1 Chapter 1

Blackwhit, Riada;

Farenza, Ilara;

autumn 1864

Night of 6th October

The dank dampness rising from the canals crept along the floor and walls - every night it grew colder and harder to fall asleep. Catalina tried to lie still, crossing her arms over her chest, as mother Agnes had told her, and recite the prayer, but her teeth chattered incessantly, biting off the words. Blankets were put to the pupils only in the winter, which is still two months away. The rest of the time they were supposed to be warmed by the fire of faith.

"Stop it already!" Magdala hissed from the darkness.

"But I'm cold," Catalina said timidly.

"Me too!" her neighbor snapped. "But I don't clatter!"

The big clock on San Marco struck ten times. Catalina thrust her hands into her armpits and whispered a prayer silently. A gust of damp autumn wind hit the window, and the girl's teeth rattled so hard that she almost cut off the tip of her tongue. A dim light flickered under the door as Sister Benedica walked around the pupils' rooms. The hinges creaked softly, and Catalina immediately closed her eyes. Light slid across the room; the door closed.

The water in the canal quietly splashed against the walls of the monastery orphanage. Ghostly highlights of water danced along the walls like cold lights. Catalina curled up into a ball, not taking her eyes off them. They were beautiful, like the facets of precious stones on the doors of the altar or the stained glass windows of the monastery church. The highlights danced to the rhythm of the soft splash outside, and the girl looked at them until she began to see double in her eyes. For a moment it seemed to her that wet spots were spreading along the wall, but she blinked, and everything was gone.

How cold! Catalina huddled closer on the bunk and breathed on her fingers; breath rose up in a cloud of steam. Even on the Farenza streets, she was not as cold as in the orphanage. A scattering of glare flew to the ceiling and circled over the girl like a flock of sparkling butterflies. The water rustled behind the wall, as close as if the canal had risen to the level of the windows.

Something dripped quietly in the corner. The drops tapped out a rhythm, and Catalina, unable to sleep from the cold, began to listen. Minutes dripped one after another, and she kept listening and listening. The drops pounded very close, and at last the girl made out scraps of words in their rhythm. Very quietly, so that she could barely make out the syllables melting in the dark, the sounds merging into words, but she couldn't make out the words themselves. Catalina strained her ears with all her might, trying not to chatter her teeth.

"Ta-ta-ta," the drops pounded. "Yeah, yeah, yeah!"

Somewhere far, far away, a bell sounded, marking the eleventh hour. Its sound, crushing and rattling, reflected from the walls, rang in her ears like the lid of an old saucepan, but as soon as it died down, the girl again heard: "To-to-to... go-go-go!"

She sat up and swung her legs off the bunk: the floor was suddenly slimy with moisture. Wet stains appeared on the plaster, intertwining into a strange lace that spread across the walls and ceiling. The dampness made the clothes stick to the skin, and it was cold everywhere. But it doesn't matter - in the clatter of the drops, there was a gentle ringing laugh and a cheerful call.

Catalina looked around, shaking shallowly. A piercing cold felt from the walls and floor, but the drops pounded persistently, suggesting something. Water highlights slid down the wall to the window and danced around the frame. The girl slid off the bunk, and from the corners it happily dripped "Yes, yes, yes!". The windowsill was also slippery with water, the frame was swollen and smelled of mildew. But when Catalina put her shoulder against it, the wood suddenly spread like a wet cardboard. The girl pushed harder, and the frame twisted out of the window. The water in the canal swallowed it up and raised dark green waves, like hands, stretching them out to the girl.

"Ty-ty-ty... fly-fly-fly!"

Catalina leaned out of the window, bent down to reach for the waves with her hand - so dark, velvety in appearance. The water crawled up the walls, as if it wanted to touch her. Suddenly, something pushed the girl in the back, and she fell off the slippery windowsill. The dark water stirred up to meet, resiliently hit in her face, wrapped around Catalina with icy waves - and she finally felt warm.

