Dusk was slowly falling over the city as Mark adjusted his suit for the last time in front of the mirror. They waited together at the door of the taxi, smoothing out nonexistent creases in the perfectly fitting suit. The Monsieur Henri suit fit him like a second skin; the dark blue fabric with a faint silvery sheen gave Mark the look of a man accustomed to luxury and power. But something in the reflection of her eyes betrayed her inner tension.
Kismet watched him, leaning against the door frame. Her gaze was a mixture of approval and satisfaction at the job she'd done.
"You look great," she said, " like you've been wearing suits like this all your life."
Mark took a deep breath, feeling the air fill with anticipation and anxiety.
— Maybe that's why you chose me?" You still haven't really told me why." What exactly do you need my help with?
Kismet hesitated, her fingers absently touching the lapel of his jacket, and Mark felt his heart begin to beat in time to the invisible music, as if an orchestra were already tuning instruments somewhere on the edge of worlds.
"Your ability to notice details that others miss is invaluable to me," Kismet began, " you see connections where others only see coincidences. There will be a lot of hidden signs, hints, and subtle gestures at this ball. I need you to be my eyes.
Mark took a deep breath, feeling the reality around him grow shaky. His sharp mind was already analyzing all possible scenarios for the upcoming evening, looking for potential threats and opportunities.
Outside the window, the city was fading into the gathering darkness, lights coming on one by one like fireflies waking up at nightfall.
Kismet looked at the phone screen.
"We have to go, Mark. The car is already waiting downstairs.
"A car?" He raised his eyebrows in surprise — " I thought we were going in a carriage."
Kismet laughed, and there was a hint of the mischief that had so attracted him when they first met.
"Not this time. But believe me, our appearance will still be spectacular.
They walked out of the room, leaving the cozy gloom and warmth behind. With each step, Mark could feel his excitement growing. On the way down the stairs, Mark asked — " What if I do something wrong?"
Kismet stopped and turned to face him. "Just be yourself, Mark. Watch, listen, and trust your intuition. You can handle it.
Her words calmed him down a little. They went out to the street, where a car was actually waiting for them – an elegant black car with tinted windows.
As they got into the car, Mark saw Kismet glance around quickly, as if to make sure no one was watching them. It reminded him that there was something more serious going on behind all the dressing-up games and social gatherings. The car pulled away, taking them out into the night. Mark watched the city pass by and wondered what lay ahead. Whatever happened at this ball, he was sure that this night would change his life forever.
Raindrops drummed on the roof of the taxi, creating a ragged rhythm that matched Mark's heartbeat. The car slowly maneuvered between streets where old mansions gave way to modern high-rises, and those, in turn, gave way to abandoned industrial buildings.
Mark reached for his tie for the third time in five minutes. The silk fabric wrapped tightly and strangely around her neck felt like a garrote. His fingers, usually steady on the keyboard, were now fumbling with the knot.
"Stop it," Kismet said softly, not taking her eyes off the window. In her evening dress, the color of dark Burgundy wine, she looked like a completely different person: her dark hair was pulled back in an elegant hairstyle, revealing a delicate neck, on which an ancient medallion glittered. Her hands, wrapped in long gloves, absently stroked the velvet clutch, as if trying to calm the hidden secrets inside.
"Invitations? Mark's voice was muffled.
Kismet pulled two envelopes from her small purse. Fine lettering glinted in the light of passing streetlamps.
Her voice was a mixture of admiration and concern.
"Each letter is a work of art. So are our new identities.
"And the security system?" Mark asked.
- Electronic lists, scanners, security. Everything is provided. Our names will appear in the database exactly at the moment of verification and disappear an hour after we leave.
The car turned onto a wide avenue, and in the distance, a majestic building glittered with lights.
"We're almost there," Kismet said, noticing his agitation.
"Remember, Mark, watch everything. Every gesture, every look can make a difference. Pay special attention to a man named Serov. He's one of the most powerful members of society, and I suspect he might be involved in my uncle's disappearance.
