“Erasmus, what’s happening there?” I shouted.

“It’s the Tiger,” the prophet replied very calmly. “I deceived you ever so slightly, Antoine. Don’t hold it against me. I carved two chalices out of the tree into which I shouted my prophecy.”

“You’ve found out what your own prophecy was?” I cried, jumping up off my chair. I ran to the window. Right now: who was there on the premises right now? No one . . . but if I really hurried, there were people walking by in the street . . . “Erasmus, hold on for a minute! I’ll hand the phone to someone, you tell them.”

“Don’t bother, Antoine,” Erasmus told me. “It’s all predetermined. Don’t bother! And don’t try to discover my prophecy, please. It won’t bring you joy and a long life. Don’t be angry that I gave you the chalice. Forget about it, bury it.”

“I can’t promise you that I’ll do that,” I said honestly.

Erasmus sighed into the phone.

“Then forgive me. I only have twenty seconds left. The Tiger’s about to break through my defenses. I’m putting my will into a briefcase—a crocodile-skin briefcase . . . there. It will be lying on the table in the kitchen.”

“Erasmus, I’m very sorry!” I exclaimed. “Maybe there’s something I can do?”

“Contact the London Day Watch. Ask them . . . to tidy up my home.” He paused for a moment, and then said quite calmly and clearly, in good Russian: “Farewell, Moscow Magician Anton Gorodetsky.”

First the noise in the earpiece fell silent.

And then the connection was broken.

I looked at the screen. Length of conversation: two minutes, twenty-eight seconds. I had heard Erasmus Darwin’s final prophecy even as he spoke it.

Erasmus was a good Prophet.

Or rather, he had been.

And in general, not a bad Other. For a Dark One, quite remarkable.

I walked over to the window, opened it, and lit a cigarette. It was cold and overcast, threatening rain.

That was how Olga found me—smoking at the window. She walked up without saying a word and took out her slim “feminine” cigarettes. When she had emerged from her confinement in the body of an owl thirteen years earlier, she had smoked Belomor papyroses at first—the height of chic back in her time. Only she had soon found her bearings in a changed world.

“What’s wrong, Anton?” she asked. “You look really terrible.”

“Erasmus phoned me.”

“Darwin? What did he want?”

“To say goodbye. He had another chalice with the prophecy sealed inside it—and he couldn’t resist the temptation. He found out his own prophecy . . . and then the Tiger came.”

Olga swore. Coarsely, like a man. She asked: “Is there nothing we can do?”

“No. He only had two and a half minutes—he wanted to say goodbye. And he asked me not to try to find out the prophecy, no matter what.”