<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 90%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="color: #80BFFF">Aleksandr watches the sun set and listens to the city breathing. <br/>A woman wails in the street below. Probably he knows her, probably she lost a loved one today at Bratmil’s and now the police ask her questions and her family try to console her. Aleks does not want to listen to her grief - he does badly with tears - so he puts the dirty glasses in the sink and throws out the empty vodka bottle. He takes a shower and scrubs flakes of dried blood from his hands. He stays under the spray of the water with the steam and the heat for a long time. Afterwards he draws runes in the condensation on his bathroom mirror and dresses. All the clothing he had been wearing that day are tossed in the bin. <br/><br/>The walk to the apartment his family has lived in for the past fourteen years is uneventful, he leaves by the fire escape to avoid walking past the crime scene out front. His mother’s face is grave when she greets him at the door and pulls Aleks into a fierce hug. Ivann stands from his seat at the kitchen table where an ancient television is tuned to the evening news to rest a giant hand on his son’s shoulder, it does not surprise Aleksandr that his family already know of the day's horrific events and his involvement. <span style="font-weight: bold">"Ты в порядке , мой Саша?"</span> <span style="font-style: italic">Are you alright, Sasha?</span> Ivann’s brow furrows with concern and Aleksandr nods, feeling the weight of the past hours lighten in the familiar comforting presence of home. His father wraps a broad arm around Aleks’ head in a brief embrace.<br/><br/>The kitchen table is already covered in the paraphenalia of Zorya Dostoevskii’s trade and the fireplace has been banked to glowing coals. The matriarch sits at the head of the table and smiles when Aleks kisses her wrinkled cheek. <span style="font-weight: bold">“You have had long day, моя крошка” </span>Her English is heavily accented to the point that she may as well have been speaking Russian, but Aleks is pleased to hear her trying. Zorya may have been the reason for the family moving to America in the first place, but it did not mean she intended to make more than the barest of efforts to learn English. Fourteen years of dogged persistence on Aleksandr’s behalf had only recently begun to pay off. Prior to that, Zorya had simply waved her grandson’s attempts off with something along the lines of <span style="font-weight: bold">“Я слишком стар, мое солнце , я видел войну . Когда вы стары, как мне вы узнали достаточно вещей.”</span> <span style="font-style: italic">I am too old my sunshine, I saw the war. When you get as old as me you have learned enough things. </span><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Да, бабушка”</span> <span style="font-style: italic">Yes, grandmother.</span> Aleks draws a kitchen chair out to sit but orya shakes her head and points to the living room with a finger that resembles nothing so much as a chicken bone. <span style="font-weight: bold">“Best time is now, Солнце мое , Чернобог дает лучшие истины, когда он просыпается.”</span> <span style="font-style: italic">My sun, Czernobog gives the best truths when he wakes. </span>Aleksandr ignored the urge to roll his eyes. He loves his grandmother but the way she spoke about deities as though they were old friends she had round for drinks reminded him of the white preachers on daytime TV. Then again, he couldn’t exactly discount the idea that Zorya had entertained a god or two in her lifetime; he’d seen stranger things, and his grandmother was usually the cause of them. <br/><br/>All the windowsills of the apartment had been turned into miniature gardens with planter boxes, and the small balcony was quite literally covered in plants. Aleks had a modest few planter boxes at home himself, but it was nothing compared to Zorya and Serfina’s botanical genius. The apartment complex had garden patches on the roof that his mother and grandmother had also taken full advantage of.