Mark nodded, feeling the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He was ready for this challenge, ready to use his observation and analysis skills in this new, mysterious world.
The car stopped at the foot of a wide marble staircase. A liveried doorman opened the door, and Mark led the way out, offering his hand to Kismet. She slid gracefully out of the car.
A line of luxury cars lined the driveway like black pearls on a string.
As Mark climbed the stairs, he felt the eyes of the other guests on him. He straightened his back, trying to look confident and at ease, like a man used to such events. Kismet put her hand lightly on his arm, and the simple touch gave him strength.
"Last check?" Kismet pulled out her masks.
"You know," Mark picked up the mask, feeling the coolness under his fingers, " I always thought hacking was about computers and codes. And now here we are, playing society.
"Sometimes the best password is to fit in with a crowd," Kismet said, adjusting his tie with a quick, almost maternal gesture.
"Ready?"
- no. But when did it stop?
They went up the steps. A statue-like security guard in a formal suit studied their invitations. His tablet flashed green, confirming their identities, and the massive doors opened, letting them into a world where everyone wore a mask, even if it was invisible.
In the spacious hall, the butler, white-haired and stately as the mansion itself, took their coats. He gestured toward the ballroom like a conductor's baton, directing them to the next act of this dangerous game.
The high vaulted ceilings, decorated with exquisite Renaissance frescoes, seemed to float above the guests ' heads. Crystal chandeliers scattered thousands of sparks, creating the illusion of a starry sky inside the room. Marble columns, smooth and cold to the touch, supported this majestic structure, their capitals decorated with fine carvings depicting scenes from Greek mythology. All this splendor gave the impression that they were transported not just to another era, but to the very heart of the palace of some European monarch of the XVIII century.
The guests, dressed in elegant evening clothes, slowly strolled around the hall. The rustle of expensive fabrics mingled with the soft clink of glasses and soft conversations. Ladies in long dresses embroidered with precious stones glided gracefully between the groups of speakers, their fans opening and folding in time to the conversation. The men in immaculately tailored tuxedos and tailcoats were engaged in leisurely conversations, discussing politics, art, and perhaps something else.
The orchestra, located on a small but richly decorated stage, played classical music. The sounds of violins and cellos floated smoothly through the hall, creating a sophisticated atmosphere and adding another layer to this multi-faceted evening.
Mark, not entirely at ease, immediately began scanning the room. His sharp eyes, honed by years of journalistic work, immediately began to scan the room. His ability to notice details, so necessary in his profession, now came in handy in completely different circumstances. He noticed a group of elderly men gathered around the fireplace, their white heads bent together in quiet conversation. Their hands, decorated with massive rings, made subtle gestures from time to time, as if to emphasize some important points of conversation.
Not far away, he saw a young couple whose movements seemed too polished for ordinary guests. The woman, a slender blonde in a tight red dress, looked around too often, and her companion, a tall dark man with a military bearing, kept his hand close to the inside pocket of his jacket. There was a waiter pacing nearby, who seemed to be watching the guests more than serving drinks. Security, Mark thought.
Kismet's voice was barely audible, but Mark could detect a hint of tension. She nodded almost imperceptibly in the direction of a tall man in a dark suit standing by one of the pillars. "This is Serov.
Mark recognized him immediately from the photographs they were studying. His sharp-featured, commanding face, his cold, piercing gray eyes, looked like a man who was used to giving orders and getting what he wanted, regardless of the consequences. His posture, squared shoulders, and slightly raised chin exuded confidence and strength.
"We need to get closer," Mark whispered, adrenaline pumping through his veins, " maybe we can hear something."
They moved slowly across the room, trying to look like a normal couple enjoying the evening. Mark put his hand on Kismet's waist, feeling her muscles tense under the thin fabric of her dress. Suddenly the music changed, and the first chords of a slow waltz began to play.
"Shall we dance?" Mark gallantly offered his arm to Kismet, knowing it was a great way to approach Serov without being noticed. She nodded, and they joined the circle of dancing couples.
