Chapter 4 - the Roaring Lion

Margaret sat in her room and did the most suitable thing for a young lady - pasted shells over her casket. The companion, pretty battered after a conversation with Mrs. Sheridan, did not let her watchful eye off her ward, watching the plot twists of the novel "The Love among Roses" with another eye. As far as Margaret knew mother, a house arrest could last a month or two, depending on gravity of offence, which Mrs. Sheridan had not yet determined. Although the first day of imprisonment barely exceeded half, the girl already wanted to climb the wall and howl. However, maybe it's the smell of glue...

Margaret wiped her hands with a damp napkin, put the casket on the drying window and sat down in the chair. A stack of books was lying on the table, and Miss Sheridan without much interest revealed the second volume of "The Count Vampire". A weak sob came from the side of the companion - apparently, the love in roses reached an acute moment.

In the memory of Margaret, the day on the bridge remained a scattering of vivid pictures, very clear - exactly until the moment the horses jumped into the canal. The crashed carriage was the last clear memory. Margaret vaguely remembered that she wandered into some block, but could not say how she got there and how she returned to the bridge. Clarity returned to her memory only after the appearance of the uncle and the consultant, more precisely - the consultant and the uncle. Although Mr. Longsdale stood in the shadow of the church, she was the first to notice him, and after that the fog in her head began to dissipate.

Miss Sheridan turned over the page and stared with detachment at the vampiric count, who hung menacingly over the unfortunate girl in white. When there is darkness around, and almost nothing is visible, except for fangs and eyes, then everything seems much frightful than it really is. Was there anything really so scary in the temple to lose the memory, or was it all about the shadow and the haze inside?

Margaret remembered all the events step by step and again stopped in front of the broken crew. She was sure that after that she saw something else, but it was still lost in the thick haze, as if everything was happening in a dream. The intricate cramped streets and the smell of garbage heaps - that was all that kept her memory. Miss Sheridan grimaced squeamishly. But still, the shapeless gray cloud that filled the entire church from the inside - did she really see it too? Then why was there a consultant from the uncle department?

Margaret's thoughts gradually centered around Mr. Longsdale. He was not at all like the young heirs or the still not very old business owners who usually surrounded Miss Sheridan with a dense cloud, as soon as she appeared in society. Although he behaved simply blatantly impolite, Margaret could not admit that the consultant is much more beautiful than all her hero-worshippers combined. Neither the venerable merchants, nor their sons could boast of an eagle profile and such a width of shoulders. Basically, they were distinguished by the width of the waist and girth of the abdomen.

The girl threw the book on the sofa and went to the window. Miss Thay began to tremble anxiously, as if fearing that the ward will now rush to freedom through the window leaf. Mrs. Sheridan did not choose phrases ("We are not paying you to have our daughter spotted by the police on the streets!"), and Margaret sighed. The companion, of course, is a pity, but curiosity is much stronger.

"Miss Tay, do you want some buns? Or maybe cinnamon pies?"

The companion froze, squeezing "The Love among Roses." It seems that she was convulsively thinking what else to expect from the well-bred daughter of respectable parents, and could not catch where the catch was.

"And you, miss?" She finally asked.

"I want to," Margaret sat down on the edge of the chair next to her and gave her companion a contrite look. "I will ask permission from my mother, do not worry."

"For what?!" Cried Miss Thay.

"For a trip to the Cafe "Shell". However, if you are worried, then my older brother will come with us."

The companion blinked bewilderedly. She protected the honor of the young miss for only two months, and the previous duenna did not have time to share her deplorable experience.

"Good, miss. I..." Miss Tay took a breath of air, gaining strength. "I'll ask your mother now."

Margaret gave her a beaming smile. The chaperone came out and locked the door with a key. The girl leaned back in her chair and again indulged in memories. She had never before been able to wash blood from someone else's face, and it was much more exciting than all that respectable admirers could offer her. The consultant's eyes were very bright, blue, and when his eyes first focused on Miss Sheridan, she felt that he was looking at her in a completely different way. No matter how other gentlemen admired her beauty, Margaret did not leave a vague feeling that for them she was a commodity on a shelf and, most importantly, in fact, her presentation and size of the dowry.

