Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“Time is not a solid substance and can't therefore act on some and not others,” Owl expounds in an edifying voice. “It's fluid, one-directional, and not subject to outside influence.”

“Not subject to your influence, maybe,” Gnome says, pointing in our direction. “And those who do have influence over it would never say anything, and that's why we think it doesn't happen.”

“Wow, people sure hold entertaining opinions about us, don't they,” I say in surprise. “Did you hear that? I'm blushing.”

“It's your own fault.” Noble scowls. “That's what you get for publicly hinting at exclusive abilities.”

“I was in mourning!”

“It didn't have to be that ostentatious!”

I spy with my little eye that Sphinx, who's been affecting boredom all this time, is suddenly no longer bored. He's frozen, coiled like a spring, pupils dilated. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed, but I do. I prick up my ears and sniff at the air intently, trying to determine if something's changed in it.

Not obviously. It's a bit less stifling than before, or maybe it only seems that way because I've simply gotten inured to it. The window drapes sway and snap back. And Alexander, having dropped off the cups, suddenly grabs the edge of the table, as if someone's trying to pull him away.

“You missed the best bit,” Noble says to Sphinx.

“I've already gathered that.”

“And it's you who's at the bottom of his complexes, if you dig deep enough.”

“Tabaqui doesn't grow up, because he knows the secret,” Owl says to Gnome, but loud enough so that everyone else can hear it too. “He's just said so. ‘But Jackal is Jackal’ and so on.”

Alexander is staring at the window, all strung out under his white vestments, like an arrow that's already chosen its target. Like something winged, cooped up uncomfortably in a closed jar. The gnawed fingers, now clenched on his own shoulders, elongate and darken before my very eyes, turning into talons. The sand-colored clouds of the Outsides cross his face, flashing the unfallen rain when they reach his eyes.

“Ow. Ow. Ow,” I mumble, not able to look away.

Tired, cross, and not a little scared, Smoker asks if he understood it correctly that my cassettes contain recordings of various night noises.

“They contain evidence of an otherworldly phenomenon,” I tell him patiently.

“You mean they don't.”

“Which is the same thing. Ghosts cannot be captured on tape.”

And no Howls in my subconscious, not one. Leached out. Only a helpless grunt. The stuffy Coffeepot air, viscous with smoke, begins to luminesce faintly, setting the silhouettes of its inhabitants trembling. Mermaid retreats behind her hair, like a frightened bird. Ginger turns to stand up. The universe around us floats outward in spirals, like invisible waves from a stone thrown in water. Hound Rickshaw crosses the Coffeepot hobbling lamely, trying to outrun them.

“So the fact that there's nothing there proves the existence of ghosts?”

Smoker's voice is desperate and betrays his almost final conviction in my mental incompetence. When a person talks in this fashion he is definitely in need of being rescued, except I can't decide who needs saving more: Smoker, who's on the verge of desperate wailing, or Alexander, who's on the verge of flying out the window, breaking both the glass and the bars outside. Because I definitely can't get to both of them in time.

“I've had it! You are just trying to drive me insane, all of you!” Smoker shrieks, his pallid eyes bugging out.

He drives right at me, clearly intent on running me over. But at the same moment there's another shriek, and something fiery-scarlet singes the ceiling, flying across the room with a blinding flash. All sounds fall away.

“Avast!” I yell, pushing away from the table, and to the disjointed accompaniment of the fading echo of my own “vast-vast-vast,” I keel over.

Disgustingly slowly. Judging by the clatter, Smoker's wheelchair crashed into Mustang, weights and all. I am on my back, observing the curious crystal rain fanning out across the floor. The small beads hang in the air, suspended over the faster, bigger shards. I reach out with my hand, mesmerized, trying to catch one of them, but miss. Obviously, I comprehensively squandered my chance to get to Alexander, and obviously it was him I needed to rescue first and foremost while Smoker could wait, because it's one thing when someone is cracking because of loneliness and it's quite another thing when someone else turns into a dragon and scoots off. Having realized this, I attempt to climb out of the wheelchair and do at least something, which puts me straight under Smoker's wheels. My universe is temporarily dark, boring, and stinking of soot.

When I come to, I'm under the table. How I arrived here is a mystery. Next to me is Owl, and there's a muddy coffee rain dripping peacefully off our common roof. There's also an ample goose egg on my forehead, spreading down over the eye. I feel it, remembering the glass rain, and gasp.

“You know what,” Owl says irritably, glasses flashing, “your pack is completely out of bounds. It's an outrage what you've been up to lately.”

“Right. The guy had a fit. What were we supposed to do? It is a sometimes occurrence with epileptics.”

“A fit? Epileptics?” Owl cackles unpleasantly. “So that's what you call it in the Fourth!”

I endeavor to explain to Owl where exactly he can stuff his indignation, preferably in written form and wrapped with razor wire.

“Screw you,” Owl mumbles as he extricates himself from under the table.

The coffee drops, now less frequent, plop on his scruff.

I wait for him to crawl away and then peek out myself. Legs, shards, water, clumps of foam. A couple of people are trying to tidy up, while the rest just prance around ogling the scenery. Hounds, Rats, even the girls. Must have forgotten that we're in a state of war. The surviving part of the windowpane seems to be frosted over. The slightest touch, and it’ll come tumbling down too. There's a gaping hole in the middle. Resembling a starfish. I stare at it, and then feel myself being lifted up by Black. He picks me up and carries me away, briskly striding through the throng of people and shoving those who don't step aside. It's good to be purposefully carried. You can just relax and go with the flow. At the Coffeepot entrance, a gaggle of gawkers serenades us with whistles and murmurs.

“don't cry,” Black keeps repeating to me.

“I'm trying.”

There's no viscous luminescence anymore. The world is back to its regular shape, the sounds carry clearly and loudly, but something did change. Here and there the windows creak and slap, and the wind strolls down the hallways. The door to our room snaps to behind us with such force that even Black startles and my teeth clank.

The room is taken over by the pre-storm dusk and, when seen from the lofty height of Hound Daddy, looks surprisingly small. Sphinx, Blind, and Mermaid sit in a neat row, backs against the wardrobe. The dusty whirlwind rattles the windows and throws flying debris at them.

Black lowers me to the floor. I crawl over to our guys, trying and discarding on the way successive faces that may be relevant to the situation. The problem is, I don't quite understand the situation. Was today the day we've been orphaned forevermore? Have we just lost the last of the dragons that don't exist in nature? Does the glum expression on the faces of those assembled here imply silent mourning, and if so, should I kick the boisterousness up a bit to shake them out of that?

Blind shuffles aside, freeing some space between Sphinx and himself. Big enough to fit a rabbit. Miraculously, I manage to squeeze in, and immediately decide to abandon the boisterousness. I've already been plenty boisterous today. Let it be calm here now, and let the wind howl and tear up the Outsides. I'm tired, and my head hurts.