“We wrote to each other for a while. For the sake of appearances I argued at first, then I admitted that my criticism was entirely wrong—basically, I repented, and Erasmus changed his attitude towards me. It’s not very often these days that anyone shows any interest in his beloved scientific work. We got along famously for a while, he even started flirting with me and invited me to visit him. But then I made a mistake. I was really only interested in the story of the Tiger, Anton . . . and I mentioned him. Erasmus evidently realized where my interest lay. And he took offense.”

“Why?”

“Surely it’s obvious? His beloved botany, which was the reason why he associated with me in the first place, turned out to be nothing more than an excuse for getting to know him . . .” I could hear the note of embarrassment in the old woman’s voice.

“Imagine that you have an interest, a fanatical interest in something slightly crazy,” Gesar put in. “And suddenly you meet an Other who shares your passion—for collecting moths, for instance. Or for studying the medicinal properties of kefir. And you communicate with them, you feel glad to know them . . . perhaps you even fall in love. And then suddenly you discover it’s all just an excuse to get close to you and find out about the Chalk of Fate, which you once held in your hands.”

“I get it,” I said with a nod. “Erasmus hasn’t changed his address, has he?”

“Not as far as we’ve been able to find out,” said Gesar, shaking his head.

“And where does he live? Somewhere in the back of beyond, obviously. Amid boundless, grassy expanses and centuries-old trees? The heather-clad wilds of Scotland, the bleak cliffs of Wales . . .”

“He lives in London,” Gesar snorted. “As the years pass by, you start to appreciate comfort, believe me.”

“A work trip to London . . . not bad,” I mused wistfully.

“Well, that’s where you’re going.”

“Well, I won’t argue with that,” I replied quickly. “Who with?”

“On your own. No combat situations are anticipated. We don’t have anybody who’s acquainted with Erasmus—apart from Anna Tikhonovna, but in view of the circumstances under which their contact was broken off . . .”

“But don’t you know him?” I asked hopefully.

Gesar shook his head.

“No, I don’t. And Foma Lermont doesn’t, either. We could dig up some contact at the fourth or fifth remove, but that’s not likely to be any help.”

“I’ve just had a thought,” Anna Tikhonovna put in almost timidly. “What if Anton took Kesha with him?”

“You think Erasmus might be moved by a boy whose fate is so much like his own?” asked Gesar, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “What do you think, Anton?”

“I don’t think a four-hundred-year-old Other is likely to be very sentimental,” I replied. “I’d rather take Svetlana with me.”