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When she spoke, her voice was muffled by her palms.
“I hate all of it!” she lamented. “Who would need to do this, dammit?!”
Richard remained silent. He already regretted listening and accompanying her to the hotel instead of taking her to his apartment, supposedly owned by the actor Richard North.
Now they were enclosed within four walls, under the constant watchful eye of their managers and hordes of journalists. Soon, enraged fans and haters will appear, making it harder for them to escape unwanted attention.
The police had questioned them several hours ago, and the tedious procedure had yielded nothing – but Alexandra finally calmed down. She had been trembling for a long time, so much so that she couldn’t even drink water, though she maintained her composure. Her body seemed to react separately from her mind.
Richard understood how she felt. She realized that she had come dangerously close to being in the position of the unfortunate Kristina Matveyeva, whose name she would remember for the rest of her life.
She was angry at the uncontrollable physiological stress reaction and the discomfort they had to endure while waiting for a call from the police or managers who would insist on the specific comments they were to give to specific media outlets.
The lawyer had already been in touch – for now, through McKellen. Overall, things didn’t look as terrible as they had initially seemed.
Suddenly, Richard felt angry at himself. How dare he reason like this? The situation was no threat to him – because it was him who had orchestrated it so that a colorless, odorless, fast-acting poison ended up in the glass that Alexandra would take.
And he was the one who had to distract her – so that one of her fans would want to pick up the glass from the noticeable spot. She needed to be scared, believe that she was in mortal danger.
Cowardice was necessary in his profession when it came to choosing between the interests of the state, global interests, and the life of an individual.
Alexandra was frightened, but she had not lost control of the situation. During the conversation with law enforcement, she remained calm, even managing to irritate a Scotland Yard inspector with her questions.
Richard smiled inappropriately at the thought that, if she wanted, she could have been just like him, a spy, with her ability to make decisions, instantly analyze situations, and draw accurate conclusions.
Now she trusted him – otherwise she wouldn’t have allowed him to be near her. She was the type to be able to handle problems on her own, no need for a sympathetic shoulder or company to share her worries.
She only accepted help when it was necessary, and he had volunteered to be her personal bodyguard.
She laughed at the wording at the time and merely waved it off.
“… could have been anyone – not necessarily a catering employee or someone from the venue,” she reasoned, Richard listened without interrupting. “If only we knew what this crap was and whether it was in the glass or just on the surface of it.”
She reasoned like a detective, systematically, methodically, dissecting the data. He remained quiet, not wanting to betray his knowledge of crime scene investigation.
“The cameras will show the waiter carry the glasses, filling them, who could have come into contact – and added poison to the glass, on the glass, or even into the bottle … But if it were the bottle, someone else would have gotten poisoned too.”
Alexandra had not changed out of her clothes; the back of the couch and the cushions were covered in glitter. She paid no attention to how the delicate black silk fabric of her wide trousers wrinkled and pulled up on her flat stomach.
“Have you thought about taking a shower and then going to sleep?”
“I have to remember everything,” she replied stubbornly. “To rewind.”
“Fatigue reduces concentration and attentiveness. You’ll remember everything after some sleep because then it will settle as it should.”
For the first time in hours, she looked at Richard – as if she were surprised that he was in her room.
“You’re right. You’re right!”
Alexandra jumped up from the couch, and glitter rained down to the floor. She took a few quick steps, but then froze in the middle of the room.
“But how do I fall asleep?”
She looked at him again, as if he could provide an answer.
Richard smiled, got up from the chair where he had sat all this time, and approached her until he was within arm’s reach. Alexandra looked up at him, trying to understand something, but her emotions and thoughts were already betraying her.
“Just lie down and sleep. You can do it.”
He knew she had sleep problems due to the neurological peculiarities and the intermittent periods of agitation caused by a diagnosis. He knew the medications she took, and he knew she hadn’t brought them with her to London because it was prohibited to export them from Russia even with a doctor’s prescription.
“Okay.”
He didn’t have a chance to do anything – although he intended to embrace her – she had already stepped aside, started unbuttoning and taking off her clothes as she walked. By the time Alexandra reached the bathroom door, the top and trousers were already on the floor, only glitter and panties remained on her body.
Richard stared at her back, a glimpse of the black pattern of tattoos on her left arm, shoulder blade, left side, and thigh – all of which disappeared inside the bathroom. It was both expected and unexpected: she had no reason to either flirt with him or be shy about her body, because she had a damn good body.
By the time Alexandra emerged from the shower – as if reborn, having washed away not just makeup, glitter, and sweat but also the long, odd, rugged day – Richard was not in the living room.
The relief that he might have left flooded over her. Then came the realization that he wouldn’t have gone anywhere – he was surely already waiting for her in the bedroom.
Richard was strange – handsome, intelligent, with kind eyes, a dazzling smile, an athlete’s body – but he seemed empty. He was an actor – not by trade but by nature. It was as if he didn’t even know himself – even though he spoke and acted convincingly, everything was congruent, everything was as it should be.
She changed into clean underwear – panties and a tank top – tossed the towel onto the chair with intentional carelessness, and, deliberately stomping, marched to the bed, where Richard lay wrapped in half of the duvet.