They danced together, moving smoothly among the other guests. Mark could feel the warmth of Kismet's hand on his shoulder, and the scent of her perfume - light, with hints of jasmine and vanilla - was dizzying. For a moment, he forgot the purpose of their visit, completely lost in the moment. The light from the chandeliers reflected in Kismet's eyes, making them look like stars, and Mark found himself thinking that he could dance with her forever.
Kismet's quiet voice brought him back to reality. Her lips barely moved as she spoke, keeping a serene smile on her face.
"Serov is talking to someone. They approached the edge of the dance floor, where Serov was talking to an elderly man in an old-fashioned suit.
"...the artifact must be found, " snatches of conversation drifted to them. "Time is running out, and we can't afford to make a mistake."
"But the professor disappeared," Serov's interlocutor replied,"and without his knowledge..."
"We have other ways," Serov cut him off sharply, and his eyes narrowed.
At this point, their conversation was interrupted - one of the guests turned to Serov with a greeting. Mark and Kismet moved away, pretending to admire a painting on the wall, an oil painting of a hunting scene.
"Did you hear that?" Kismet whispered, her eyes glittering with excitement behind her mask. She was standing very close to Mark, pretending that they were discussing the painting-they were looking for the locket. And they were talking about a professor...
"Your uncle?" Mark suggested, feeling Kismet stiffen at the mention of him.
She nodded, her fingers twisting nervously at the hem of her dress.
Suddenly, an elderly man with a kind face and a gray beard walked up to them. His eyes, behind thin gold-rimmed glasses, studied Mark and Kismet closely. He was wearing a tweed jacket that looked a little out of place among the other guests ' evening clothes, but it didn't seem to bother him at all.
"I'm sorry to intrude," he said with a small smile that revealed a row of perfectly straight teeth, " but I can't help but notice your interest in this painting. You rarely meet young people who are so passionate about the art of the last century."
Mark and Kismet looked at each other, a mixture of questions and wariness in their eyes.
"Yes, she's fascinating," Mark said carefully, trying to make his voice sound natural.
"Indeed," the old man nodded, " Professor Volkov, at your service." Historian and, one might say, keeper of the secrets of this building.
"Nice to meet you, Professor," Kismet smiled softly, but Mark noticed that her grip on his arm tightened a little.
Volkov narrowed his eyes, his gaze lingering for a moment on Kismet's medallion, barely visible in the neckline of her dress.
"I see you're wearing an interesting piece of jewelry." Antique work, isn't it?"
Kismet instinctively touched the locket, her fingers lingering for a moment on the cold metal.
"A family heirloom," she said evasively, trying to sound casual.
"This locket... "I saw the same one at Alexander Nikolaevich's. You must be...
"His niece," Kismet said just as quietly, looking at the professor intently.
Volkov visibly relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
— I should have known sooner - you have his eyes." Your uncle and I have been colleagues for many years. His disappearance... this is a great loss for all of us.
Mark felt Kismet tighten her grip on his arm, her fingers growing cold.
"So you know about his research?" "What is it?" she asked carefully, trying not to let her voice shake with excitement.
Volkov looked around, as if checking to see if anyone was listening in on their conversation. When he spoke again, his voice was even lower, almost inaudible in the hum of the ball.
"Not here. If you're really his niece, you should understand how sensitive these matters are "- he paused, as if making up his mind - " In half an hour at the library, second floor. Pretend that you are looking around the house, this is normal for such events. Just be careful - you are being watched. Alexander left something in case something happened to him.
"And what is it?" Mark asked, trying to keep his voice as low as possible.
Volkov lowered his voice to a whisper, leaning closer to them. His breath smelled of mint and something else, probably old whiskey,
"Alexander didn't just disappear. He found something. Something that many would like to keep a secret. And if you're here with his medallion, then it's time to find out the truth, " Volkov smiled, but his eyes remained serious.
— Come only if you are really ready to see what is hidden behind the facade of this ball. There may be some secrets... burdensome.