"Your mother went on a visit, miss," said Miss Thay, returning.

The girl sat still with difficulty.

"Well then, we can go without Edwin!"

"But young lady, your mother said clearly that until she allows you, you will be sitting here."

"But Cafe "Shell" is just opposite the police department, where my uncle works. What could happen to me?"

"You, miss, ran away from me when I picked out the garlands in a perfectly decent store."

"I did not run away," the girl objected. "I just went outside, and there a panic started, and I was confused in the crowd. You are not to blame for the fact that they all ran. But here, what could happen? Nearby the whole city police?"

"Well, miss, only if you don't step a step away from me..."

"O, sure! I don't want to be in some terrible place again!"

The companion was still hesitating, and the girl added:

"Mom will only be back in three hours."

"Good, young lady," Miss Tay finally decided. "But I will not take my eyes off you!"

"For God's sake," Margaret thought.

***

The sign above the cafe looked more like a magnificent rich bagel than a shell. The windows shone with warm gold; in one of them, above the sign, the girl noticed a tall female figure - she stood with her back to the light, and only a silhouette could be discerned.

"The very same Missis Van Allen," Margaret chuckled. The female half of the Brennon family was impatiently waiting for the last bachelor in the clan to finally put a veil and ring on the lady of his heart, and the male already accepted bets.

Miss Thay, seeing that the ward brought her not to some den, but to a pretty decent establishment, visibly relaxed and patronized Margaret by the arm. The girl glanced around quickly and counted the windows of the cafe, from which the street was visible. Two young police officers ran inside right in front of her, and Margaret pulled her hat down. The appearance of the uncle, armed with thunder and lightning, would be quite inopportune!

"Oh, where do we sit?" Miss Thay muttered in frustration when warm air, cinnamon aroma and the rumble of voices poured on they from the threshold. The cafe was packed to capacity; in the corner, two waiters led by a young man set up additional narrow tables and stools. "There's no place for an apple to fall!"

"No wonder, in this cold," Margaret began decisively to push towards the waiters. "Sorry! Excuse me, can you please?"

The young man turned around, stared at Miss Sheridan and swiftly burst into paint from the roots of the hair to the collar. Margaret was pleased to recognize the symptoms that she caused young and not so gentlemen, and thought that this one was at least tall, handsome and blond. The girl smiled tenderly:

"Good afternoon. Tell me, my companion and I - can we take a couple of stools here?"

"Ah?" the victim said unwillingly. "Ah, yes, yes, now, m-miss... miss..."

"Miss Sheridan," came softly beside her. Margaret jumped in surprise.

"Mother!" woke up a young man. "Why did you come out? It is stuffy and too noisy, and you need peace."

"Victor, my eldest son," said Mrs. Van Allen.

"Very nice," Margaret muttered. The widow seemed to her not very healthy or, rather, very tired; but now the girl was more worried when it is sound: "Well, now I'll send for your uncle."

"Victor, seat the guests. Accept the order," the hostess ordered the waiter, kindly nodded Margaret goodbye and slipped into the crowd.

"Please, miss," said the obedient son, and pushed back the stool for the girl. Miss Sheridan smiled gratefully, stepped closer, and van Allen doused again in a thick blush.

"Listen," Margaret whispered, "please set my chaperon - it's she! - to another table and distract her! Say you can't find me!"

"But miss..."

"Please! I need to leave for a while. I'll be back, I promise!"

"I'm not sure... That is, I don't know..."

"Thanks!" Margaret exhaled passionately in his ear and plunged into the crowd of visitors. She somehow made her way to the exit and broke free. Turning to close the door, she met Mrs. Van Allen's gaze. Somehow, the widow was at the very doorstep. She suddenly touched the girl's hand with long warm fingers and squeezed slightly, as if she did not dare to hold it. Miss Sheridan involuntarily leaned back, and Mrs. Van Allen released her hand. The doors slammed shut. Margaret froze stunnedly, surprised either by the strange smile of the hostess or the dark blue eyes of her. Just a few minutes before, she was sure that they were light blue. There was still a warm mark on her hand, and Miss Sheridan hurried to pull on the glove.