8th October

Nathan unrolled the crunchy oiled paper, inhaled the aroma with relish, and dug his teeth into the hazelnut gingerbread. Valentina had taken up his meals, including breakfast at work, Brannon had a premonition that a new hole in his belt would soon appear. The trousers have already become a little tight at the waist. The Commissar began to walk more and more often to scratch his fists in the boxing gym, where the police trained; hasn't helped yet.

"You look much better," Broyd once told him, and Brennon immediately suspected that the reason for the chief's roundish build was a long, happy marriage. In Mazandran, Broyd was significantly smaller in volume. The Commissar took a pencil, pulled the autopsy report close to him, and bit into the gingerbread. Shortbread, with caramel filling, mm!

There was a knock on the door; Nathan, struggling through the baking, managed: "C'me in!" Regan entered, timidly approached his superiors and handed out an application form asking for a two-week leave.

"How old are you?" The Commissar asked.

"Twenty-seven will be coming soon, sir."

"So young, still would to live and to live," Brannon said, signing," and you are already getting married."

Regan glanced sideways at the gingerbread and muttered:

"There are some pluses in this..."

"Shush," the Commissar said sternly. "This is only for special merits. Is there any movement about a corpse in jewelry store?"

"Yes, sir. Interrogated the locals - some were able to describe the raiders in general terms. Not in a portrait, of course, but when a couple of stolen gizmos surfaced at the reseller, and we took him, he recognized by the description of one of them. Jack The Nick, no surname, of course, but a well-known personality in his own way. Sir, if I get the guys, we can raid the pub where he usually hangs out."

"Go ahead," Brannon allowed. "But no nonsense. Don't go in the front rows, gotcha?" He tapped a finger on the application form. Regan blushed slightly.

"I've only been asking since November, sir..."

"Well then. What about marauders?"

"I'm packing the case to court. Finished with mine, I can pick up those at Gallagher's."

Brannon nodded. Roismann's night of civil riots has echoed around the city and the department ever since. In addition, among the townspeople there have always been those who are ready to kill and rob only at the call of the soul, without any suggestion. And sixty-two incinerated people - it's no joke! It was because of this Brannon had to postpone his honeymoon trip. But finally, everything was more or less settled down, and Valentina began to prepare the trip.

"And something else. They found a corpse in a brothel, van Wissen demands someone from us. Do it at your leisure."

"Yes, sir."

Regan is gone; but as soon as the Commissar again plunged into the description of the injuries of the unknown victim found at the station, there was another knock on the door. Brannon snuffled in displeasure and put down the gingerbread.

"Well, who is there?"

It was Longsdale – with a telegram in his hand, which he carried with an extremely puzzled and even worried look. The hound followed the consultant, and the Commissar noted with some surprise that both looked worried.

"Good morning. What happened with you?"

The consultant put the telegram on the table, and the hound sat down in front of Brennon and fixed his face with a sinister look.

"I am urgently summoned to Farenza."

"Whe-e-ere-e-e?!" Nathan choked. "What for?"

The hound pawed the telegram towards him. It was in Ilarian, and the Commissar did not understand a word in it. Longsdale sank into a chair.

"I myself have not really figured it out. My colleague Paolo Urquiola works in Farenza. Last night I received this telegram from him with a request to come immediately."

"What's unusual about that? You called Miss Oettinger and Mister Bergmann to our aid in the same way."

"This is something else. In Farenza, there is the Santa Alexandra girls' orphanage. On the night of the sixth, nine girls drowned in the Grand Canal, throwing themselves out of the windows. The bodies were never found."

"Damn it! Does your colleague think it's because of magic?"

"That's the problem!" Longsdale frowned. "For consultants, this is a common, ordinary work situation. I cannot understand what alarmed Signor Urquiola so that he urgently demanded my presence. Moreover, in the morning Fraulen Oettinger contacted me. She and several other consultants received the same telegrams from Urquiola."

"Hm. Can't he give you any details?"

The hound puffed loudly. Longsdale drew himself up warily and, choosing his words carefully, said:

"An hour ago I tried to contact Signor Urquiola - not by telegram, but in another way, to discuss the situation. But he didn't respond. Fraulen Oettinger said that she also tried, but he seemed to disappear without a trace, as soon as he sent me a telegram."

