Читать книгу The bride of the silver dragon - Dmitry Nazarov - Страница 4

– It doesn’t hurt at all, does it? – I blow on Julie’s scraped knee, and again and again I put a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic on the wound. – There, you see, everything is already fine.

The little girl sniffed her nose incredulously, shuddering mixed with restrained sobs, and dares to look at her knee.

– Didn’t I tell you? – I encourage her, already turning my attention to her torn-out sweatpants.

Unlike bruised knees, this hole isn’t going anywhere and won’t heal itself, even if I pour an entire can of antiseptic on it. Too bad, because the suit was brand new, and I was counting on it being inherited by one of the younger twins after her. It would have been just right for next spring. Although, perhaps, if I sewed on some bright applique…

– Margarita Alexandrovna, – Jeanne, my assistant and one of the kindest and most innocent souls on the planet, looks into the room. – There’s someone to see you… there’s someone here to see you.

In response to my questioning glance, she strangely shuts up and quickly disappears behind the door.

I see. Mentally wishing myself the patience to survive another meeting with someone from the office of that heartless moonshiner. What’s his name? Krieg? Krag?

– Twig, – I grumble to myself, and Julia starts giggling, awkwardly covering her mouth with her palm because she recently lost a baby tooth.

– At least you’re of some use, Mr. Twigson, – I grin mentally, and I push the girl down to the floor and quickly hide the vials in a medical box with a coded lock. When there are fifty-three inquisitive little dwarves in the house, you have to lock up absolutely everything, especially medicines and sweets.

– Now go to Jeanne,” I pushed the little girl to the door. – Change into that beautiful pink dress, okay? And re-tie your hair.

She immediately smiles and scurries out the door.

I mentally count to ten and go back to the couch to pick up the trash and hide the first aid kit in the topmost drawer. I lock it too.

I need to exhale-I’ve been on my feet since six in the morning, and it’s no exaggeration to say that I haven’t sat down once in all that time. First Jeanne and I fiddled with the cupcake dough for today’s charity fair, then we dressed, scratched, and washed all the little goons, then we decorated the counters, did the “trade” and ran around with fliers and balloons so that no visitor would leave empty-handed.

Nana’s idea was a success after all.

I take two steps toward the rack with the mirror on the side of it and give myself a hard look. In my own homemade overalls, made from a dozen pairs of old and completely unrepairable jeans, a simple man’s shirt, and my hair tied up in a kerchief, I look like something in between a rabid “I am a mother” and a young Merlin Montreaux, when she, to prove to everyone that it is not clothes that make you beautiful, but people make clothes, had a photo shoot in a sack from under a potato.

So, objectively, at thirty-five, I look thirty at most.

I am happy with my form, which is lush in all the right places, a thin waist, no large wrinkles, and even those three gray hairs, which I discovered yesterday before going to bed. I found it, and I didn’t want to pull it out. If I am destined to go gray in my forties, I’d rather have a boyish haircut and be a bullying young grandmother than become hysterical and depressed over every white hair.

I use my finger to swipe a little chocolate cream on my cheek, and I’m completely satisfied with my appearance.

And an elevated fighting spirit, just right for a meeting with one of Mr. Koryaga’s goons.

In the little orphanage living room, which we literally made with our own hands, the man in the expensive suit looks as ridiculous as a brand-new Porsche sports car in a landfill in a pile of garbage bags. He stands half-turned and very incongruously pretends to be interested in children’s scribbles on the wall.

I’ve seen him before. He’s the one who showed up with the news that we’ve illegally occupied the building where Mr. Future Cool Senator is going to build a medical center for the important moon babies. Nothing against the moon babies, but they’re elite kids, a separate untouchable caste with parents with pockets full of money. You can choose any place in the city for another modern hospital for them, not necessarily to infringe on a dilapidated hovel, which, by coincidence, has become a shelter for human children. Strange that no one has told Mr. Future Senator about such elementary things.