The day was getting close to five o'clock, and it was already dark in the city. Margaret ran from the porch, hastily looked around and decided first of all to move away from her uncle's possessions. Having examined the house numbers on white tablets, the girl quickly walked to house 86, which Regan accidentally mentioned, while she testified in the department. Of course, young ladies should not be wandering in the dark even along the main streets, but she was not going to linger for a long time.

"If he is not a human, then his house is not human either," Margaret reasoned. What if he really sleeps in a coffin?! Maybe there's a crypt in the garden... Although where do crypt in the middle of a respectable garden? And the neighbors will notice...

House 86 was successfully located between two lanterns - the first still did not reach the gate with light, and the second lit up only the corner of the fence, and therefore the mansion, garden and the fence itself almost completely drowned in the shade. Margaret stopped on the other side of the street, opposite the gate. Occasionally passers-by scurried along the street, and no one paid attention to the girl.

Not a single light burned in the house. Suddenly the door opened and a butler appeared on the porch. That is, Margaret decided that it was a butler - to make out a face from such a distance, and even in the thick twilight, except that a vampire could. The butler locked the castle, crossed the garden and went over the fence. He had a suitcase in his hand, which he placed on the sidewalk while closing the fence door for the servant. The suitcase resembled a medical one, perhaps a little more; the butler picked up it and headed for the department. Margaret waited while he was hiding in the building, ran across the street and stopped in front of the fence door, biting her lip in confusion and impatience.

The house was surrounded by a fence of gray stone, with wrought dark spikes on top. The gates and the fence door were also forged, painted black. The sharp corners in the openwork gate intertwined in an intricate pattern. Miss Sheridan looked at the pattern for a long time, trying to catch the picture, and finally cautiously reached for the fence door.

"No," someone breathed softly into the girl's ear, and a man's hand gripped her wrist tightly. Margaret screeched shrilly and tried to break free. It was not possible to free her hand, but the girl turned on her heels and stared at the tall thin gentleman who successfully hid his face in the shadows. Margaret jerked as hard as she could, but his grip didn't loosen, and the gentleman didn't even move.

"Who are you?! Release me!"

"Do not touch everything indiscriminately."

"Release me now!"

"Enchanted," said the stranger. It was the only word that could instantly calm Miss Sheridan.

"True?" She whispered and stared eagerly at the grate. The gentleman touched the fence and a red light shot on the grate.

"Oh!" the girl exhaled enthusiastically. The stranger confidently turned her to the dark alley between houses 86 and 84 and dragged her there. Miss Sheridan burst into a paint of embarrassment and indignation - he squeezed her wrist so tenaciously that her fingers were numb, and she was also in the half-arms of an unknown man, and some people were already looking back at them. She violently poked her elbow in his flank, but he did not even frown, only for a moment slowed down a step near the lantern. Margaret noticed large dark eyes flashing from under his hat.

"You're kidding me," he hissed suddenly. "It's you again?!"

"What does it mean again?"

They had already dived into the alley, thereby ceasing to attract the attention of passers-by, and the gentleman hissed again at Margaret no worse than a snake:

"What are you doing here? Spy?! For whom? Who are you?"

Miss Sheridan jerked unsuccessfully in his half-embrace once or twice, and finally viciously slapped his face in her free hand. She hit in the jaw and cried out in pain - the jaw was very hard!

"What do you allow yourself?" The gentleman asked much more calmly, while Margaret blew on her fingers. "Is that how they teach girls to behave now?"

"And who are you to make a complaint?" Margaret almost bit her tongue, recognizing mother intonation. "Educated people do not grab girls in the streets!"

"Decent girls do not roam the streets alone at such a time."