"Do you think it's someone else like Roismann?" Brannon asked quietly. But Redfern told him...

"I don't know. I hope not, but after the story with Fraulen Oettinger... maybe if we had been more actively following what is happening with our colleagues, it would not have come to this."

"Have you decided to go?"

"Yes. Neither Fraulen Oettinger nor the other consultants can now leave their jobs, but we seem to be calm for now."

"Well, calmness is an unpredictable thing, it is there today, not tomorrow. But go, of course. If my colleagues from another city asked for help, then I would already be packing my suitcase."

"What worries me the most is this strange disappearance," Longsdale admitted. "I can't imagine what could have happened to him."

"Redfern mentioned the death of one consultant — forty or fifty years ago. But you can't be killed, I saw it myself."

"To kill - no. But we can be completely destroyed."

"Uh… how is it?"

"For example, instantly incinerate. Not on a regular fire, of course. This happened in 1819 with my colleague from Deir, Albert Jefferson, when he was trying to close the rift to the other side."

The hound growled in displeasure and Longsdale shifted in his chair. Brannon looked at him intently, took out a flask of whiskey and a glass from the drawer, poured invigorating moisture into it and moved it to the consultant.

"Drink. Do you think this Urquiola of yours got into some kind of rift during the investigation?"

"Not just some." Longsdale drank the whiskey and asked in surprise, "Why did you give it to me?"

"Consider this a gesture of support. I was in Farenza, and even guides and boatmen told me that there is otherworldly rubbish on one of the islands in the bay."

"It's not rubbish. Liganta has the largest Rift on our Continent."

"What?!" the Commissar jumped up. The hound nodded grimly. "But the city is nearby and there are a lot of people around! How... in Edmoor..."

"A protective dome is installed around the Rift on Liganta, and it is the responsibility of Paolo Urquiola to monitor its condition. It was," Longsdale concluded, and handed Brennon a glass. "Can I ask?"

Nathan was stunned for a while as he filled his glass, and finally asked:

"But why didn't anyone close this damn hole? There are at least a hundred thousand people next to her!"

"One hundred and sixty, to be exact. Unfortunately, the Rift at Liganta cannot be closed."

"What do you mean? You closed it here, in our temple, and Pauline Defoe in Edmoor did it alone."

"These are just small holes," Longsdale chuckled. "The Rift at Liganta is so deep and powerful that when the protective dome was installed, Paolo Urquiola was the only survivor of the twelve consultants."

Brannon whistled softly.

"He never left Farenza, watched the Rift all these years, and now both Liganta and the dome above it are left unattended. That is why I have to go."

"Has no one tried to defuse this bomb ticking near the big city?"

"You have already seen how the rifts are closed. To do this, you need to go under the dome and stand nearby, which in the case of Liganta is impossible even for consultants. And if there is no one to replace Urquiola, then I will have to stay in Farenza."

"Damn it! I don't want to sound like a selfish prick, but I am much more satisfied with your presence here. Listen," Brannon frowned, "if I were you, I would have called at least one of yours to help. If it's really that serious, someone has to cover your back."

"We are already discussing this. Perhaps one of my colleagues will join me in a day or two."

"When are you going?"

"Today. I'm afraid I'll have to take Jen with me."

Brannon was not upset at the news. The witch had already burned alive more than sixty townspeople, and the Commissar no longer wanted such dubious feats.

"Be careful. I hope you have time to send in a message or two. Although I cannot help you with anything, I would like to know that everything is all right with you."

"Okay," Longsdale nodded. "By the way, when are you and Missis Brannon leaving?"

"In a few days. But tomorrow I will still be here."

"Agreed. I will write to you upon arrival."

"I'll inform Broyd about you myself," Brennon added, already imagining the chief's delight at this news, and even on the eve of the Commissar's departure on his honeymoon trip with his wife.