"We understand the risk," Kismet said firmly, her voice determined despite the slight tremor.
— good. Then I'll meet you in the library." And remember-here the walls have ears.
Volkov slipped away unnoticed, disappearing into the thick shadows of the guests, who were slowly circling in a dance of small talk. Mark and Kismet remained standing, pretending to admire the interior of the hall.
"We need to get out of here without being seen," Mark whispered.
They sauntered along the wall, stopping at each painting and immersing themselves in a fictional discussion of art.
The plan seemed simple: go upstairs, ostensibly interested in the collection of paintings hanging along the walls. But the security guards stationed around the perimeter of the hall were alarming. Especially the broad-shouldered man at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes professionally scanning the crowd for any signs of suspicious behavior. Mark put down his glass, straightened his tie, and walked over to Kismet. It was time to act, time was running out, otherwise the whole operation might be in jeopardy.
"May I ask you to dance?" he said it loud enough for everyone to hear. Kismet turned, a smile lighting up her face, but her eyes were strained. She held out her hand and they began a slow waltz as they gradually approached the stairs.
"The guard was distracted by a couple at the entrance," Mark whispered when they were at the other end of the hall.
"Now is the perfect time.
Kismet nodded almost imperceptibly, and as if on cue, they headed for the stairs, where their journey to solving the mystery left by her uncle began.
A marble staircase with wide steps that had been polished to a high gloss by countless touches of soles rose majestically to the second floor. The massive railing, decorated with vines and ornaments, seemed to come to life in the flickering light of the wall lamps. Mark and Kismet walked slowly up the stairs, stopping from time to time to "admire" another painting. Each pause was carefully timed with the precision of clockwork: long enough to look natural, but not long enough to attract attention. Mark could feel the tension in Kismet's hand on his arm, the slight tremor in her fingers, even though her face was as serene as a porcelain statue's.
The second floor met them in semi-darkness and silence, broken only by the muffled sounds of music and the clink of a glass of champagne from below. A long corridor with a Persian carpet stretched away in both directions. The ancient portraits on the walls seemed to be watching them intently, keeping their age-old secrets.
"To the right," Mark whispered, and they moved along the wall, where tall windows hung at regular intervals with heavy velvet drapes. Moonlight filtered through them, creating intricate patterns on the floor. The shadows played a strange, almost obsessive dance, turning space into a plot of unidentified desires and hidden anxieties. Suddenly, footsteps were heard somewhere ahead. Without thinking, Mark pulled Kismet by one of the drapes, and they found themselves in a tight space between the window and the heavy cloth. Kismet's body pressed against his, and he could feel her heartbeat, fast and anxious. Her perfume mingled with dust and old velvet. The footsteps came closer , slow and measured. Through the thin crack between the curtain and the wall, Mark saw the silhouette of a man - a tall man in a dark suit. He stopped almost in front of their hiding place, and for a moment Mark thought they had been discovered. But the man pulled out a phone, the screen of which lit up his face — it was one of the guards Mark had noticed earlier.
"The second floor is clear," he said into his earpiece.
The footsteps began to recede, but Mark and Kismet remained motionless for a while, afraid to move. Finally, Kismet peeked cautiously out from behind the curtain.
"There's no one here," she whispered, and they continued on, moving even more cautiously now. Every creak of the floorboard underfoot was deafening in the silence of the corridor. Around a bend, they saw a massive oak door with a bronze handle shaped like a lion holding a ring in its mouth. Kismet reached for the handle, but Mark stopped her.
"Wait," he whispered, scanning the doorway carefully.
"Look," he said, pointing to the faint red dot at the base of the door - a motion sensor.
"They're watching all the entrances and exits," he muttered.
At that moment, the muffled sound of a door opening was heard somewhere in the back of the corridor. Mark's heart skipped a beat as the sound of footsteps grew closer. There was no time to think. His gaze darted around, assessing the possibilities for escape, and then he noticed a small door, almost merging with the wall, lurking a few meters away.