Miss Sheridan had already opened her mouth for an angry rebuke, it was good she had something to say, but when she accidentally looked at the street, the whole monologue evaporated, leaving only three words:

"Oh My God! Look!"

"What?" The stranger asked frowningly, taking a long look at the street.

"Not there! Shadows, shadows!"

Rocksville Street was empty, as if passers-by instinctively hasten to go away. Lanterns snatched circles of light from the darkness of the night, and an ash shadow glided through the snow between them like a wave. As a surf, she either rolled up to the walls of the houses, or huddled in the middle of the sidewalk, avoiding the light. A transparent haze fluttered above her, like the tentacles of an underwater beast or the long mop of algae. In a gentle breeze, there was a smell of burning - faintly, but distinctly.

"See?" Whispered Margaret.

"No. I told you..." the gentleman cut short the phrase and muttered: "Oh yes. You do not remember."

"I don't remember what?"

Without answering, he put his hand in the inside pocket of his coat. The girl in anticipation froze - what will he get? The magic wand? Or a mighty amulet? Silver cross with a piece of holy relics? Or... A gentleman pulled out round greenish glasses from his pocket and put them on his nose. Margaret did not feel such disappointment from the age of six when she caught her father slipping gifts under a Christmas tree.

"Well, is it better now?" - Miss Sheridan sarcastically asked. The stranger finally released her hand and moved closer to the house, watching the movements of the shadow.

"It's looking for," he said.

"What it is looking for?"

"Receptacle," the gentleman turned his gaze to the mansion. "Here did the whole family burn during the fire?"

"Yes, but..."

"The house would do."

"For what?" not receiving an answer, Margaret impatiently tugged at the lapel of his frock coat. "Why would it want a house? Shouldn't an unclean spirit obsess in humans?"

"An unclean spirit," the gentleman said, "does not owe you anything. The receptacle can be anything. However, the owners are in no hurry."

He drew a sign on the wall, inaudible muttering under his breath. An intricate symbol flashed a reddish twinkle, darted along the masonry to the gate and galloped like a squirrel along a forged pattern. The fence responded with indignant ringing and a scattering of colored highlights. The shadow in the street started up and quickly slipped to the house.

"Are you a witcher?" Whispered enthusiastically Margaret. The gentleman mocked an eyebrow.

"Started with slaps, end with insults?"

"I don't..." Miss Sheridan fell silent. This hook-nosed profile seemed familiar to her. But where could she see him?

The shadow fell in front of the house. The haze above her, thickening by the minute, rose up, and soon a thick veil covered the street, and through it the light of lanterns barely oozed. Margaret's heart pricked, and she involuntarily pressed herself against the stranger, squeezed his elbow, as if he could do something. The shadow flowed over the curb. Thin tentacles crawled to the fence, slid along the wall, smoked, and hissed back. Openwork forging was filled with a dim glow. The shadow made a dull rumbling-smacking sound. The gentleman released his hand and pushed Margaret behind him.

"What is it?" The girl whispered.

"In the caliphate they are called ifrites. Someone worked hard," the stranger muttered, took off his glasses and put it in his pocket.

"What are you doing?" hissed Margaret. "Are you crazy? You don't see anything without them!"

The gentleman took her hand and pressed it to the fence - the masonry was trembling finely.

"Feeling? I don't want to get glass fragments in my eyes when the ifrit comes into effect."

Blackness crept between the stones along the solution. The cast-iron lace of the gate suddenly began to brighten, as if turning into glass. The shadow in front of them arched.

"Moreover," the stranger said melancholily, "now even I see... Interesting," he continued in a half-whisper, almost to himself, "who reforged the gate? It is unlikely that the previous owner... Ah!" he started up. "Here is the witcher. At last he appeared," and he looked mockingly at Margaret. "The real one, as you wanted."

The girl peered carefully over his shoulder. Through the black haze, she could hardly make out a man who was running down the street from the department to house 86.

