know me!” Julitta frowned. “It won’t help. Indeed, I’ve swallowed many socks in my century! Nowadays everyone has rich fantasies! Here even Daph, our darling guard, wants the cat to scratch Methy, the sovereign of Gloom! And fill the cat up to its eyes with bleach! And now a sock! Here a moth eats it and doesn’t choke!” the agent brushed it off. “So, does it mean you’ve eaten socks? And how are they, tasty?” Daph asked with curiosity. “Not tasty, but possible to consume!” the agent willingly answered.

“And now the main thing. The purpose of the visit, so to speak. I have to deliver an invitation! Ligul summons Ares, Methodius, and Julitta to England. To William the Conqueror, head of the British division of Gloom. William gathers his own to an exclusive party on the occasion of the anniversary of the Norman invasion. There will be the most noble bigwigs ever existed!” “When is it?” “Tomorrow.”

“Of course, I’m not summoned?” Daph mockingly asked. Tukhlomon shrugged his shoulders, expressing regret with his whole appearance. “Not supposed to, my beautiful. Gloom assembles there, and though you’re a fugitive, you’re Light nevertheless! No good! Here if you let me have your wings, then no problem, this very second! Will you, huh?” Daphne silently reached for the flute, forcing the agent to end the propaganda instantly.

“Clear. What time?” Julitta asked. “Midnight tomorrow. Will you deliver the invitation to Ares yourself, my sweet, or will you consent to give me a kick to attend to him? Under the fieriest eye-eh?” Tukhlomon asked maliciously. “I’ll do it. Off limits for you there. Stay here and wait.” Julitta disappeared into the office, closing the door behind her.

In a couple of minutes, Ares came out of the office and stopped in the middle of reception – stout and breathing heavily. A deep scar lined his swarthy face, dividing it into two unequal halves. “Since when does Ligul send Tukhlomon to summon us to William? Does William not have messengers?” Ares asked with displeasure. “Indeed it so happened. The two of them summoned together. Communicating. When I turned up, William was Ligul’s guest. They were sitting, steaming in lava. They wanted to send a messenger, but I volunteered. Messengers, I think, are also forced labour! Must feel sorry for them out of the kindness of one’s heart,” answered Tukhlomon, bowing. He spoke humbly and flatteringly; however, his alert blinking eyes were literally frozen on the bridge of Ares’ nose: this way they would catch any indiscretion.

The swordsman stretched out his hand and, taking Tukhlomon by the plasticine ear, pulled him towards himself. If Tukhlomon had not gotten on his toes, his ear would have remained in Ares’ fingers. “So you feel sorry? Oh, don’t lie! Perhaps you’re sniffing around for Ligul? You want to be both here and there – to get on well everywhere?” Ares asked with disgust. “Indeed no!” Tukhlomon was insulted. “I come to you with my whole soul… Sigh! For what?” “Parchments handed in, stamped, prolonging the stay? Swell. Now get out of here! Julitta, my sword!” “Why the sword? No need for a sword! As I understand, it’s such an elegant hint-eh that it’s time for me to depart? Uncle Tukhlomon precisely intended to say that he’s in a great hurry! Anything for Ligul? No? Well, don’t, don’t! I was simply asking…” the agent began to bustle. Looking back in a cowardly manner, Tukhlomon hurriedly dragged himself to the doors, pasting on the slightly torn ear on the way.

“Stop!” Ares unexpectedly ordered him. The agent stopped, moving slowly in alarm on fragile plasticine legs. “Come back!” Tukhlomon sadly returned. “Agent, recall: did Ligul tell you about the small chests? Only before you start lying now, think, is it worthwhile for this to be your last lie,” Ares said threateningly. Tukhlomon clearly became ill at ease. He unhurriedly reached for a red kerchief covered in polka dots, unfolded it, and blotted his forehead in the same efficient movement with which a hostess sweeps crumb off the kitchen table. “Eh-eh… well… There was something like that. I sorta heard,” the agent mumbled indistinctly. “Clever boy! If you were to lie, you would be leaving for Tartarus. I can make it so that for ten centuries you won’t be able to move into a single most pitiful plasticine body. And no Ligul will stop me.” “This I know-eh. You can-eh,” despondently nodded Tukhlomon.

“Excellent. If you’re so all-knowing, then another question: have they found the chest yet? Who has it?” Tukhlomon opened wide his loyal eyes. “I cannot know-eh! This is the secret, hidden by Gloom-eh!” “Really? How annoying! Julitta, did you bring the sword?” Tukhlomon began to tremble. He already considered that after saying A, he had to say B. Otherwise in a spell it was easily possible to turn up in Tartarus forever. “No need for the sword! I remember-eh. There are all of two chests, in which it can turn out to be. The chests are precisely twins. A moronoid by the name of Anton Ogurtsov has the first. This we already sniffed out.” “Does the moronoid suspect what’s in it?” “How is it possible? Moronoids are complete fools. How would he know about the secret bottom?” Tukhlomon giggled. Ares slightly inclined his head and quietly repeated “Anton Ogurtsov.” Nothing changed on his face. Methodius was ready to swear that, on barely hearing the name, he already knew everything about this moronoid. From the first cry to the last sigh.