"This way," he mouthed, leading Kismet to an inconspicuous door. The doorknob gave surprisingly easily, and they slid inside just as footsteps became distinctly audible around the corner.
They found themselves in a narrow technical room filled with old bookshelves and various household items. It smelled of dust, old paper, and somehow cinnamon. A sliver of light shone through the narrow crack under the door, and through it they caught a glimpse of feet stopping directly in front of their hiding place. Mark held Kismet close, trying to keep his breathing as quiet as possible. Her hair tickled his chin, and his heart was pounding so loudly that it seemed like it should be audible even in the ballroom. Suddenly Kismet stiffened in his embrace, her hand darting to the side, pointing at something behind him. He slowly turned around. At the back of the room, behind a massive bookcase, there was a faint glimmer of light. They moved cautiously in that direction, careful not to touch the numerous boxes and stacks of books that were ready to collapse treacherously at the slightest touch.
There was another door behind the cabinet, open a few inches. The light was coming from there. Mark peered cautiously through the crack and barely stifled an exclamation of surprise — it was the back door to the library, hidden behind a massive tapestry depicting a hunting scene.
"It looks like we've found a way around the security system," Kismet whispered, her eyes lighting up with excitement. They slipped into the library, behind a huge tapestry depicting a medieval hunting scene. The room's outline was visible through the thin fabric: tall bookcases that reached to the ceiling, comfortable armchairs arranged by the fireplace, and a massive desk by the window. In the library, only a table lamp was lit, creating a cozy semi-darkness. Professor Volkov was already waiting for them, sitting in one of the chairs with a book in his hands. When they came out from behind the tapestry, he didn't even flinch, as if this was exactly what he'd expected them to do.
"You're resourceful," he said softly, closing the book, " just like your uncle, Kismet. He also always preferred non-standard solutions.
Volkov got up and went to the fireplace, where the embers were smoldering. His figure cast a long shadow on the wall, making the scene even more mysterious.
"Now that we can speak freely," he began, " let me tell you what really happened to Alexander Nikolaevich. But he didn't finish. All of a sudden, several people's rapid footsteps could be heard in the corridor, heading towards the library.
"Quickly, get behind the rack!" We have a few seconds! Volkov ordered.
Mark and Kismet had barely disappeared behind a massive bookshelf when the heavy library door swung open with a dull creak. The wood of the old oak tree seemed to protest against such rough treatment. Three men in dark suits entered the room, one of them the same security guard they had seen earlier. There was a military bearing in their movements, and a cold determination in their eyes.
"Professor Volkov," said a tall man with white temples, obviously the chief of them. His voice sounded like a blade cutting through the thick air of the library.
— You realize you're not supposed to be here at this time, right?"
Volkov calmly adjusted his thin-rimmed glasses.
"Really, Georgy Andreevich, I'm just preparing for tomorrow's lecture. Some sources are only available in this library.
— We received a traffic signal on the second floor, - the man continued, carefully scanning the room — - Did you see anyone here?
Mark held his breath as Kismet's fingers dug into his sleeve.
"Unless it's the ghost of the old count," said the professor, " and they say he often visits his library at night."
The guard frowned.
"This is no time for jokes, Professor. Recently, attempts have become more frequent. unauthorized access to certain documents.
"Really?" - Volkov raised an eyebrow — - And what documents cause such interest?
Instead of answering, the man nodded to his men. They began to search the room methodically, moving closer to the shelving Mark and Kismet were hiding behind. At that moment, the sounds of commotion came from below - someone calling loudly for security. Georgy Andreevich took out his walkie-talkie: "What's going on?" "A small incident in the ballroom, chief," there was a crackle of static. "I need your help."
The man let out an exasperated sigh.
"We'll get back to this conversation, Professor," he said, and walked briskly out of the room. The guards followed him.
"Come out. We don't have much time, " Volkov said softly as the footsteps faded out the door.
Mark and Kismet emerged from their hiding place. The professor, who now looked like a shadow among shadows, was already standing at the antique escritoire, quickly sorting through some papers.
