R1 - Rusalka Read Online Free PDF Page A

saying she helped you—"
     
    God, Pyetr thought, they've killed that poor girl—
     
    "People are scared," Sasha said.
     
    Pyetr raked a hand through his hair.
     
    "If there
is
a sorcerer," Sasha said, "did he do that too?"
     
    "There is no sorcerer!" Pyetr cried. "I was seeing Yurishev's wife. Yurishev set up a trap and caught me and he must have had an attack of some kind; but if Yurishev's family proves adultery, the wife's dowry is forfeit, and her relatives want it back. They've had bad times lately. They need that property. Yurishev built the mill on it! And now they've murdered the poor maid. Do you think they won't murder me—or anyone else they think might testify for the Yurishevs? It's money involved, Sasha Vasilyevitch, and they're quite willing to kill you as well as me. Don't mistake it!"
     
    Sasha looked appalled.
     
    "My friends are doing all they can," Pyetr said. "But it takes time. They have to get appointments. They have to meet with people. In the meanwhile—what you have to do is find me some clothes."
     
    "Clothes!"
     
    "I'm all over blood and mud. If I had clean clothes and a cap or something, someone who walked in here might not look twice at me. Something bulky, something like your uncle would wear."
     
    "My uncle!"
     
    "Nothing good. Old clothes. Rags.—Maybe a loaf of bread, while you're at it…"
     
    Sasha looked as if his supper were sitting uneasy on his stomach.
     
    "It might be a good thing for everyone," Pyetr said, "if I could get out of Vojvoda for a fortnight or so—and I need your help, Sasha Vasilyevitch."
     
    The boy went silent. Somebody was walking outside.
     
    "Somebody's coming!" Sasha whispered. "Cover up!"
     
    Pyetr moved for his corner and raked handfuls of straw over himself. Sasha flung the horse blankets over him and got up and walked away. Pyetr could hear the gentle breakage of straw, the soft opening and closing of the stall.
     
    "What are you doing?" somebody said.
     
    "Having my supper," Sasha said. "Resting for a moment." He was appalled. Mischa stood in the stable aisle, covered head to foot with mud.
     
    He did not want to ask why. He simply felt sick at his stomach, the anger of the morning gone and nothing left in him but a profound horror, his secret misdeed come home to him—
     
    Thank god I didn't wish worse, he thought.
     
    "Don't stand there with your mouth open," cousin Mischa said. "Fool! I can't go inside like this! Get me some water and get me some dry clothes, hear me?"
     
    "I'll be right back," Sasha said, and took out running, out the stable door, down the walk, up onto the porch and inside the box of a hallway between the kitchen and the main part of the inn. Straight back, behind the stairs and behind the kitchen led him to Mischa's room, which was latched only when there were strangers in the tavern. He pushed the door open, snatched clothes off the peg and ran out again.
     
    "Where are you going, Sasha?" aunt Ilenka's voice pursued him. "Alexander Vasilyevitch,
what are you doing
?"
     
    He stopped in the outside doorway, bounced on one foot. "Mischa fell in a puddle," he said, and was out the door before aunt Ilenka could say anything.
     
    Steps came closer to the stall. Pyetr refrained from breathing any larger than he had to, for fear of making any motion in the straw and the blankets.
     
    The walker stopped. Someone else was coming at a run. In a moment: "I've got the clothes," Sasha's voice said. "Here."
     
    "I need the water first, fool!"
     
    "I'm getting it," Sasha said. There was the rattle of a bucket. "I'll be right back. You can start getting undressed."
     
    Footsteps left, running. Footsteps walked back up the aisle.
     
    Pyetr held his breath again, heard the advance of the footsteps, heard swearing, heard the rattle of the stall gate as it swung inward. For a moment he could not determine what was going on with the small creaks and grunts, until he realized Mischa Misurov was pulling off his boots,