"Not he," Miss Sheridan thought disappointedly: for Longsdale, the witcher was too thin and shorter. Suddenly, a fiery flash broke before him and lit his face.

"It's a butler!" Margaret exclaimed indignantly.

The fiery ball cut through a thick haze, brushed a shadow by the edge with and splashed at the gate. A transparent flaming wall shot up toward the sky. The butler stopped at the edge of the shadow. Through the muddy suspension from the ashes, Margaret discerned only the outlines of his narrow face and eyes, burning with a dark orange fire.

"Witcher," the gentleman said quietly, with an equal amount of disgust and contempt. "Watchdog."

"But how can he drive it away with fire, if this your ifrit can burn everything to ashes here?" Asked Margaret timidly.

"It's not about the fire," he looked at the girl, and this long attentive look, and thin face, and big, very dark eyes again seemed familiar to her... On the street it blazed so that a sharp flash illuminated both his pupils and irises, painting them in greenish brown. The gentleman grabbed Margaret and pushed into the very depths of the alley, pressed her to the fence and froze himself, looking towards the street. Margaret could smell some chemicals from his hands and clothes, and the warmth of his body, and the way the wall behind her was heated.

"You must help him!"

"Why on earth?"

"You are a witcher!"

"I am a human," said the stranger sharply. "And there is nothing to climb between the witcher and the ifrit in the midst of a fight."

He squeezed a cane that hung on his wrist on a belt loop, drew a line through the snow and three symbols above it.

"What is this drawing on the gate?" Asked Margaret. "Some kind of circle with leaves and arcs."

The gentleman looked at her again, with approval and even some interest.

"This is a kind of garon. A safety sign that..."

A cloud of fire soared into the sky above the street; there was such a roar that Margaret, together with a stranger, pressed into the wall. The snow began to boil, and the line with the symbols disappeared. Miss Sheridan did not understand the words that scaped from the gentleman, but it was unlikely that these were spells. A smoky whirlwind flashed through the blazing cloud, the street shook. The booming roar subsided in the night, echoing along Rocksville Street. A pinkish fire burned for a short time on the street, gradually melting, like sugar in boiling water. Finally it faded, and silence fell.

Miss Sheridan carefully detached herself from the wall and moved forward. Annoyed "Where?!" she passed ears, especially since thanks to the crinoline she hit weaker than the stranger. She peered apprehensively around the corner of the fence. The shadow has disappeared; the gates were smoldering weakly, and the witcher was on his knees, his back to them, covering his face with his hands. The wind rolled his hat on the sidewalk and ruffled black hair. Margaret coughed.

"Are you crazy?" Hissed a stranger in her ear. "Do not meddle!.."

The witcher trembled violently and suddenly springily jumped to his feet, like a wild beast. In one jump he was near Margaret, and then the gentleman literally threw the girl into his arms. The sorcerer staggered, Miss Sheridan clung to him in an attempt to stand on her feet and after several steps of crazy dance she found herself left on the street alone with the butler. The stranger is gone; even a ghost could not dissolve in the darkness so silently.

"Who are you?" The witcher asked in a low hoarse voice, squeezing Margaret by the elbows.

"I am the niece of Commissar Brennon, Miss Sheridan," the girl said coldly.

"Ah, hell," answered the butler. "I forgot."

His eyes were now black, and he looked with them extremely brazenly. Without the slightest respect.

"What the devil are you here?"

Margaret choked with indignation.

"How dare you!"

"So," the butler snapped his fingers, and the hat flew into his hands, "I have no time to mess around. Where is your nanny?"

"My companion is in the cafe "Shell".

"And you took three steps and got lost," the witcher said through set teeth. "But do not be afraid, dear ma'am, I will return you there."

He suddenly grabbed Margaret by the chin, but before the girl was afraid of the fire pulsing in the darkness of his eye, the butler pulled away himself, and a guarded surprise flickered on his face.

"I'll walk you out, miss," he said respectfully, grabbed the stunned Margaret by the hand and dragged him to the cafe "Shell", which shone in the night with a gentle golden light.