"Here," he handed Kismet a worn folder, " is everything your uncle managed to collect. All its transcripts, coordinates, and notes. Remember that you are not the only one looking for these documents.
Suddenly, the lights in the library flickered and went out, and the air seemed to thicken to a tangible substance. In the darkness, like a gunshot, there was a soft click of the lock , as if someone had locked the door from the outside. Kismet reflexively grabbed Mark's arm.
Mark took out his phone, turning on the flashlight to examine the documents. A beam of light illuminated the professor's determined face as he handed the envelope to Kismet. There was a growing noise outside the door, muffled voices and the sound of heavy footsteps.
"Is there another way out?" Mark tried to keep his voice low, but in the tense silence of the library, his whisper was too deafening.
Volkov nodded, pointing to a barely visible panel in the wall behind the bookcase.
— The service corridor will take you to the east wing, to the conservatory. I'll hold them off, give you time to leave.
Kismet carefully tucked the small folder into the bodice of her evening dress. There was a mixture of gratitude and concern in her eyes.
"Hurry up," the professor's voice was agitated, " What you know, many people would prefer to leave buried in the past.
Mark pulled Kismet toward a hidden door. The old mechanism did not give in immediately, revealing a narrow passage with a long creak, smelling of dampness and time.
The service corridor twisted like an ancient snake, leading them deeper into the bowels of the ancient mansion. The phone's dim light picked out the intricate patterns of cracked plaster and the silvery threads of cobwebs that covered the corners. Somewhere in the corridor, water dripped monotonously, like a metronome counting down the seconds of their escape through this underground maze. Kismet stopped, pressing herself against the cold wall. Her fingers, trembling with tension and adrenaline, pulled out a folder that now felt heavier than lead. The thick paper gave way, revealing a stack of sheets covered in her uncle's small, nervous handwriting, presenting more secrets than answers. In the light of Mark's phone, the first page seemed to come alive, and among the ornate symbols that looked like ancient runes and long chains of coordinates, the inscription stood out in blood-red ink: "Northern Circle. Third stone from the center. Only when the moon is full." The words seemed like a prophecy, a coded message from the past. Suddenly, the silence was broken by a thud somewhere above,like a giant hammer striking the roof of a house. Old dust fell from the ceiling, followed by the muffled voices of security guards.
"They're in the walls!" The voice from above was muffled, but it had the confidence of a hunter chasing down his prey.
Kismet quickly managed to hide the documents before Mark grabbed her arm and they headed down the corridor, no longer bothered by the silence. Their footsteps echoed off the walls, giving the illusion that a whole crowd was running after them. The corridor suddenly bifurcated, offering a choice between two equally dark paths. Mark hesitated for a moment, then pulled Kismet to the right.
"If I understand the layout correctly, this path should lead us to the greenhouse," his whisper was barely audible over the pounding of their hearts. A dim light appeared around the bend. There was a way out ahead, but was it a rescue or a trap?
They stumbled out into the conservatory, where the stifling air of exotic plants wrapped around them like a heavy blanket. Huge fronds of ferns and vines formed a bizarre corridor of leaves. Mark and Kismet froze for a moment, panting from their run. Their silhouettes were reflected in the misty glass walls, creating the illusion that they were in a mirror maze. Somewhere in the depths of the mansion, the screams and footsteps of security guards were echoing as they combed floor after floor.
Kismet fidgeted with the hem of her dress, her eyes wide with adrenaline, glittering in the dim light as Mark quickly looked around. The only door to the outside was locked with a massive padlock, as if mocking their attempts to escape. Suddenly, his gaze darted up to where a small window was hidden just below the ceiling.
"This way," Mark shouted, pointing at the ceiling. It was wide enough for a man to squeeze through.
