The Cup of Galfar. Alderosa's Daughter. Alexander Pererva

to the spot. It wasn’t Mean Jean, or, at least, not the Mean Jean everybody knew. The woman who entered the room was stately, clothed in a long black-and-red dress made from some kind of heavy opalescent fabric. Her long black hair, parted in the middle and braced with a silver diadem, fell on her half-bare shoulders. Silver jewelry shone on her neck and arms.

      Lemonade, forgetting caution, peeked out even more in order to get a good look at the woman’s face. It was definitely Jean, although it was hard to recognize her now. She always looked elderly, if not old. No one would dare to call this woman old. There was not a single wrinkle on the strong haughty face. It was even beautiful; no one would call Jean’s face beautiful. But, it was the same person none the less.

      The woman sat down in the chair by the coffee table and lit a long brown cigarette. She was smoking with her head thrown back and her eyes half-closed. Sometimes her face twisted into a crooked grin; she even laughed quietly a few times. The laugh sent a shiver down Lemonade’s spine and made his hair stand on end.

      A couple of minutes passed. Cigarette smoke filled the dim room, curling into fancy patterns in the air and slowly falling to the floor. A stream of smoke reached Lemonade’s sensitive nose and made it itch intensely. Lemonade covered his nose with his paw and carefully scratched it.

      Finally Mean Jean looked at the clock, put out the cigarette and turned on the TV. The newsperson on the screen was reading a long announcement. The woman was sitting upright on the edge of the chair, looking straight at the TV. She was drumming her fingers nervously on the polished surface of the coffee table and threw an impatient glance at the clock from time to time.

      Lemonade missed the moment when everything changed; he just felt suddenly that the person on the screen was saying something weird. The cat pricked his ears, trying to catch every word.

      “This is the end of our morning program,” the person continued to mumble monotonously. “Please do not forget to turn off your TV set. I repeat: everyone except Corgy, turn off your TVs, or else… I’m going to count to three and then burn everyone’s TVs, except Corgy’s of course. Corgy, Corgy, wake up! I’m here. You need to focus. You seem distracted today.”

      The person was saying all of that, looking through the TV screen straight at Jean. She, in her turn, was looking at the screen mesmerized and unblinking; then she shook herself awake and bowed her head.

      “Oh master, you are unpredictable as always. You manage to trick me every time,” Mean Jean’s words were clearly flattering.

      “Never mind, let’s get down to business,” interrupted the person on the screen.

      The picture twisted and blurrred, and then the screen vanished. In its place there was a black hole in the middle of the TV, and behind it there was icy emptiness. Lemonade felt its cold breath on his skin. Then a dark figure emerged from the emptiness surrounded by a fiery red glow. The long robe, the hooded head and the eyes burning with a yellow fire – all of that reminded Lemonade of something. But he had no time to dwell on that. He heard a low harsh voice, very different from the newsperson’s.

      “Corgy, today you will talk to Hannagh, the Second Guard of the Cup. The Guards are concerned about your case, the Supreme One has heard of it and ordered a thorough investigation.”

      “But, Teacher, I have explained everything,” Corgy’s voice trembled, betraying her fear.

      “If you are not to blame, you’ve got nothing to fear. Talk to Hannagh,” the voice of the one Corgy was calling “Teacher’ sounded insinuating.

      The robed figure disappeared and was replaced by a three-dimensional picture of a man seated on a tall carved chair. The angle was thus that it looked as if Jean and all of her room were at his feet. He was wearing a dark red velvet waistcoat with golden embroidery and matching trousers tucked into tall leather cuffed boots. The white lace cuffs and collar contrasted with the tan face and hands. The face itself, framed by long blond curls, was quite handsome, but the dark, burning and piercing eyes inspired a fear that amounted almost to panic.

      Corgy hastily averted her eyes and bowed low. Hannagh – that was apparently him – leaned forward and looked at her for some time. Then he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and said in a voice quite pleasant and not scary at all:

      “Corgy, you were honored with supreme trust: you were granted a higher position and presented with a personal viamulator. How did you, a Second-Degree Adept, manage to lose it?”

      “My lord, I followed the instructions exactly. Evidently, there was some mistake in your – our – estimators’ calculations. And, may I add, I have the whole situation under control, and will soon have the viamulator.”

      “There could have been no mistake. If you are telling the truth, then the whole story seems rather strange, I’d say, suspiciously strange. I will need to conduct a thorough investigation.”

      “My lord, do you suspect somebody’s interference?”

      “Quite right. Who got the grumba? What happened to him?”

      “Dead. Cooked and eaten. He was taken by a woman who lives in our building. I know her well. An ordinary woman. A children’s books illustrator. Nothing outstanding, except perhaps her looks.”

      “Family?” asked Hannagh.

      “Has a husband, who is a pilot, and a daughter, Allie, who’s ten,” Corgy fell silent for a few seconds, thinking. “No, an ordinary family, nothing interesting for us. I’d have noticed if there was anything.”

      “OK, let’s leave them for now. Think about everything that happened that morning. There must have been something unusual, some little thing that you overlooked.”

      Hannagh bored his burning eyes into Corgy. She looked away again, unable to bear it. Then she was struck by a memory: the flash of sunlight. How could she have forgotten? Just like she did now, she had to look away, blinded momentarily by the flash of light and balance with her arms spread out not to end up in an icy ditch. Then it took a few moments to yell at the boy who was running away with a little mirror in his hand. As a result, she was late getting to the market, and the grumba with the viamulator went to the wrong person.

      Corgy told Hannagh about all of the circumstances of her trip to the market.

      “What did the boy look like? Describe him,” Hannagh was instantly alert.

      But she could tell him nothing specific, just that the boy looked ten or twelve.

      Hannagh was quiet for some time, deep in thought and his burning eyes dimmed. Then he continued calmly:

      “All right. Tell me more.”

      “Well, the grumba got in Irene the artist’s hands. And they decided to keep it in the bathtub and feed it. They thought it was a regular fish.”

      Hannagh raised his eyebrows:

      “Keep the grumba in the bathtub? How long did they keep him there?”

      “Not long. There was no time for a real transformation, but he did manage to cause some trouble. Anyway, two days ago he was cooked.”

      “What about the viamulator? They found it?” Hannagh’s question sounded like a statement.

      “Yes,” Corgy lowered her eyes. “I saw Alex, the pilot, yesterday. So I questioned him carefully. He said yes, he hadn’t seen it himself, but his wife and daughter had found a trinket in the fish’s belly. So, for them it’s just a trinket.”

      “Are you sure that they won’t guess what it is or turn it on accidentally?”

      “They won’t have the time,” Corgy’s voice sounded subtly triumphant. “I got all of them. I was able to put a spell on the grumba, and now, having eaten him, they are all under the spell now.”

      “What kind of spell did you use?”

      Corgy was