"You look like my father."
A ray of light hit Cyril in the face as he heard Clara's thin voice. That night he slept without dreams, and woke up much more refreshed than the previous morning. Squinting against the sun, he tried to see the girl in front of him.
'Curtains.' He thought. 'Hang the curtains.'
Clara was still propped up on one elbow. She stroked his chest with a sharp fingernail and looked up into his face. The room was hot. She pulled back the blanket, though still wearing her thin clothes.
"He often came home drunk and very angry." Clara purred. "I remember he hit my mother and I ran away from home. I was twelve. I haven't seen him since."
Cyril narrowed his eyes, turned his head to hide from the light, and looked at the girl with one eye.
"What are you talking about?" He asked.
"I thought you might want to know about me." Clara said. "I'm your chief assistant."
"A maid in love." He grumbled, closing his eyes. "It's different things."
"I hope you change your mind." Clara sang, and lay down beside him. "Because that man was right."
"What man?"
"Who died. Your friend." She explained. "He said you were kind."
Cyril remembered the wreckage in the workshop and groaned. He wanted to test an idea with the mechanic, but lost hope when the mechanic died. Then he remembered what the alchemist had been doing, and hope returned. With hope came the decision to take care of Clara, and he told her to take the girl.
'If magic works here, the potion might work, too.' Cyril thought, 'As long as no one finds his corpse.'
"He wasn't my friend." He said aloud. "And I told you you wouldn't replace my wife. No one would."
Clara purred like a cat and stroked his bare chest. Cyril closed his eyes, hoping to get some more sleep.
"My father was kind when he was sober." Clara sang. "I guess the point is that I saw my father in you. It's stupid, isn't it?"
Clara rested her head on his chest, a trail of short hair tickling her cheek. Clara smiled, and her left hand slid over Cyril's stomach.
As much as he wanted to remain a callous scoundrel, Cyril still felt that this girl gave him warmth. Her smile, her ringing laugh, and even her guilty look after they had lost their way, helped to numb the pain.
The sweet thought of having morning sex with her flashed through his mind. Initially, Cyril did not mind getting close to her. He imagined a young, still very narrow vagina embracing his penis. Clara looked very young, probably still a virgin. Her neat breasts couldn't help but arouse his lust.
'Don't even think about it.' He told himself.
There, near the workshop, as they waited for the cart, Cyril made a final decision for himself. He wanted to die and leave behind as little pain and death as possible. If he allowed his relationship with Clara to go to a new level, she would become attached to him and would not be able to let go, just as he could not let go of his wife.
'She's already tied up like a mongrel.' He mentally shook his head.
"Cyril." Clara purred. "I don't want to be your wife's replacement."
"Thank you." He grumbled, feeling a sharp fingernail slide across his stomach, sinking dangerously low.
"I just want you to stop being angry." Clara added, and the hand stopped.
Cyril could understand Clara's desire, and frankly, he wanted her body, too. He really felt relaxed right now, with her hand caressing his stomach and her warm breath brushing against his chest. His penis tightened noticeably.
"Why did you stop?" He asked.
Clara didn't answer. She wanted him from the moment she saw him in the bathhouse. They have been through a lot, and now she was finally in bed with him. But Clara realized that she was afraid. She was afraid that he would leave her as soon as he got her body. She wanted more, whether Cyril wanted it or not.
"I snoozed." Clara purred with her eyes closed.
Cyril put his arm around the girl, touched the fabric of her dress, and realized that her posture had not changed since he had fallen asleep. She leaned on her elbow through the night and lay down only after he awoke.
"You didn't sleep?" He asked.
She didn't answer. The warm breathing became deeper and more measured. Her leg was wrapped around his, and her soft breasts brushed his side. Clara fell asleep on his chest. Cyril lowered his hand, touching the top of her firm buttocks.
'Alright.' He thought. 'Maybe I should let Natasha go.'
"Fuck no." He growled, and raised his arm above Clara's waist.
'As long as there is hope for the afterlife, I will believe that they are waiting for me.'
He tried to calm down. His cock was steadily filled with blood, the warm leg of the girl caressed his thigh, the tender palm froze in the lower abdomen. Before the birth of his son, he and his wife often started the morning with a good fuck. Yesterday, thanks to Freya, he recalled how nice it was to come in the morning. Today, he had everything he needed to enjoy it again, but his reluctance to cause pain kept him from changing his mind.
'Clara is like a child, she is a small dragonfly. But what am I risking? It's just sex.' He asked himself.
"I'm going to die." He said aloud. "I don't want you to suffer when I'm gone."
The decision, spoken aloud, helped him overcome his lust. Cyril let out a sigh of relief. Clara didn't answer, just mumbled something, lost in sleep.
'I shouldn't have given her hope.' Cyril thought. 'It's better to let her go before she gets even more attached.'
He decided to ask Clara where she lives as soon as she wakes up. He stroked the girl's head, ran his fingers through the curls of her long hair, and sighed. Judging by the silence outside the window and on the first floor, the morning was just beginning.
'The dawn is early here.' He thought. 'It was hot all day. It is not clear what latitude we are in. I definitely need a map.'
He left his hand on the head of Clara, who was purring in her sleep, and feel back into a dream. He dreamed that he was teaching his son to ride a bicycle. Natasha was worried that he would fall and break his knees, and she wanted to buy her son protection. Kirill tried to convince his wife that it was normal for boys to skin their knees. They often argued, and he always gave in to her.
'That's why you're dead.' He thought as a knock on the door snapped him out of his dream.
"Cyril, I brought your breakfast." The voice of Freya touched his ears. "Can I come in?"
Cyril closed his eyes again against the glare of the sun and tried to remove Clara's head from his chest. She slept like the dead, unresponsive to his actions.
"Wait a minute." He said, with difficulty climbing on the headboard of the bed. The hard wooden edge of the table pressed painfully against his back.
'Does it hurt?' Cyril was immediately surprised. 'Why do I feel pain?'
He moved his arm, then his leg, to make sure he was in control of his body.
'If I feel pain, do I have a normal body again?'
He shifted a little more.
'Either the body turns on protection when there is a risk to life and health.' A reasonable thought came to him. 'In that case, the body can be deceived.'
Cyril liked the idea, and decided to test it in practice. When he was sure that the sun was no longer in his eyes and that both hands were free, he nodded.
"Come in." He said.
The door opened and Freya appeared. Holding a tray with two breakfast items and a couple of mugs, she cast a hateful glance at the girl in his bed. Her gaze was quick, and Freya immediately regained her dullness, but Cyril had time to notice.
"If it helps you smile, we didn't fuck." Cyril said. "Leave the tray on the table."
Freya said nothing, but tried to put a smile on her face. She crossed the room, set the tray on the table, and returned to the door without looking at Cyril or the girl. Then she turned as Cyril asked:
"How's the girl?"
"She doesn't talk, but she's eaten." Freya said, her voice empty.
She started to leave, but turned back. Now her face was full of interest.
"What did you do with the toilet? It's never been this clean. One guest is still sleeping there. He says it's cleaner in the toilet than under a table."
"Great news." Cyril said, smiling for the first time in a long time.