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– So it is you, after all, and not you and your father? – I catch her off-guard with ease. Just as I always do when A’Letha forgets herself and ceases to control her own flow of words.

She knows she’s said too much, but she’s smart enough not to start denying it.

Well, that’s not the question, but why the hell would my fiancée be mad at Margot? They certainly hadn’t crossed paths in any way, and I can’t imagine under what hypothetical circumstances Marguerite might have crossed her path. The only ghostly connection between these two women is me, and only because I know them both.

Is it really all about these pictures?

I remember that in the one where Margot is leaning over me across the table, I have a face like a sheep. Naturally, without a bit of exaggeration. A’Lota seems to have given it too much importance.

Or not, because the memory of Margot-even at this inopportune moment-stirred my imagination with not at all chaste thoughts.

– I will, with your permission, solve the question of Margarita Sheremetyeva myself, – I say, when I realize that the pause has lingered.