The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

lordship’s hat and coat, but there was no hat, which elicited concern; had the rabble been violent? Smedley was relieved to hear it; his lordship had perhaps divined that Berkeley Square had not been so lucky? The revolting peasants had ignored the house, but there was some unpleasantness. Happily Miss Percy was already abed by the time the shootings occurred, and by the grace of God their ladyships had not been able to see the violence; the young plane trees might have been planted by good angels to preserve the women from having a clear view. Their ladyships were exhausted from the evening’s excitements and had followed Miss Percy’s lead; all the females of the house were abed. But his lordship will wish to know: Count Lebedev returned in the midst of the troubles and awaits his lordship in the library.

Nick escaped the butler and opened the library door to a cloud of smoke. The Russian was sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, a black cigarette with a gold filter dangling from his lips. He didn’t stand, and he neither looked at Nick nor answered his greeting. He merely raised a languid hand and let it fall again. Nick shrugged and headed to the sideboard for a brandy.

Solvig ambled into the library and sniffed the smoky air, her eyebrows twitching. Then she lumbered past Arkady without a glance and collapsed in front of the fire.

After a long moment, Arkady mumbled around his cigarette. “That’s a large dog. Yours?”

“Mm.” Nick poured a splash of golden brandy into a balloon. “I acquired her recently. Don’t ask how.”

“We had such dogs in Russia.” Arkady drew on his cigarette. “For fighting the bears. Their strength is something incredible. Their endurance and loyalty . . . once I knew one in Turkey; he tracked down and killed a wolf that had been devouring the sheep.” Arkady subsided into smoky silence.

Nick leaned against the sideboard, enjoying the smell of brandy and cigarettes. It reminded him . . . of what? The past or the future? He sniffed again. Something about it wasn’t right. Arkady’s cigarette—it didn’t smell quite . . . clean. Black with a gold filter. “That kind of cigarette has definitely not been invented yet, Arkady,” Nick said. “Just in case you hadn’t realized it.”

Arkady held the cigarette aloft and eyed it like it was a precious jewel. “This is a Sobranie Black Russian. I smoke them when I am angry. They are perfect in any century. Do you want one?” From his pocket he produced the box and gestured at Nick with it, though he still didn’t meet Nick’s eyes.

“No thanks. I don’t want to know what your anger tastes like.”

Arkady kept staring at the fire. He twirled the cigarette between thumb and forefinger and seemed to disappear into his thoughts.

For his part, Nick swirled the brandy in his glass. He wasn’t happy to see Arkady again so soon. He’d hoped to have more time to learn from Alva before having to deal with the Guild again. He and Alva had spent the last several nights publicly establishing their so-called relationship, going to parties, being seen all over town. The one hour they had had to talk had been spent by Nick telling Alva his story. She had been especially interested in Mr. Mibbs, just as the Guild had been. Nick had told her more, including what Mibbs had said to Leo, and how Leo had warned Nick away. Alva was fascinated. Had Mibbs really pressed into Nick’s emotions? Had he really used despair? Why did Nick think he had asked Leo about stolen children? Alva had even wondered if there was a connection between those questions posed in Chile and the incident outside the Foundling Hospital. Nick had shrugged, and said that he thought the Ofan and the Guild should know more about Mibbs and his obsessions than Nick himself did. After all, Mibbs clearly had the talent in spades, while Nick only knew how to hold on to his present moment by thinking about an acorn.

And now Arkady was back, and Nick hadn’t learned anything more. Did Arkady know, somehow, that Nick had turned firmly against the Guild?

Arkady smoked. Nick might as well not have been in the room.

Nick took a sip.

Arkady exhaled, slowly, a series of smoke rings.

Nick took another sip.

Arkady drew again on his cigarette.

Nick sighed. So he was going to have to push the issue. Fine. “Are you going to tell me why you’re angry?”

The Russian said nothing at first, and Nick noticed that his white hair was lank, his clothing less than crisp. Then he turned, and Nick saw that his eyes were bloodshot. “Give,” he said, and reached out a hand imperiously for Nick’s glass. Nick handed it over. The Russian tipped his head back and drank the brandy down in one gulp. “I have learned a great deal in Devon,” he said. “A very great deal. About your little mouse, Julia Percy. About her cousin, the imbecile earl. And about her grandfather. Her precious grandfather, Ignatius Percy, who is so recently and conveniently deceased.” Arkady hurled the brandy balloon into the fire and watched impassively as it shattered.

Nick stiffened, shocked by Arkady’s dramatics. He didn’t like this new, splintering mood of the Russian’s. “What did you learn?”

“The question is more material than that, my priest. What did I find?”

Nick shrugged, impatient. “I have no idea.”

“Look.” Arkady pointed to Nick’s desk. “I’ve left them there for you to see.”

Nick walked over to his desk. There, cluttered together, were some papers he had been working through, a photograph, a quill and inkwell, a Rubik’s Cube . . . it took a moment for his time-addled eyes to be shocked by the mix of old and new. “What the hell?” He picked up the photo. It was a somewhat battered snapshot of a beautiful young woman’s laughing face. Her blue eyes were Arkady’s. “Is this . . . ?” He turned to look at the Russian, to find him sitting with his eyes closed. “Is this Eréndira?”

The clock on the mantel