Maroussia led Lom to the far end of the passageway and up the stairs at the end. Swing doors at the top opened into the Apraksin: four levels of balconies and shopfronts rose around a wide central atrium crowded with stalls and bathed in blazing electric light. There was nothing you could not find in the Apraksin. Rugs, shoes, papers and inks, sheaves of dried herbs, spice boxes, taxidermy, mirrors, telescopes and binoculars, caged parrots and toucans. Fruit. But today there were few customers, and nobody seemed to be buying. It was a paused, subdued mortuary of commerce. Quiet funereal music played from the tannoy. Massed male voices singing from Winter Tears. Many concessions had closed for the day, and the bored stallholders who remained watched incuriously from behind their counters. They all wore black armbands.
On a fourth-floor balcony, squeezed between a leather stall and a tea counter, was a concession filled with wardrobes, cupboards and dressers of reddish brown wood. There was rich smell of wax polish and resin. A sign said CUPBOARDS BY CORNELIUS. The furniture was tall and solid and carved with intricate patterns of leaves and bunched berries. Doors were left open to show off shelves and drawers, rails and hooks. Compartments. Cubbyholes. On a side table was an arrangement of smaller boxes made of the same red wood, with lids carved and pierced and polished to a high shine.
‘I don’t see Elena,’ said Maroussia, looking round. ‘Shit. Where is she?’
A voice called across to them.
‘Maroussia? It is you!’
A woman came across from the tea counter, wiping her hands. She was about thirty. Dark blue work clothes. A tangle of thick fair hair roughly cut. Her eyes were full of life and intelligence but she looked tired. Harassed.
She gave Maroussia a hug.
I’m so glad you came,’ she said. ‘I was worried. Your mother… I heard. I’m so sorry. I went to your apartment, but you weren’t there and nobody knew where you’d gone. Are you all right? You look pale…’ She glanced curiously at Lom.
‘Elena,’ said Maroussia. ‘This is my friend Vissarion.’
The woman held out her hand.
‘Elena Cornelius. Pleased to meet you.‘
Then she saw the blood on his coat. And on Maroussia’s. ‘Maroussia?’ she said. ‘What’s going on? Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ said Maroussia. ‘But—’
‘You’re in trouble. What’s happened?’
‘Elena, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have come. I wouldn’t have, but we… There wasn’t anywhere else to go, and I thought…’
‘What do you need?’ said Elena.
‘Transport,’ said Lom. ‘A cart or something like that.’
‘There’s someone else,’ said Maroussia. ‘We left him downstairs. He’s hurt. He’s been shot. It was just outside here, in the alleyway.’
‘Shot?’ said Elena. She looked hard at Lom. ‘Shot by who?’
‘The militia,’ said Maroussia. ‘They shot my mother and they’re trying to kill me. They’ll come here looking for us.’ She stopped. ‘Elena, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have come. I’ve brought you trouble. I wasn’t thinking straight. We’ll go. They won’t ever know we were here.’
She turned to go.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Elena. ‘We can use my cart. I can take you somewhere. I can take you home.’
Maroussia shook her head.
‘I can’t go home. Not ever.’
‘Then come to my place,’ said Elena.
‘No,’ said Maroussia. ‘No, I couldn’t. I can’t ask you that. I’m sorry I came.’
‘Just for now. Until you have a plan.’
Maroussia shook her head.
‘Why not?’ said Elena. ‘Have you got anywhere else to go?’
‘No.’
‘Then come with me.’ Elena Cornelius paused a beat, then she added, ‘Both of you. For now. We’ll work something out.’
Lom studied Elena Cornelius. He liked her. She was sensible. Purposeful. Tough.
‘Where do you live?’ he said.
‘The Raion Lezaryet.’
Lom let it happen. The next two minutes. The raion was as good a place as any. Better than most. Gendarmes didn’t patrol the raion.
He nodded.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
Elena ignored him.
‘Where’s the one who’s hurt?’ she said.
Maroussia told her.
‘This way,’ said Elena. ‘There’s a service elevator.’
She took Maroussia by the hand. It was an instinctive, almost motherly gesture.
When they reached the porters’ room the chair was on its side, the table and the floor smeared with blood. Florian was gone.
‘Somebody must have found him,’ said Maroussia quietly.
‘Or he got up and walked away,’ said Lom. ‘Either way, we need to get out of here. Now.’
Elena Cornelius kept her cart in a place that was part warehouse, part garage, part stables: a cavernous shadowy space with a flagstone floor scattered with wisps of straw.
‘You ride up front,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk with the pony.’ She found a grey woollen blanket and insisted that Maroussia wrapped herself in it against the cold. It smelled of fresh-cut wood. ‘Sorry about the sawdust.’
She pushed open the heavy sliding doors onto the street. Grey snow was shawling thickly out of a darkening sky. She took the pony’s halter and said a word in her ear. The cart lurched forward and they were out and moving. There was hardly any traffic. It was freezing cold. A bitter wind whipped snow into their faces.