“No, certainly not. That’s just the thing that you’ll be best at,” said Olga, joining in the conversation. “It’s like with music. Everybody’s taught to play the piano, even the violinists and the flautists. As a basic training. So you’ll be able to throw fireballs, stop time, make yourself invisible . . .”

I suddenly felt a keen desire to smoke. I’d only been smoking very rarely just recently, but I still felt calmer with a pack of cigarettes in my pocket. I looked at Zabulon. He was languishing, kneading a long, dark cigarette in his fingers. We glanced at each other and headed for the balcony without saying a word.

This balcony was just the way small balconies in small flats are supposed to be—thoroughly cluttered. There was a sledge and an old child’s bicycle, a collection of empty jam and pickle jars, a large cardboard box full of all sorts of junk and a small plastic case of tools. The box was open and I could see that the hammer and the pliers had a light coating of rust. Well, who stores tools on an open balcony? Ah, these women . . .

Or maybe I should say: Ah, these men? It’s tough being a single mother. Especially in Russia.

We smoked—Zabulon obligingly held up a little tongue of flame for me, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and I lit up, accepting his offer quite naturally. I took a deep drag and said: “I suppose we’ll have to send his mum off to some holiday resort. Why should she hang about here, if the child’s going to be with us? And that way . . . she might pick someone up, have a bit of fun . . .”

“Send her,” Zabulon agreed. “The Day Watch has no objections.”

“You’re all heart today,” I said. “And that makes me wonder.”

“I can afford to be tender-hearted,” Zabulon laughed. “But you, Anton, are embarrassed by your own goodness.”

“Why so?”

“Why else would you use those words? ‘Mum,’ ‘pick someone up,’ ‘a bit of fun’ . . . You vulgarize your own kind suggestion. You feel embarrassed.”

I thought about it and agreed. “Yes. I feel embarrassed. These days even good magicians try to appear wicked. Zabulon . . . tell me, what does that mean—a Twilight Creature?”

“Purely theoretical,” laughed Zabulon. “Don’t bother your head about it.”

“No one lives in the Twilight,” I said.

“If no one lives there, then they don’t,” the Dark One agreed simply, and I realized I wouldn’t get any more information out of him.

“So okay,” I said, launching my cigarette end into flight from the balcony with a flick of my finger and incinerating it in midair with a second flick. “Thanks at least for helping. And for not laying claim to the kid.”