***

Margaret hid under the tall clumps of elderberry. It was already evening, and the chill of autumn twilight crept under the jacket and scarf. Fingers were also a little cold - for some reason, the girl did not manage to conjure with gloves.

There was a faint rustling in the grass; Margaret raised her revolver while concentrating on the spell. At least there was one plus in the kidnapping, arranged by Roismann - for many months Miss Sheridan literally begged Angela not to torture her with botany. And finally, upon returning from Dorgern, the mentor acknowledged her botanical mediocrity and declared: "Now you will practice much more actively in defense and attack." This is what Margaret had been doing for several hours...

The rustle was approaching. The girl glanced at the clock, which she hung on a branch next to her. They showed that the creeping thing was already five yards away.

"Scutum," Margaret whispered; an invisible shield appeared over her left hand. A serpentine creature burst out of the grass with a hiss, inflated its hood and rushed to the girl, dripping poison from its fangs. Miss Sheridan dropped to one knee and, as the reptile hovered over her, fired an aimed shot, hiding behind her shield.

The snake's head burst, the wriggling body was thrown back by a shot, and before it grew a new head, Margaret burned it in the flame of a freshly learned fire spell. A shadow flickered to the right. The girl staggered back and threw a shield towards her. It shattered into pieces, but deflected the impact of the invisible blade, so that it dug into the elderberry.

"Sphaera in ignis!" Miss Sheridan shouted. A transparent ball closed around Angel and burned all the grass around. The mentor extinguished the ball, scattered it in the air and remarked reproachfully:

"Margaret, your sphere should have been heating up inside, not outside."

The girl bit her lip in annoyance. Angel scanned the training ground with a satisfied look.

"Enough for today. You have done enough destruction to receive dinner and a small present."

"Present?" Margaret asked suspiciously. Last time Redfern brought her a box of chocolates, which was surrounded by a paralyzing spell. By the time the girl managed to hack them, the candy had melted, turning into an unappetizing lump.

The mentor gallantly offered his hand to Margaret, and they headed for the castle. Dinner was served on the glassed-in terrace. Angel, in the care that his apprentice did not grow thin from the overwhelming study, ordered to cook quails in a pumpkin, baked sweet beans and snacks.

"That's strange," Margaret said thoughtfully as he took the birds out of the pumpkin. "If in our world every now and then there are wars, cataclysms and other disasters, then why is it still not covered with a bunch of holes to the other side, like Meersand cheese?"

"You are missing the root cause, little ignorant creature."

"Which one? One bunch of people killed another bunch of people. Why didn't a bunch of portals end up appearing?"

"It's about balance." Redfern put the beans on her plate and poured pumpkin sauce over them. "One army against another army - these are armed people on both sides. All of them are capable of attacking and defending themselves. It is quite another matter - thousands of innocent victims who died suddenly. Another quail?"

"No thanks. But after all, not every cataclysm or epidemic leads to the opening of spontaneous portals. After the eruption, there should be a huge hole at the site of Antarna, but there is none other than those dug by archaeologists."

"You're forgetting something else." Angel poured himself some wine. "None of us know what's going on from the other side. I am sure that there is also a process arising there that affects the portal's appearance. Bon Appetit."

"Bon appetit," Margaret said. He did not like to talk about portals, and the girl guessed why: not only because of what happened to him on Liganta, but also because there was no way to study them from all sides or prevent their appearance.

Miss Sheridan held on until dessert, but the question that stung her brain was so interesting that she could not keep it to herself.

"Angel, have you ever tried to send to the other side any mechanism like the rat that you took to Edmoor?"

"I tried," the mentor said dryly.

"So what?"

"And nothing. I lost contact with it as soon as the probe went to the other side."

"It's a pity..."

"It is still unknown whether it is a pity or not. From the other side, sometimes not monsters come, but such an infection that you cannot even imagine in a nightmare," Redfern darkened, and Margaret did not continue the conversation. And beside Angel's plate were a book and a small wooden tube; the girl guessed that this was the very present, and she wanted to open it as soon as possible.

After dessert, fruit and wine, the mentor cheered up again and, when all the dishes had disappeared from the table, casually pushed the tube towards Margaret.

