Our young Heroine undergoes the Ruin of her Life

At that moment, the guardroom at the Fontanka reeked with a foul stench. Before Earl Knight, two figures shuffled nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

"Well, what've you got?" Knight's voice was low, but it carried a steely edge.

The young lad, nicknamed 'Scamp', began haltingly, scratching the back of his head with a grimy hand. He stank of last night's booze and something rotten.

"Well, sir... We've sussed ‘em out, those... three blokes. Byakin, Terekhov, and another one, Zarizyn, I reckon..."

"Zazyrin?" Knight turned his head. A glint of interest, cold as steel, flashed in his eyes. "How'd he fall in with them? Not one of your lot, is he?"

"He's... well, now he's... keepin' his distance," Scamp mumbled, his lisp growing worse with nerves. "Gone off somewheres, on his own, like. But them other two... they've got someone else with ‘em. Headin' to the Yorks, they are. The Americans, I mean."

Knight's lips twitched into a faint grimace. "Americans."

"What, they've got an open door over there? More like a public thoroughfare than a house, eh?"

"Exactly, sir!" Scamp perked up a bit. "The Yorks are throwin' a party, their lass's birthday! All open, they say. Papers wrote how the parents invited guests. Our lads scoped it all out, ‘course..."

The second figure, a hunched man, suddenly raised his bleary eyes. He reeked of stale sweat and cheap tobacco, muttering as he swayed.

"Party... party... all dancin' and singin'... then they up and run. Like it's a fire. I know. I've seen. How they... how they come for souls..."

Knight's mouth barely twitched, a faint smirk. He was used to the "peculiarities" of his agents. The madder they were, the fewer questions they asked.

"And this... other one with them? A journalist, I wager? Rasolko, isn't it?" Knight's voice was steady.

"That's him, boss. Walks with ‘em like he's one of their own, scribblin' everythin', always lookin'... side to side, in their faces. His paper... think it's the Saint Petersburg Gazette..."

Earl finally stepped away from the window, sauntered to the desk, and sat down deliberately. One leg crossed over the other, hands clasped on his knee.

"So," he said, almost musing aloud, his voice calm and even, "in a city where everyone watches everyone, where every breath is tracked, up pops a certain Mr. Rasolko. Notebook in hand. Playing the part of watcher, informer, and perhaps even investigator."

He paused, his gaze seemingly genial but piercing to the core.

"Strolling arm in arm with those who ought to be in cuffs by now. Heading to the Americans, no less, as if he's got an invitation. And all this—without clearance."

His tone didn't shift, but a sly, icy smirk flickered in his eyes.

"Curious, isn't it? How do they reward such types? With a commendation, a cup of lemon tea, or a bonus under Article 129? For unauthorized snooping?"

The tramps let out stifled chuckles, their laughter muffled, tinged with caution. The hunched one muttered again, swaying.

"Commendation... yeah, commendation... with blood on it... red... like tomato juice..."

Knight ignored him. His voice hardened.

"Listen up. Keep tabs on all three, but don't interfere with the journalist—watch him closely, though. If he veers off, report it immediately. And get Rasolko's name on the list. Now. Any zeal not backed by orders is shadier than a stash in a lamppost. That goes for anyone poking their nose where it doesn't belong. Got it?"

Both nodded. Scamp, as if afraid to open his mouth, only rasped, "Got it, sir."

Knight's shoulders eased slightly. Then, almost to himself, he added, his gaze drifting into the void.

"The dangerous ones aren't the bomb-throwers. It's the listeners. And this one, I reckon, listens far too well. He knows how to find what's hidden."

With that, he snuffed the lamp. The room sank into gloom. The tramps, like ghosts, melted into the shadows, leaving only the stench of booze and fear behind.

...666...

By midday, a crowd had begun to gather at the Yorks' home on Kirochnaya, as if by magic. The newspapers had barely been distributed that morning, with an inconspicuous paragraph announcing "a charity reception at the home of the respected American lawyer Eugene S. York, known for his connections with Russian merchants." The trick worked: the city's public, knowing where the bread was softer and the conversations safer, responded immediately.

The motley hats, the ironed frock coats, the enthusiastic governesses and the fragrant cadets mingled at the gate with respectable faces from a more discerning circle - especially those who had crossed paths with Gene York at least once on business. Among the latter, standing out for her fine bearing and elusive worldliness, walked Anna Lvovna Golovina - in a light, carefully tailored dress, with a collar trimmed with lace, slightly shading her stubborn chin. Behind her, half a step behind, walked Sergei Petrovich Maltsev - tall, reserved, a former officer, now a factory manager, with that very expression on his face that men wear in court and at funerals: respect, annoyance, readiness for anything.

They walked slowly, as if not wanting to rush the day, but Maltsev's gaze picked out details - not out of curiosity, but rather out of habit of checking. All this leisurely pace, this sense of celebration, left a bitter aftertaste in his soul: he had not forgiven Gene for the delay with the papers. Then, at the end of April, they were promised that the drafts would be ready "in a couple of days - more than two weeks had already passed.

"So he arranges receptions with such zeal," he muttered under his breath, so that only Anna Lvovna could hear, "but he leaves other people's business unfinished. It's not right."

There was no anger in the words, only wariness - the same one that Anna Lvovna recognized unmistakably. She did not want to continue. Everything in this yard - the voices, the vanilla, the noise of children and the smell of hot pies - seemed to belong to another life. One to which there was no need to bring the fatigue of litigation and calculating reproaches.