“And that’s all?” Methodius asked.

“What, too little for you? Trust me: if you draw the rune poorly, it won’t seem little,” Julitta smiled.

“And what’ll happen?”

“Nothing will happen. There’ll be neither flash nor crash. Everything’s quiet and peaceful. But then what’s left of you, it’s necessary to rake into a coffin with a scoop. And where’s the laughter in the hall? Hey, Kislyandii Anufrievich, you’ll at least imitate a smile, eh?”

“I’m mentally smiling,” said Methodius morosely. “And what do I do with the box?”

“Whatever you want. Put stones back in it or pour copper money into it, and then they’ll turn into gold. If you need it – keep it. I still have more!” Julitta dismissed it.

“And who made it, the box?”

“Who? British gnomes! They willingly sell us their wares in exchange for a small quantity of preserved moronoid happiness. True, moronoids become a little sadder, but it’s only for their benefit. Magciety writes protests till it turns blue.”

Methodius hesitated, “What, you trade with gnomes?”

“You can’t imagine how lonely the poor gnomes are underground. All day they hang around in the smithies, search for precious stones in the depths of mountains, and in the evenings sobbed out of idleness like oil-industry workers in the tundra. Not surprising that they’re eager for preserved happiness.”

Methodius opened the box. On the bottom lay a large white stone, inside which an indistinct white fog swirled. Next to the stone rolled a dark wrinkled fruit resembling a prune. “And what’s this for?” he asked.

“Where? Ah, I forgot! This is charisma from the charismatic tree! They made off with half a bucket of these from the Garden of Eden for one of our clients. Eh… a loud politician, who sold his eidos to us. Well, I also pocketed a couple. I was going to eat it, but then decided that I have enough charisma myself… Keep it!”

“A-ah!” Methodius drawled. He very vaguely pictured to himself what charisma was, but decided not to ask. Moreover, Julitta in a business-like manner glanced at the stale night clouds and unexpectedly rushed. “Well, that’s it! Till the meeting, great magician! If there are problems – howl!” she said mockingly.

The witch winked at Methodius, turned, and quickly went away. After reaching the corner of the building, she turned around, waved at Methodius, and very simply dissolved in the air. There were neither dazzling sparks nor incantations of teleportation nor rings nor magic wands, nothing… Everything took place instantly and effectively. Guards of Gloom preferred to manage without excess motions and vivid gestures. True force – economy of force.

A puzzled Methodius ran to the place where Julitta was standing recently. He discovered no trace – neither burnt spots on the asphalt nor the sharp smell of sulphur. Nothing remarkable. An old man’s shoe of size forty-three, lying on the glass-plot and snapping an unglued sole jealously at the world, clearly contained nothing weird.

Methodius, trying to digest what had happened, slowly wandered into the entrance. “Someone, who wants something from me, sent her. This someone is undoubtedly a wizard, moreover monstrously powerful. If he wishes to turn up beside me this second – he would do it also without Julitta. That means, it’s important to him that I go to the meeting voluntarily and the meeting will take place precisely there, in that house on the spot of the Skomoroshya Cemetery,” he thought, going up in the elevator.

Edward Khavron, it goes without saying, was not home. At this hour, he was still catching tips on modest ledger bait using his brutal appearance in conjunction with reasonable caddish behaviour. This was precisely that Molotov cocktail, which office ladies visiting Ladyfingers especially fell for. Zozo Buslaeva, who had time to cry over her female fate, had long ago washed off all the make-up and was now with appetite eating the trophy cake, chasing it with a crunchy pickle. The gustatory preference of Zozo was slightly off, as if she was eternally in a state of pregnancy. “What took you so long?” she asked her son.

“It’s this… Listen, why did you name me Methodius?”

Zozo wrinkled her forehead, “Methodius… Ah, I remember! When we went to register you at the Civil Registry Office, your papa intended to name you Misha. Misha Buslaev and all that. Along the way I argued with him, he jumped into a shuttle and left, and I, to spite him, when I filled out the form, wrote you down as Methodius. You know, how your papa hit the ceiling when I showed him your birth certificate. All the time he was to change your name, but never made up his mind about it. Funny, isn’t it?”