– Mr…? – Hell, I can’t remember his last name either. Damn those moonshiners with their apostrophes.

He turns abruptly, stretches his lips into an unpleasantly formal smile, and waits a while for my response.

– Just Lori, – he says, coughing into his fist and getting rid of the joy on his face.

– That’s better. – I point my finger at my own lips. – Ostentatious friendliness doesn’t suit wolves, Mr. Laurie.

He nods, and then utters some kind of joke about the business. Funny, I suppose.

– May I have a glass of water, Mrs. Sheremetyevo? – He clears his throat again, takes out his snow-white handkerchief and furtively wipes the moisture from the outer corners of his eyes. – You smell a little… weird smell?

I go to the cabinet, which, like almost everything else here, is densely decorated with children’s crafts-mostly salt dough figurines-pour a glass of still mineral water and hand it to Laurie.

– It’s cinnamon, – I say after a while, as he takes a few sips and clears his throat again. – We had a candy fair. I wish you’d come sooner – you could have bought a couple of boxes of pastries and contributed to charity.

– Yeah, I… – Pointed his finger behind his back and wiped away the tears again, flowing in a hail of tears. – Saw the flags and… slogans.

– Oh, I hope your Big Boss enjoys today’s news.

It just so happens that a reporter for a major federal channel is the new mother of one of my adopted children. When I called to ask for help, she said she’d do anything to make sure “the damn moonshiners don’t think they can appropriate our world!”

A crowd of happy kids and adults waving flags that read “Our home is our fortress” would give Mr. Koryaga a heartburn attack. At least, I’m counting on it.

– Could we go outside, please? – Laurie coughs again and, no longer hiding, presses her handkerchief to her nose. – I have a heavy relationship with spice.

Part of me wants to strike a pose and get on with my game. That’s a good thing for me, because no matter what, we have to face it – Mr. Future Senator could easily throw us out of this building. I’m even willing to assume that that’s exactly what the lawyer came to talk about, and there are all the necessary incriminating documents in his puffy briefcase. So, the more uncomfortable this guy is with our conversation, the more chance I have of bargaining for a little more time.

But… It’s already pathetic to look at the poor guy, so I give up the idea and go to the door to the backyard. I open it, and Mr. Laurie rushes out, not even embarrassed by the light drizzle. I escorted him into the gazebo, where Jeanne had thoughtfully left a pot of tea, a couple of cups, and a basket of muffins.

Except it’s a shame it’s all a waste of time. I’d rather break my fingers than pretend to be a welcoming hostess in front of this guy. That’s always the way with moonshiners: they mistake even common courtesy for weakness, and will gladly clutch at the throat of what they think is their unwilling prey.

I settle comfortably on the bench, slip the patchwork plaid over my lap, and take a bite out of my muffin. Mr. Laurie busily lays out the plastic white folders, nudges them to my side of the table. I don’t even touch them.

– Mr. Shad’Far has seen fit to share this information with you.

– What information?

– It’s all there. – Laurie points to the folders with a glance. – He prefers to play fair, and reveals his cards.

I take another bite of the cupcake, glad that the dough is just perfect-the pastry will stay fresh until tomorrow morning, and the fair-goers who bought up absolutely everything will remember us over a cup of morning coffee. And watching the news.

Nana is a genius after all.

– Mr. Laurie, I’ve been up since 4:00 this morning, and I’ve hardly sat down in all that time. I had a big interview with a couple of bad takes, and there are fifty little thugs on the playground who need to be washed off the frosting and brushed off the colorful sprinkles. If you think I’m going to waste my time reading through all this paperwork, then Mr. Twigson needs to find a more savvy assistant.

– I apologize, – Laurie replies calmly, pours himself a cup of tea, takes a sip to wet his throat, and continues calmly, “We know how you appropriated the building and why the municipal authorities look the other way.

