"What's that new thing for?” Sergey asked.

"Turning people into birds,” Slava said. “Only it's not for us. It's a favor I'm doing."

"For those who gave all this magic to you?” Sergey asked.

Slava stopped and turned, his hands in the pockets of his maroon jacket. “Yes,” he said. He took one hand out of the pocket and showed Sergey a blue glass sphere. “And this one is for you."

Several goons with tape and pliers stepped from behind the trees crowding the dark path.

Sergey struggled in their hands. “What did I do?” he asked Slava.

"I hate spies."

"I'm not a spy,” Sergey said. “Why do you say that?"

"I never told you the central gates of what,” Slava answered. “Stupid bitch."

There were too many questions that needed asking, and yet Fyodor felt disinclined to ask them. He left it up to Galina and to Yakov; the latter continuously surprised Fyodor by his seemingly earnest caring about finding out what happened to the bird people. Ever since the resurrection, he had been locked in the back room of the Pub, interrogating the resurrected thug. Fyodor and Galina waited with the rest in the overcrowded main hall, drinking David's homemade beer, which Fyodor was growing quite fond of.

Galina and Elena were speaking in hushed tones, and he looked around for entertainment. Koschey, apparently satisfied with success of his feat, walked from table to table, smiling and nodding to the grudging praise. Fyodor smiled and thought that the underground felt cozy to him, as if he actually belonged here. He loved Koschey and Zemun, who leaned against a table where several rusalki and vodyanoys were sharing a pitcher of something steaming and delicious; he loved the Medieval Tatar-Mongol who argued animatedly with the Red Army soldier circa 1919 two tables over. He was used to the interstices of life, he fit comfortably into crannies which most people overlooked, and the underground was nothing but crannies and interstices. He was content to let Yakov and Galina chase after leads and interrogate dead thugs. He was quite happy to stay in the Pub.

His gaze traveled from one table to the next, snagging at patches of color and unusual faces, drinking it all in. He thought about the history they had learned in school, and felt a profound sense of gratitude that there was an underground, to supplement the stirring tales of conquests and orderly victories, of revolutions and heroes, of thwarted invasions; that there was that hidden side without which nothing made sense. All the while it had been there, and now Fyodor knew why the world used to feel so off-kilter, so careening, so missing something important. He wondered if everyone felt that way, that vague longing for something they believed lost a long time ago, but in reality just buried underground.

"What are you thinking about?” Galina asked.

He just shrugged, lacking the ability to verbalize the deep sense of calm and satisfaction at all the pieces finally tumbling into their proper place. “Just how cool this place is."

"Well, it won't be so pleasant much longer,” Elena said. “Enjoy it while it lasts."

Fyodor sat up. “Why?"

"Weren't you listening to that-corpse?” Galina said irritably. “If the thugs know there's something here, don't you worry they'll come looking for more?"

"Not to mention that one of the old ones is helping them and turning people into birds,” Elena said. “This is serious business. And still no trace of Berendey."

"Maybe he's just busy,” Galina said.

Elena shook her head. “When Zemun calls a meeting, all the old ones come. Even Koschey made it, which frankly I found surprising."

"Do you think he's the one who's helping them?” Galina said.

Elena shrugged. “It would be in character, but I don't think we should be hasty in our conclusions."

Zemun sauntered over, her jaws moving in their indefatigable chewing. “Who has the most to gain? Answer me that, and you'll have found your culprit."

"Gain what and from what?” Galina irritably swatted a strand of hair that fell across her forehead. “We don't even know why whoever it is wanted people turned into birds."

"We can guess,” Elena said, and Zemun nodded.

Fyodor resumed his survey of the Pub. He noticed a bright spot of green, red and blue out of the corner of his eye-the same swirl of intensity he dabbed on his canvas time and time again, remembering a jingling of bracelets on thin wrists and a flutter of black hair that swept over dark smoldering eyes. At the thought of her, his fingers itched to paint the forbidden, that which could not be understood or pinned down. He took another sip of his beer and turned carefully, expecting the vision to dissipate once it was in full view. It did not.

Fyodor shook his head to dispel the unbidden apparition; he told himself that it couldn't be her-she still looked the same as that day, years ago, on the bridge. She saw him too and frowned a bit, as if trying to locate his face in the gallery of her memories.

He smiled and she approached their table, petted Zemun's muzzle with a distracted hand, her eyes still on Fyodor's. “Excuse me,” she said. “Do I know you from somewhere?"

He nodded. “I was rude to you and your bear. And I painted your picture."

The expression of her face did not change, but it was as if her soul suddenly drained out, leaving behind a perfect but lifeless and brittle replica of her face. “What are you doing here?” she said. “I thought I left you behind."

He nodded. “You did. I was looking for you, to tell you I was sorry. Have you been underground long?"

"Ever since I gave my luck away.” She pointed at the gold chain around his neck.

"You can have it back if you want.” He felt curious stares from Galina and Elena on him, and wished that the girl would just sit down.

She shook her head. “I can't. Once you give it away you can't get it back."

"I'm sorry,” he said. “Why did you give it to me?"

She finally sat, wedging between him and Elena. She looked at him as if from a great distance of time and lived experience that separated them. “I just wanted someone to like me."

He laughed, surprised. “Like you? How could anyone not like you?"

"You didn't,” she said, and gave a long sideway look at Galina.

"I was young and stupid."

She looked down at her hands, smiling a wan smile. “Then so was everyone else."

"What about your tabor?” he said.

"That's the thing,” she said. “You always treated us like vermin and told us to stick with our own kind. We were never people to you, we were rats who should be grateful for your scraps and who are run out of town the moment you decide you're uncomfortable with our presence or you need someone to blame for a drought or an epidemic."

Fyodor wanted to argue, but he remembered his own fears and forbidden interest, the expression on his mother's face when she told him that gypsies would steal him. He nodded instead.

Sovin looked up from his table, where he was engrossed in a game of checkers with another old man, and waved. Oksana waved back, smiling. “Where are your rats?” she yelled over the din of the pub.

"Right here,” Sovin answered, and several rats scurried from under the table and ran over to Oksana, climbing on her long skirt, racing to be first on her lap.

She petted them as if they were cats. “My friends,” she told Fyodor.

"I can see that,” he answered. “Do they do tricks?"

"Some,” Oksana said. “I'll show you when there are more around-they work better in groups."

The rats settled, sniffing at Oksana and sometimes turning to Fyodor, testing his scent with their whiskers; they smelled Oksana's luck on him.

"You want to go for a walk?” he said, just to get away from the acute discomfort that intruded upon his idyll.