Alexandra hoped he understood that if he suddenly thought of seducing her, she’d tear his ears off. She sighed, and he turned his head toward her; he was smiling, it was visible even in the darkness.
She threw off the duvet and lay down next to him, on her back, her eyelids heavy with fatigue, her body feeling wooden. She hoped she’d fall asleep. Hope was all she could do.
Richard turned onto his side, facing her. She felt his gaze on her skin, but she had already closed her eyes and didn’t speak – words would not have come easy to her.
“Sleep.”
“Mm-hmm,” Alexandra replied with a mix of annoyance and resignation.
When she held that glass in her hands, she felt dread – if she were a cat, her fur would have stood on end. She sensed danger – and so did he. He distracted her. Intentionally or unintentionally, it no longer mattered.
Intuition doesn’t lie; a beast does not deceive itself.
If intuition were to be trusted, this Richard needs to piss off … And at the same time, she managed to see something real under the thick layer of his makeup – when he said he wanted to become himself.
Alexandra opened her eyes and looked at him. His eyelids were closed, his expression smooth, his round bare shoulder in the semi-darkness, with a long old scar snaking down it – he resembled an anatomy template for a painter; tomorrow, he’ll probably have stubble, his face will have creases from the pillow …
Who the hell are you, Richard North?
She would see and find everything out in her dreams – the most important thing now was to sleep.
9. Circus
[Great Britain, London, Soho]
“Aren’t you going to at least ask where we are?”
The young man in a late 16th-century suit sat at an elongated glass table, his legs crossed, his pointed shoes resting on the tabletop, his full-lipped face smiling.
“No,” Alexandra shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Everything matters.”
In front of him stood a bottle – labelless and dust-covered – and three goblets.
The young man pointed at the bottle, and Alexandra shook her head. “No, Christopher, I can’t stand this wine anymore.”
Now it was Christopher’s turn to express disapproval.
“Such faint-heartedness!” he snorted with a mischievous smirk and clicked his tongue.
“Are we waiting for William?”
“Yeah. He’s running late – a huge commission for Dante engravings.”
Alexandra took a seat with her back to the white canvas of the projector screen and looked around. It was a typical conference room for about a dozen people, with a glass door, tall windows through which, if the lamps inside were off, sparse lights from the building across and the glow of streetlamps could be seen.
“I can give you a hint about where we are!” Christopher persisted.
“Go ahead.”
Christopher was charming, the way brown-eyed young men, artistic, having had their fair share of entertainment, success and emotion, gifted with rich intellect, can be charming.
“We,” he theatrically gestured with his hands, “are at the circus!”
“At the circus?”
“Why specify?”
“To understand – and remember. I might have to write this down in the red book later.”
“You’ll remember everything; don’t underestimate yourself. Forgetting certain things is your defense, a trick of your own mind. You hold the keys.”
Alexandra leaned her elbows on the glass surface, sighed – in the same theatrical style as her interlocutor. They exchanged glances, chuckled, and Christopher continued to rock in his chair, leaning back with his legs still on the table.
“What kind of beasts are there in the circus?” Alexandra asked.
“Oh,” the young man said with a conspiratorial look. “Various ones.”
“Are we part of the circus too?”
“No. We live in the wild – no one forces us to jump through fiery hoops, dance for a piece of sugar or dental insurance—”
“Poor animals.”
“You don’t say! They dream of being themselves, but they’re not allowed to.”
Alexandra frowned, Christopher didn’t consider her contemplation a hindrance to their conversation.
“By the way, you promised to find me a partron,” he mentioned.
“I remember.”
“How’s that going?”
“Christopher, where am I supposed to just find you a spy gathering intel for the British Queen in France?”
The young man didn’t have a chance to respond. They both turned to the glass door simultaneously as an older man entered.
“William!” Alexandra threw her hands up, getting up from her chair.
Christopher continued rocking.
William was of short stature but youthful and robust, his posture straight, he was dressed in an early 19th-century suit. People like him always drew attention to themselves – as soon as they entered a room.
“Alexandra!” he mirrored her tone.
“How are you? How’s Catherine? How’s Dante?”
“Good, Catherine is my hope and support, and Dante is a work in progress.”
Their embrace was warm and friendly, Alexandra immediately livened up – Christopher, on the other hand, squinted.
“You didn’t hug me!”
“Because you’re not her partron,” William replied forgivingly, as if speaking to a child.
“Don’t worry, I’ll hug you too.”
Alexandra walked around Christopher and positioned herself so she could lean down with her arms outstretched, while Christopher continued to lean further back.
“Circus,” William commented as he walked further inside and sat in Alexandra’s chair.
She never did get the chance to hug Christopher – both of his chair’s legs slipped on the linoleum, he fell to the ground with a loud crash.
While Alexandra helped him up, William, lost in thought – as Alexandra was before him – looked off into the distance, past the bottle and the three goblets.
“Even if you don’t like chess, you’re already playing,” William began when the woman and the young man finally settled down at the table. “You’re on the board.”
He pressed his finger on the glass surface of the table, and Christopher swallowed.
“Both of you are playing – you and Christopher’s partron.”
