Page 3 of Spring's Arcana
You never wanted to be found underperforming when Baba was in charge. Look at what had happened to Dascha, after all.
Dmitri liked lounging on the apostrophe-shaped black leather couch, mostly because he knew it irritated the old woman. He liked stretching out his feet and admiring the bright caps on his boot-toes for the same reason, but the slicked-back hair and well-tailored suit—not black, a few shades offtruedarkness into indigo—were worn because they pleased him alone, like the inked lines crawling over his knuckles, up his arms, down his back, across his chest. Certain folk would see bright colors there, others just the deep bruise-blue of prison ink, and some would avert their gaze without knowing why, especially when he smiled.
At the moment, he was more occupied with watching the dame slip between her shapes than with his toes. When she was in this mood, it paid to be vigilant.
A mannerly tap at the heavy door was followed by sloe-eyed Daschenka in her trim green knee-length skirt and matching jacket, her blouse a froth of soft white ruffles upon her capacious chest. Her dark hair was an elaborate confection, looped and braided fit to trap-tangle a pixie to death for later consumption, and her green stiletto heels made crisp little sounds until she noticed the mood Baba was in and they turned silent as fawn hooves amid deep, dead grass. Dascha’s lipstick, a perfect carmine, had just been reapplied— or she’d taken advantage of her lunch hour to have a quick snack.
The old lady at the window didn’t turn. “Well?” she snapped, staring at the whirling flakes like she intended to count each one.
It wasn’t outside her capabilities, but it sounded boring as fuck. Dmitri rested his head on the couch back, his eyelids dropping to half-mast. He wasn’t quite hungry enough, he decided. Not yet.
Even if he was, what would it get? A mouthful of cold air and ashes, so why bestir himself?
Daschenka didn’t look at him. “A girl with the card, Grandmother.” Of course her tone was soft and utterly respectful.
“A card?” The dame settled into her middle-aged professional form, the bust swelling slightly as she turned. Her pantsuit was dark with white pinstripes, the contrast sharp and distinct. “If it’s another penny-ante piece of trash, get rid of it. I’m not in the mood.”
Daschenka did not move, though she paled very slightly. “Thecard, ma’am.”
“Horrible child. Why didn’t you say so?” Grandmother pushed the desk chair aside with one ample hip, the curve hard as stone under her trousers. She bent, placed both hands flat on the desk’s mirror-polished surface, and exhaled sharply.
Normally such an operation was followed by a tingling crackle and the old dame’s short, corrosive laugh, or a heavy sigh as she gazed upon whoever was foolish enough to come toheroffice. Today, though, the snow strengthened into soft damp flakes outside the eightieth floor, feathers and chunks riding errant wind-currents, and Dmitri watched Grandmother study the desk’s face, a line engraving itself between her iron-gray eyebrows—left untamed when she was in this form, and curling at the tips.
She was, for at least thirty long mortal seconds, deadly silent.
“I see,” she whispered, and sucked on her top lip for a moment,a thoughtful, habitual motion. “Grown up, have we? Dascha, be a good girl, make some coffee.”
“Shall I show her in first?” The girl didn’t move when Grandmother looked up with a silent snarl.
“Of course, ninny. And remember, Dima likes his with a little sting. Hurry, hurry, and send her in.” She watched Daschenka sashay away with an extra fillip to her green-clad hips, andtch-tch’d like a woman standing in a queue for hours when it finally moved an inch forward. “Well, well. I hope your calendar is clear, Dima.”
“At your service.” Dmitri tasted each word, let them fall like wounded birds.That was, after all, our arrangement.
She laughed, peeling her hands from the mirrored desktop, and that was the first intimation of something truly out of the ordinary, because Baba actually soundedamused. “We’ll see about that, won’t we? We’ll… just… see.” She straightened, touched her lower back as if it ached, and her lips were sheathed with neutral brownish gloss now. Her eyes were still hot coals, though, and her hair hadn’t changed much either, parchment braided into a coronet.
The door opened again. “—sure?” Dascha, sweet as summer honey, but with an edge of disbelief.
“Thank you, but no,” the visitor said. Soft voice, uncertain, and Dmitri Konets’s mouth filled with heat.
It generally did, when prey came waltzing past.
The visitor was a girl with honey-tinted chestnut hair in a gloriously loose twist, wide dark eyes to rival Dascha’s, and a woolen peacoat that had seen much better days. Melting slush clung to her cheap, sensible flats; her black tights were damp to the knee. Her nose was pinkened and her eyes red-rimmed, misery shimmering over her like heat above concrete in summer, and the unalloyed quality of that sadness was far too strong to be purely mortal.
A subtle, floral perfume touched the office’s interior, tiptoed to his sensitive nose, and Dmitri did not stiffen. At least, most of him stayed relaxed, inert, without a single twitch or eyelid-flicker to warn her or Grandmother of his interest.
“I appreciate it,” the girl added, unnecessarily, but Dascha had already shut the door, probably glad to be free of whatever problem this guest represented. So the girl glanced at him, visibly didn’t like what she saw, and turned those limpid dark eyes to the dame at the desk. “Hello, ma’am. I’m very grateful you agreed to see me. I’m Maria Drozdova’s daughter. She’s in hospice care, and she sent me.”
Daughter?Dima tensed, a viper coiling under a rock.You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Baba didn’t even so much as glance at him.
TWINKLE TOES
If she’d known it was going to be this weird, maybe Nat would have just attempted a slight fib and endured her mother’s sharp annoyance.No, Mom, I went but they didn’t recognize the card, I couldn’t get in.
Like every good lie, it would be believable. God knew every “friend” who came to visit Mom in the little yellow house had vanished almost overnight once she got sick, and the Drozdovas had no extended family unless it was Uncle Leo or back in what Maria called, with a curl of her lip, “the old country.” Now Mom was stuck in hospice like a wildebeest in a drying water hole, her only visitors dotty old Leo and a daughter working two jobs, one of which was probably being offered to a new candidate right now because Nat had technically walked off midshift.
Maybe she could file for unemployment. The thought filled Nat with fresh, overwhelming weariness.