"Open it."

Miss Sheridan carefully examined the lavish gift for poison needles, harmful enchantments and potions, disarmed the blinding spell, and finally gently unwound the tube. Inside was a scroll tied with a black velvet ribbon bearing Angel's personal seal. Margaret gently shook the scroll onto the tablecloth.

"What is it?"

"Expand and read."

"And nothing will happen to me after that?"

Angel, obviously amused, watched the girl's attempts to pull off the ribbon with a toothpick and replied:

"Of course, I could give you a nice horse or new revolvers for your birthday, but I thought Gideon Chain would be more useful to you."

Margaret twitched so hard that she dropped the scroll and stared at Redfern in disbelief.

"What?!"

"Don't be afraid, it's completely safe. For you."

"But… but… but I thought that…" She gasped. Angel, talking about the lost spells of Gideon, did not mention a word that he had one of them lying in his bins! "Where did you get it from?!"

"I have been looking for it for a long time, and this find cost me a lot of effort. Gideon's Spells are not easy to find after so many centuries..."

"And you give it - to me?"

"Yes," Angel looked away. "I'm giving it to you so you're always safe."

This is because of what happened, because of Roismann...

He still could not forgive himself, and Margaret did not want to remember about it.

"Gideon Chain is unlike any spell you've seen before. It can't be held back by the bracelets that Roismann used, but if you decide to use it, there will be no turning back. Gideon Chain cannot be undone or terminated."

"How so?"

Angel held out the book to the girl.

"Read it. Here are all the answers. Gideon created unique spells, and if only I could understand how he did it!"

"But how can I use it?" Margaret asked timidly. "I haven't even had a year to study yet..."

"I will help you. I assume you have mastered high concentration enough not to get killed when using it."

"And if I haven't mastered it?"

"The lake in the cave is always at your service."

"Wait, I'm confused," Margaret frowned. "You will help me to use it, but how will I then use it myself?"

"After casting the spell, Gideon Chain will remain with you forever. You will need to learn how to manage it, but after you cast this spell, you can never get rid of it again." Angel pressed the book to Margaret's chest. "Read and think carefully. When you decide..."

"Thank you," the girl whispered. She knew why such a gift: Angel wanted Margaret to be able to protect herself after he once failed.

The mentor suddenly embraced her, touched her forehead with his lips, and kissed her hair several times. Margaret shuddered weakly and pulled away. Redfern looked at her intently, and the girl hurried to avert her eyes, busy packing the scroll back into the tube.

When Miss Sheridan looked at Angel again, he was standing by the window: the sunset light cast a blush on his pale face and tinged his brown hair with red, like the flames of a bonfire. He was thoughtful and suddenly seemed very sad to Margaret. The girl approached him. She wanted to touch the wrinkles that had emerged near his eyes, kiss back, snuggle up to his chest - but she just took his hand and said:

"It's not because of you. I know that you will not do anything... like Leidner. I just need more time. A little."

"Yes," Angel said softly. "I know."

Margaret bit her lip again. The anatomical atlas quite clearly interpreted the violent sensations that Angel's actions caused her then, in her bedroom at home. However, the same atlas contained a stern warning, about which the girl pondered so long and painfully that she now blurted out, almost without hesitation:

"And I don't want to get pregnant!" and burst into burning paint when Redfern raised an eyebrow and mockingly held out:

"Oh, so the point is also in this..."

A vial of dark green glass appeared in his hand, full of some kind of liquid.

"Take it. This is Mirkhina. Contraceptive. One sip five minutes before the actual intercourse..."

"I understood!"

The mentor handed her a bottle and was about to give out something impish, when suddenly a loud squeak was heard from the watch pocket. Angel pulled out his watch and clicked the lid. The red ball froze under the glass, pulsing with a bright scarlet color. This Margaret has never seen - usually the ball moved, indicating the approach of undead or evil spirits.

"What does this mean, Angel?"

"I'll go up to my office. I need to check something."

"Do you need me?"

"No. Go read the book."