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Мака и коровяка” </span> <span style="font-style: italic">The poppy and the Mu-</span> <span style="font-weight: bold">“And the Mullein, I know” </span>Aleks called over his shoulder as he carefully selected the twelfth poppy flower from the left. He knew Zorya was scowling without having to look. <br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“и Мандрагора.” </span><span style="font-style: italic">And Mandrake. </span>She finished, sounding smug and surly all at once. <br/><br/>Aleksandr frowned. <span style="font-weight: bold">“Mandrake?” </span>He asked, his hand hovering over the weird, weedy looking plant. The was no reply, though Aleksandr knew all too well that he’d been heard. His grandmother liked to be unnecessarily mysterious from time to time, ‘to teach him’, supposedly. He dug up the mandrake root, cautious to only touch the leaves, and plucked a few tiny bright yellow mullein flowers and their smaller still stems before returning to the kitchen with the handful of plants. A bowl of deep red wine was ready to wash the mandrake root and a small bone cup half filled  with warm honey had been placed next to a battered mortar and pestle. Aleks dumped the mandrake into the wine immediately and sat to shred the tiny mullein flowers and stems. The petals and sex organs of the flowers were thrown immediately into the honey, while the stems were placed in the mortar. He uses his favorite paring knife to make a tiny nick in the flesh of the poppy seed pod and bleed the milky liquid that oozes out into the honey. <br/><br/>The news reporter on the television is covering the murder at Bratmil’s. Aleks’ mother fries beef and mushroom pelmeni and hums to herself, Ivann watches the news and Zorya watches Aleks’ hands as he works. Aleksandr feels a rush of warmth for his family and the comfort they bring - the scene is so similar to so many others throughout the years that the horrors of the afternoon seem like a fading dream. Aleks belatedly realizes then that his grandmother has not touched any of the ingredients for the magic he suspects she intends for them to work that night. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at her.<span style="font-weight: bold"> “Бабушка?” </span><span style="font-style: italic">Grandmother? <br/><br/></span><br/>The old woman waves a hand for him to continue. He smears the last of the opium laden latex on the edge of the bone cup and begins washing the mandrake root but doesn’t look away from his mentor. Zorya nods when Aleks shakes the wine from the root and slices it to go into the mortar with the mullein stems and petals. <span style="font-weight: bold">“Это ваша работа сегодня , Шура. Вам нужно будет прочитать угли в одиночку.”</span> <span style="font-style: italic">This is your work tonight, Shura. You will need to read the coals alone.</span> Aleks groans. <span style="font-weight: bold">“Not the coals, Бабушка. The bones are easier to read.”</span> Zorya shakes her head firmly. <span style="font-weight: bold">“Кости лежат. Огонь не знает, как лгать. Важно знать правду.” </span><span style="font-style: italic">Bones lie. Fire doesn't know how to lie. It is important to know the truth.</span> It’s useless to argue with Zorya Nikolayevna, not when her lips are set in the line Aleks’ knows all too well. He scowled and ground the mandrake root and mullein stems a little more violently than was probably necessary.<br/><br/>Later, Aleks walks home with troubled thoughts. <br/><br/>The infusion of honey and herbs, meant to open the mind to the gods and bring light to those who had died in battle (amongst other things, anyway), left him feeling drugged. His vision is soft edged and rosy as he turns the corner onto his own block and turns over the evening's work in his head.<br/><br/>Reading coals has always been difficult for Aleksandr, it takes years to be able to understand which of the thousand interpretations the embers mean before they burn away into the next story. Fire is easily distracted, it won’t stay still long enough to be read at a leisurely pace. Tonight though, the coals could only tell one tale over and over. Zorya had looked worried when Aleksandr came out of the deep trance required for this kind of reading, he wasn’t used to seeing such an expression on her stern face. He had explained the person and the damage he’d seen that afternoon while Serfina heaped savoury fried dumplings and sour cream onto his plate and Zorya had waited til after Aleks had finished eating before asking about the embers. <br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><br/>“Я видел тень.” </span><span style="font-style: italic">I saw a shadow.</span><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Многие?”</span> Many?<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Один. Это был большой. Больше, чем тень может быть.”</span> <span style="font-style: italic">One. It was big. Bigger than a shadow could possibly be. </span><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Возможно, он был похож на человека ? Животное?”</span> <span style="font-style: italic">Did it look like a man? An animal? </span><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Я ... Мужчина.”</span><span style="font-style: italic"> I...a man</span><br/><br/>Zorya did not ask him any more questions, and she wouldn’t say anything further about what Aleksandr had seen.</span></span></span></div>