The interweaving of metal structures and wooden shelving could serve as a makeshift staircase. There was no time for hesitation, as the sounds of the chase grew clearer and clearer, like hounds following a trail. Mark gave Kismet a lift, and she clambered up the structures deftly, despite her evening dress. Her hands found support where they didn't seem to be, and her high-heeled shoes, which should have been a hindrance, became an extra point of support. Mark was belaying her from below, ready to catch her at any moment. When she reached the ledge, she managed to work the rusty mechanism of the window, and a rush of fresh night air rushed into the stifling atmosphere of the greenhouse, bringing with it the smell of freedom.
Outside, they found a narrow path leading to an old stone fence, beyond which a dense park opened, ready to shelter the fugitives in its dark embrace. Mark pulled himself up behind her, his muscles aching from the strain. They ran down the path, keeping to the shadows of the trees. There was the sound of broken glass behind them, and one of the guards noticed an open window.
"They're there! a scream cut through the night. A streetlamp flashed in their direction, but it was too late, and they had already disappeared behind the fence, disappearing into the inky darkness of the park, leaving the mansion behind, plunging into a chaos of activity.
The park beyond the mansion's railings stretched its oak shoulders, and the maples weaved their crowns over the heads of the fugitives, creating an impenetrable canopy. The grass, damp from the evening dew, muffled the sound of their footsteps, making their run a ghostly glide between the dark trunks. Kismet, whose elegant evening dress was clearly not designed for such adventures, tried to clear her mind as she ran. The folder hidden in her bodice now looked like a hot coal burning through the fabric. In his head throbbed with the words he had seen in the documents: "Northern Circle. Third stone from the center. Only when the moon is full." Tschwhat could that mean? And why did my uncle attach such importance to the lunar cycles?
Mark stopped abruptly, his trained instincts reacting before his conscious mind could. He gently but firmly pulled Kismet behind the massive trunk of a centuries-old oak tree, its bark covered with a bizarre pattern of moss and lichens. His breathing, despite running fast, remained controlled. They paused, listening as the shouts of their pursuers faded in the distance, carried away by the night wind in the opposite direction of the park.
"We need to split up," he whispered, peering into the darkness behind them, where the lights of the pursuers ' lanterns flickered. Call a taxi there and leave.
"No," Kismet said, grabbing his arm. And then. the documents need to be studied together. There's more to it than just coordinates.
Mark started to protest, but a branch snapped in the distance. They froze, blending into the rough bark of the tree. The flashlight beam slid dangerously close, revealing clouds of mist that had begun to rise from the ground like ghostly sentinels guardingfugitives.
- Split up into groups! A muffled voice said — " They couldn't have gone far.
Kismet felt Mark's fingers tighten around hers. Without a word, they understood each other and slipped further into the darkness of the park, where the old trees still held many secrets that could hide those who sought shelter in their shadows. The full moon peeked through the gaps in the clouds, and every step was calculated: the foot had to find support between treacherously rustling leaves and fragile twigs. Suddenly, the park parted to reveal a small circular clearing. In the center, like an ancient altar, rose a stone circle-seven massive blocks set in a circle, resembling a miniature Stonehenge. The full moon cast a silvery glow through the gaps in the clouds.
"The Northern Circle," Kismet breathed, her eyes widening in understanding.
Mark quickly checked the compass on his phone. The North Stone stood out from the rest , with faint symbols on its surface, similar to those in Uncle Kismet's notes. They started counting down: "First. Second. The third one." The third stone looked unremarkable, but when Kismet ran her hand over its rough surface, something clicked under her fingers, and part of the stone slid inward, revealing a small niche. Inside was a metal cylinder covered in a web of time. Kismet took it out carefully, her hands shaking with excitement. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the voices of security guards.
"We need to go," Mark tugged on her arm, looking around cautiously, his journalistic sense telling him that they couldn't stay here for long, " they'll figure out this part of the park sooner or later." Consider finding it in a safe place.
Kismet nodded. Fatigue rolled in waves, and the strain of the last few hours was taking its toll.
"My friend has an apartment in the Troparevo district," Mark continued, supporting Kismet by the elbow, " He's in Prague right now, working on a series of reports, and I know where his spare keys are. We can take a break there and study everything in peace.