The girl took the gifts and followed Angel up the stairs, only he turned into his office, and Miss Sheridan - to her rooms. There she put the scroll and the bottle into the drawer of the dresser and sat down at the book. However, curiosity was born much earlier than Margaret - even the most interesting book about the best spell in the world could not captivate her until she finds out what happened to the clock and what the mentor is doing at office.

The door to Redfern's office was ajar, and Margaret, knocking out of courtesy, crossed the threshold. Angel, swinging his watch on a chain, stood by a large silvery globe, which usually rotated rhythmically above the tripod next to the work table. But now the globe froze, and one of the sections of the map was greatly enlarged and hovered over it. Angel looked both puzzled and bewildered.

"What happened?" Miss Sheridan asked and glanced at the map. This was the northeastern coast of Ilara, where Farenza lay in a deep bend in the bay, stretching out on a hundred islets.

"I can't understand," Redfern muttered. "I received a signal, but everything is all right," he tweaked the map, and it shifted further into the bay, to the islands... more precisely, to one island. "Why on earth did the signal go, is there the consultant there too?.. Or not anymore?" Angel frowned, stepped back from the globe and opened a drawer.

"You said you weren't watching them."

"All - of course not. Just one."

"But why?"

Redfern pulled an oblong crystal on a chain from the drawer. A swarm of green sparks flickered inside.

"Because this consultant is Paolo Urquiola, the only one who watches Liganta all the time."

Margaret's heart skipped a beat with curiosity. Will she finally learn something interesting about this island? Angel never told, and there was nowhere to read - he obviously hid all the notes, if they even existed.

"Why is he watching her?"

"Not so much her," the mentor examined the crystal, wiped it with a cloth. "How much

the Rift to the other side on this island."

"So it's still open?!" Margaret cried. Angel looked up at her with darkened eyes, and she suddenly realized that he had never told her about what happened to the failure on Liganta before. "But why?! There's a whole city nearby! A hundred thousand people! How are you…"

"If I could close it, do you really think I would not close it?"

"But... then how..."

"I have developed conservation and complete isolation technology for the failure at Liganta. A protective dome was created above it, and a perimeter was installed around it, not letting anyone into its coastal waters and not letting out anything from there. Urquiola monitored the condition of the dome and perimeter all these years, and now..." Angel muttered an incantation, enlarged the map even more and plunged the crystal into it. "Now let's see..."

The swarm of sparks burst from the crystal and swirled across the map like a blizzard. Margaret looked at them, fascinated, trying to put such a discovery in her head. She had no idea that the Rift was open. For some reason it seemed to her that it was closed - after all, this is what consultants exist for, right? They surely found such a huge hole to the other side and took care... but why didn't they succeed? Why did Angel have to conserve the island? And what will happen if...

The girl shook her head, dismissing the thought. Sparks on the map flashed and suddenly went out one after another. Angel removed the crystal and drummed anxiously on the table with his fingers.

"It's strange," the mentor said at last. "Urquiola has disappeared. But the dome and the perimeter over Liganta - here they are, completely intact. And if so, where did he go?"

"Maybe he left?"

"No, then the amulet," Angel waved the crystal, "would indicate where. Where could this damn consultant go if he had to sit and watch... Oh!" he suddenly roused himself. "Margaret, your uncle seems to be going on a honeymoon trip to Ilara?"

"Angel!" The girl exclaimed reproachfully. "Well, you're not going to ask my uncle to crawl around your Forenza in search of the consultant on his only honeymoon?"

"Why not?" Redfern said with equanimity. "What can stop him? I'm not asking him to enter the crypt with the ghouls and put them to rest with spells. Routine investigative work..."

"But he's going on a honeymoon trip!"

"I'll pay him, if that's the case. I'm sure your uncle will howl of boredom in three days without working and so it's fun for him, and it's benefits for me... for us."

"Oh, okay," Miss Sheridan surrendered. After all, she had an interesting, yet unread book about the Gideon's spell on her desk, and Uncle Nathan was old enough to send Angel with his business proposals to hell on his own.