“Did you . . .” Nadya sniffed demonstratively, but she asked diplomatically: “Did you part the clouds?”

“I admit it. Just a little bit.”

“I noticed.”

Nadya shifted from one foot to the other at the door. She either wanted to ask him about something or she had something to tell him. Anton looked at his daughter and suddenly—completely out of the blue—he realized that his daughter was not completely a child any longer, that she was already treading the mysterious path that leads from childhood to youth, the path on which talking dolls, teddy bears, and beloved parents are left behind, abandoned and forgotten . . .

Nadya had only just stepped onto this path, but there would be no return from it, there could not be . . .

“Did you want to ask me something?” said Anton.

“Daddy, that chalice thing . . . I touched it too.”

Anton nodded, realizing it wasn’t physical touch that was meant.

“I think there’s something there. But it’s really well hidden: you can’t get it out, no matter how cunning or strong you are.”

“If cunning or strength was enough, the Inquisition would already have understood everything,” Anton said with a nod.

“I think there’s some very clever release mechanism,” Nadya went on, brightening up. “You have to do something that you would never ever think of. That you wouldn’t ever do. And then the prophecy will be revealed.”

Anton looked at the chalice in his hand.

Then he nodded again.

“In that case, we’ll probably never find out.”

“Are you upset?”

“No,” said Anton. “Not really. That is, not at all.”

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

HE WAS A FINE YOUNG MAN, ONE OF THOSE WHO HAD COME into the Watch the year before, and was dreaming of becoming a field operative. An honest Fourth-Level, with every chance of advancing further. His name was Alexander—or Sasha—and only recently he had been studying at the Moscow Aviation Institute and dreaming of becoming a space-flight engineer. People like that only became Light Ones, because in 2012 in Russia only a complete child or a holy fool could dream of becoming a cosmonaut.

“Anton Sergeevich”—he was trying hard to speak calmly and collectedly, but there was still a slight tremble in his voice—“are you certain they’ll come here?” I shrugged, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit up, and offered one to Sasha, taking no notice of his grimace of disapproval. He started fidgeting, then reached uncertainly for a cigarette.

I pulled the pack away.

“Don’t. First, never smoke. Second, never do anything that authority figures suggest if you don’t like it. If I jump off the bridge, will you do the same?”

“If necessary, I will!” Sasha declared resolutely.

I looked down into the gray water of the river Moscow with the lighted street lamps reflected in it (in Moscow the stars in the sky aren’t often visible). I nodded.