– It would be strange if a whole flock of lawyers didn’t find this absolutely eye-opening.

– Nevertheless, Mr. Shad’Far respects your… hmmm… very important and proper business and would prefer to resolve the disagreement peacefully. And as proof of his good intentions, he asked me to give you all these documents. – Laurie lifts the edge of the plastic cover, taps her finger on the inked round imprint that overlaps some of the sprawling signature. – These are the original documents, with the “wet” stamps. They are yours, Mrs. Sheremetyeva.

Now this is something new. For the first moment I even feel slightly confused, and not even immediately feel the insistent vibration of the phone in the large pocket on the belly of my overalls. Whoever is on the other end of the line is very just in time for me to have time for a “legitimate” pause.

On the screen is the name “Nana.”

– I’m sorry, Laurie, but I can’t not take my sister’s call.

I walk out from under the gazebo canopy, holding the phone to my ear as I go.

– Your Dragon called my Prince, – my sister says in the tone of an experienced scout, and I stop under a sprawling maple bough, so thick it’s completely dry underneath. – He’s aware that R’ran has interfered, and he knows how. They’re, like, you know… some old buddies.

– My… who?

– Margot, do you even read the social chronicles sometimes? – Nana chuckles and quickly brings me up to speed. – They call your K’rraig Shad’Far the Silver Dragon because he has the pure blood of the Moon and very beautiful silver eyes.

– Does your husband know that you are aware of the silver eyes of Mr. Twigson?

– My husband, as a man with perfectly healthy self-esteem, is not jealous of me at every pole.

– He only growls,” I can’t help being sarcastic in response, because I still don’t understand why, of all the worthy men – human men! – my sister chose what seems to be the most arrogant moonshiner in the world, and still managed to have two children with him. – And for future reference, Nana, try not to put the words “your” and “Twigson” in the same sentence anymore.

My sister chuckles, apologizes that she can’t talk to me now and find out how it went, and promises to call me back in the evening, when all her “arrogant moonbats” have gone to bed.

But the most important thing she has already said, and I need exactly one minute to collate all the facts. And then everything immediately falls into place. Thank God, because for the first time in my life I was so fatally close to making the irreparable mistake of believing the moonshiner.

I return to the gazebo with my head completely cool and alert, knowing that any offer from Mr. Future Senator is not a gesture of goodwill, not an attempt to negotiate peacefully, but only cunning and cold calculation.

There is one and most important rule in the world of moonshiners-they are always for each other.

Especially in the world of male moonshiners.

Koryaga gave me those documents because he wasn’t going to use them anyway. But not out of respect for my case, but to avoid framing R’ran. If the price of using this information were not the reputation of another important Lunnic, Lori wouldn’t have come with a white flag, but with the enforcers. Whether I took the documents or not was irrelevant, for their fate was sealed before Laurie even stepped foot in my house. – Is everything all right? – Lori inquired, sipping his tea.

– Yes, but not for your Big Boss. So there you go. – I return the folders to the edge of his desk, deliberately doing so with just the edge of my fingernail, as if I were afraid of getting dirty. – Laurie, tell your boss that I don’t need handouts, and I’m not prepared to accept dubious gifts. And that the best thing he can do in this situation is to find another building, because he’ll never get that.

– You are very reckless,” the “parliamentarian” smiles in a strained manner, but I have already risen to let him know that the negotiations are over. He has no choice but to follow. – Mr. Shad’Far foresaw that the conversation might go this way and asked me to tell you that his offer will stand for another three days. I will tell him that you have paused to weigh the pros and cons. Should you change your mind, Lord Shad’Far is willing to grant you and your shelter any building within the city that would be yours legally. Think about it, Mrs. Sheremetyevo. Have a good day.

He adjusts his jacket, tucks his handkerchief under his nose, and crosses the courtyard at a brisk pace, pulling his head slightly slouchingly into his shoulders.

The folder remains on the table.