I wake up in a sticky sweat that hangs on my whiskey in heavy drops. I sat down sharply on the bed, I walked my fingers shaking in the face, then to the back of my head. My hair got tangled, confused and tangled. The room is filled with the silver glow of a full-fledged mistress of the night, and I look at her like I've never seen her in such darkness before, trying to convince myself that I don't sleep again. Exhale through the closed lips. Everything seems to be in order. Herbs, books, furniture - everything seems to be in its place. Muromets, out, puts his hands on the next bed, hugging the pillow in a funny way. So what made me wake up with a raging heart?
I can barely separate my lips from the sticky ones and throw away my stuffy blanket with one movement. The cold floor of the hut sends a new attack of shiver over the body, not giving the desired coolness. I grab my eyes tightly, grabbed the table, lowered my head with a sigh, and the grown bangs immediately covered my eyes with black shroud.
My throat burns.
Desperately want to make at least a sip of water, but in all the cups, as spite, empty. An uninvited thought makes you grind your lips: I wish you could use the skills of Waterman. Consciousness tries to cling to the unclear feeling which has responded with a drumroll in heart at recollection of grey eyes. Water... Fear covers my head when I remember a dream that made me wake up.
I'm back in the body of a bird flying among the heavy clouds to the call, leading me through space with an invisible thread. Again I am looking for the same door among the unfriendly walls to say the same ridiculous words, trying to assess the situation and last as long as possible. Give the operation a chance to succeed. But at some point the dream begins to diverge with the memory. When I myself, not Mikoel, cut off the chains on the girl's arms and legs, Pauline suddenly grabbed me by the throat, clutching his fingers with the power impossible for a girl who had spent so much time in prison. Her eyes, usually reminiscent of the look of a frightened fallow deer, become darker, and her thin lips are stretched out in a sinister smile, opening pearly teeth. The fingers on my throat are pressing harder and harder, and the sharp nails are absorbed under my skin, leaving shallow wounds. A stranger with the face of Vodiana laughs louder and louder, and I, fascinated by what is happening, am completely confused by this change, am not resisting it.
Shiver. My heart never thought of slowing down my running. What is the strange dream? I went back to bed, hanging a small ball of light above me. I didn't want to sleep anymore. Lying motionless, I looked at the ceiling, trying to understand my thoughts until dawn began to dawn. No, I wasn't against dreaming about Pauline Fenshawe. After all, I had a dream about a clavicle and a fragile girl in a light shirt every night. So why was he replaced by this strange remembrance? And why was she in it... not her? The ritual, despite my father's assurances, did not work? My soul was tormented with a strange feeling, which I could not cope with, which I did not want to give a name to. To admit it was to accept. But I was still not ready. It didn't stop me from thinking about Pauline all the time, even though I was annoyed by her coldness and inaccessibility. The emotions she caused. I wasn't trying to get close to her, however, by settling for the bits of time I spent together: her hands picking up my hair in the dark, my hands on her waist during the flight, my shirt on her shoulders... No, that's how I was annoyed? I even sniffed out of indignation, jumped up and started throwing away my clothes with anger.
- Ovrazhkin," Mitya dreamily muttered, "where did you go so early?
- Now is the season of practice by the river.
- You'll freeze otherwise," Muromets replied.
I smiled at such care, clearly hearing the notes of a direct wish to freeze. It even cheered me up, though it did not save me from gloomy thoughts. My lousy condition in recent days had embarrassed Mitya, but he couldn't dare to ask what was going on. And Muromets himself was not in the best shape, cherishing the wound which had not healed and which had crossed his heart after the night of Untime. For so many years of friendship we have learned to understand each other without words, so we did not hurry to ask questions. I came out of the hut, breathing in the air, soaked in the bitter smell of sage and wormwood, mixed with the sweetness of apples. The time of the second Savior was approaching, and the nights were getting colder, carrying with them a stuffy summer haze. Finally, on the secluded bank of the Nischenko River, I looked back, subconsciously wanting to meet the one, the thought of which half the night did not give me peace. But Pauline was gone. The fact that she wasn't interested in me was obviously making me sadder.
What was I still hoping for? It's a pity my magic didn't work on her. That would have solved all the problems.