They made their way out of the park through an old gate that was lost in the undergrowth. The night city greeted them with coolness and deserted streets. The taxi was found quickly, the sleepy driver moving slowly through Moscow at night, sometimes glancing in the mirror at the couple.
"So you were at the theater today?" - I remember a couple of months ago I was driving the same couple, it turned out they were artists from the theater, driving after the premiere.
Kismet smiled silently and gratefully, the taxi driver's conversation helping to ease the tension. She stole a glance at Mark, who was gazing thoughtfully out the window at the passing scenery.
The lights of the center gradually gave way to more peaceful lighting of residential areas. When the taxi stopped in front of a multi-story building, Mark helped Kismet out, holding her hand, and led her to the front door. He paused at the mailboxes, poking his hand through the crack, trying to find the keys on the inside wall.
"Secret place," he said with a grin, deftly pulling out his keys.
The entrance smelled of fresh paint and flowers. Mark automatically noted all the details: recent repairs, new lighting fixtures, a security camera in the corner. His professional habit of noticing every detail had never failed him in his investigations. But now his thoughts kept returning to Kismet, who was slowly climbing the stairs ahead of negabout. Her graceful figure in her rumpled evening dress, the tired grace of her movements, all made him feel a strange desire to protect her, to protect her from the dangerous game they were both involved in.y. On the second floor, they stopped at an inconspicuous door upholstered in dark brown leatherette. The old lock on the door of the seventeenth apartment was stubborn as a skittish horse and did not want to turn around.
"That's all I needed," Mark swore softly, catching a glimpse of Kismet leaning against the wall, clearly exhausted from the long day.
Mark carefully turned the key several times, and the mechanism finally gave way with a soft click.
They were greeted by a symphony of smells: dusty volumes on the shelves gave off a special aroma of old paper and printing ink, a light plume of stagnant air reminded them of the long absence of the owner. Mark flipped on the light switch, and soft light flooded the small, light-tiled hallway. On the walls hung black-and-white photographs of different cities, traces of the landlord's travels.
Mark went around the apartment like a sentry, checking the windows and drawing the heavy curtains.
His gaze returned to Kismet, who was now scanning the book-strewn living room. In the dim light of the desk lamp, she looked especially fragile and vulnerable, "The bedroom is over there," Mark pointed to the door ajar to the right — " You lie down in the room, and I'll settle down here on the sofa.
"But," Kismet began to protest, but a telltale yawn rendered all arguments meaningless.
"No objections. We need a proper rest in the morning, " Mark said, looking thoughtfully at the cylinder still clutched in Kismet's hand,
— I'll contact someone in the morning. She's an expert on ancient ciphers and symbols. If anyone can help us figure this out, it's Sophie.
Something in his voice when he said the name made Kismet wary, but weariness was stronger than curiosity. Mark helped her into the bedroom and brought her a blanket. As he leaned down to cover her, their eyes met, and time stretched out like a drop of honey running down a spoon. Mark felt his usual calm begin to fail him. His fingers moved weightlessly to her cheek, brushing away a stray lock of hair. Her eyes were so close that he could see the golden flecks in her green irises. Mark felt her warm breath on his lips, their faces moving slowly together, their breaths blending together, creating an invisible thread of attraction.
The sudden and shrill wail of a police siren shattered the charm of the moment like a bolt from the blue. The professional skill worked instantly, and Mark recoiled and ran to the window, silently pulling back the edge of the curtain. The patrol car, like a predator in the night, drifted slowly past the house and disappeared into the darkness of the courtyard.
The words hung in the air like an unspoken confession.
When he came out of the bedroom, he sat down heavily on the sofa, which creaked softly. Tomorrow was going to be a difficult day, but he needed to get some rest, although he doubted he would be able to sleep, too many thoughts were swarming in his head. But even in the midst of this maelstrom of anxious thoughts, he couldn't forget the warmth of her skin under his fingers and the failed kiss that would haunt his dreams from now on.