Our young Heroine strives to overcome her Imposed Guardian

From the office, Gene headed straight for the cab driver standing at the edge of the pavement - a skinny little man in a shabby coat, with a perpetually red nose and a gaze lowered to the frozen cobblestones. His horse was stamping its hoof, as if it, too, was uneasy.

"To the 'Medved'," Gene said briefly.

The cab driver nodded. Without a word, he took the reins and led the mare forward. The wheels started moving, clanked, and ran along the icy pavement. Petersburg dissolved around him - in the haze of street lamps, in the damp reflections of shop windows, in the steam from the kitchen, rushing from the gateways.

Gene was silent. He sat up straight, his face did not change. He did not look around. Not at the signs, not at the passers-by, not at the windows, behind which the silhouettes of life flashed. All this was noise, background. He was not riding for conversation.

He stopped at the door of the tavern, where warm steam seeped through the doorframes and there was a smell of smoked fish, resin and rancid beer. He paid. The cabman did not thank him - he just shook his head and drove away. The Gene entered without turning around.

The tavern on Bolshaya Morskaya, popular with officials, wealthy tourists and those who wanted to seem one way or another, greeted him with the usual noise: the clinking of glasses, the smell of roast duck, perfume and wine. Everything was exactly the same here as it had been last week, and even three months ago: the same half-blind mirrors reflecting the golden lamps and the dashing gestures of the regulars, the same waiter with a permanent abrasion on his cheekbone, the same piano accompanist, perpetually out of tune, at the back wall.

Gene removed his glove, ran his hand along the edge of the bar, and looked around the room for someone he knew. This was a place where people usually showed up by appointment, either to be noticed or to remain in the shadows, pretending to be bystanders at someone's dinner.

He was just going to look around, but his gaze involuntarily caught on the far corner. And - a barely noticeable prick of surprise: under the mirror in a gilded frame, at a table set for two, sat Dr. Hastings.

Gene hadn't expected this. The doctor hadn't said what would happen. No letters, no hints, nothing. And yet he sat there as if he were at home: lounging with the casual grace of a man who had long ago understood everything and was now simply observing how much tact the others had to avoid asking unnecessary questions.

Next to him is a portly man in uniform. A soldier, no doubt: broad shoulders, a sunken neck, a heavy but neat face, with that special crease between the eyebrows that indicates not so much a frown as a chronic need to make decisions.

Gene took a closer look and immediately recognized him. Stepan Ignatyevich Grubsky. Senior bailiff. A man with a reputation - not a thundering one, but a resounding one. They said that he could beat a confession out of someone with just one conversation, without interrogations, without shouting. The rumors were contradictory: some called him an ice snake, others - just a tired official who had long ago realized that the truth does not save, but only interferes with the execution of the protocol.

Gene didn't show it. He came up, took off his glove, bowed his head slightly. He didn't sit down - he waited to be invited.

Hastings, as if noticing him only at that moment, turned around with an affectionate laziness, like a master who has an unexpected but pleasant tree growing in his garden.

"Here you are, Gene. Excellent. You still have your instincts. Sit down. Allow me to introduce you."

He turned to his interlocutor, theatrically, but without unnecessary pomp:

"Stepan Ignatyevich Grubsky, senior police officer, a man who is feared by every penumbra in the city. And this is Mr. Gene York, an American citizen, but our Petersburg animal: cautious, nimble, rarely growls, but leaves interesting tracks."

Grubsky, without getting up, looked at Gene with a long, motionless gaze. He raised an eyebrow - not in surprise, but as if evaluating whether to nod immediately or let him wait.

Gene, maintaining a neutral smile, nodded slightly. He sat down - carefully, without fussing, moving the chair exactly half a step away from Grubsky.

Hastings meanwhile took a sip from his glass, moved the decanter and, leaning towards the bread plate, continued in the same light, almost cloying manner:

"Actually, we just discussed that work-related stress is a dangerous thing. Look: a man has been catching criminals for twenty years, and now, excuse me, his stomach categorically refuses to digest reports. As a doctor, I diagnose him with a chronic disorder of trust in reality."

Grubsky didn't smile. He just squeezed the napkin, squeezing it as if he wanted to roll it into a tube. The glass in front of him was half empty. He glanced at Hastings - with a simple look: one more word - and I'll get up.

"A predisposition to apoplexy, perhaps," added Hastings, looking dreamily at his fork.

Gene raised his eyebrow slightly and, without touching his glass, quietly remarked:

"Jo is dead."

The doctor fell silent. The fork froze in his hand, like an arrow pointing in an unexpected direction. He put the device down and leaned forward slightly.

"Has she died? - he asked again, without horror, but with attention.

"Heart attack. In the evening. Without warning. Deedle was downstairs with her, heard how she suddenly stopped talking. Rushed to call. Everything happened quickly. Pointlessly quickly."

"Oh, my God," Hastings shook his head, but without the religious intonation. "That's it. French-Canadian endurance gave way for no reason. And I told her: give up that mint tea, it won't end well. And don't listen to your wife - what nonsense she said about a corset supporting the heart."

He sighed, as one sighs over a lost library subscription, and, unable to bear it, picked up his fork again.