Chapter Text
Artemy Burakh, the Haruspex, finds himself surrounded – in his own Lair, with near-identical teenage girls on both his sides. He still has to control his movements carefully so as not to startle his most recent adoptee, but the peak of the crisis appears to be past.
When first they sat at the Lair’s table like this, every one of them had it much worse. Clara acted weird and aloof around him, as if she expected him to snap and start berating her at any moment. In his own turn, he discovered that staying in the same room as the twins had waves of dread washing over him, strong revulsion and anxiety gripping his heart simply at how wrong the very existence of Clara’s sister was. He sincerely hopes his face did not betray his feelings – much like the panic attacks at night, he learned to reign the irrational loathing in through a combination of controlled breathing and directing his thoughts to other subjects, but it took him quite some time to learn to crush the feeling in the bud. Of course, it’s not the same, since at night Lara is there to help him along, but now he feels his willpower alone is enough to maintain his composure.
They spend time chatting or simply doing their own things around each other. Clara’s forearms are still bandaged, so she can’t really use her hands without pain, which means she mostly reads. Originally, Artemy’d hoped he’d be able to do more chores around the Lair, but with Clara’s sister shuddering at his sudden movements still, he decided sharpening his scalpels or rearranging the furniture might not be the best choices, which gave him ample time to read some of the books he’d borrowed from Dankovsky or found in his father’s library. He quickly found that his time on the frontlines, while giving him plenty of practice in surgery, histology, or internal medicine, wiped most of the academic knowledge from his head, so instead of anything advanced, he’s back to reading introductory courses on pathophysiology, microbiology, and epidemiology.
Artemy never got to talk seriously with Clara about her opening her veins. He beats himself up over it: will his platitudes even make her feel better? Does she even want to discuss what happened, if she’s staying silent about it? It feels like a lesson unlearned from the time he decided to give Clara some space after her outburst, when in fact she clearly needed attention the most, but he just can’t find the right words to even begin that talk. Maybe Lara can do it better? Or Murky? The girls seem to have some special rapport impossible for him to replicate. He decides to bring it up with them if an opportunity presents itself, and avoid the thoughts on the subject for now.
With time, the injuries on Clara’s twin have mostly healed, but her hands still need exercise to fully restore the motor function. The precision needed for something like sewing is still beyond her, and carving seems unsafe, so they settle on drawing: it both serves to improve the control of her hands and calms her nerves.
At first, their interactions were very awkward, but as time went on, the girls became ever more talkative, so now they discuss a variety of topics from mundane to cosmic in scale. Their latest big chat deals with the differences in the sisters’ tastes, and they turn out to be surprisingly distinct for someone who seriously doubted whether they were separate persons or not just a few days ago. It starts with small stuff at first: Clara likes green and gold best, while her sister prefers red – scarlet, even, deeper than their signature cowls; persists at more important issues such as food preferences: Clara admits enjoying a good piece of beef (and Artemy attributes that to Lara’s cooking), while her twin values sweets above all; and ends with fundamental differences: Clara prefers being among other people in the Town, while her sister would rather be alone in the Steppe. What’s even more important, the foundling claims that judging by what she’s seen at the frontlines, God cannot – indeed, has no right to, – exist, so Artemy has to break up a brewing quarrel. The talk dies after that for a while, everyone turning to their pastimes.
Clara’s reading a small book about flowers by some medieval Italian, Artemy spies. Meanwhile, her twin’s drawing a large scene she calls the Lewisite Morning: Death flying over the Town in a cloud of poison gas, her skeletal arms outstretched over the surprisingly recognizable Bridge Square. An anatomy atlas used as reference for the central character and a botanical atlas used to draw the bouquets of geraniums in the cloud lie open before her, borrowed from Artemy. She holds the brush in her right hand, the Haruspex silently notes, and he’s pretty sure her sister is left-handed.
The girl looks up from her drawing:
“What’s the chemical formula for lewisite? I want to write it over the poison cloud,” she states plainly.
The menkhu rakes his brain and searches through his books, but can’t come up with anything.
“Sorry, I’ve got nothing,” he admits, “I guess you can ask Bachelor Dankovsky when he comes to check on your recovery process.”
The girl snorts, and they sit a while in silence. Then, the Haruspex notices something moving in the corner of his eye. As he turns to face it, he discovers his foundling grinning ear to ear, sinister as ever she’s been, as she reaches out with a finger to touch his face. A wave of unease washes over him, familiar by now, so he gathers his willpower and takes the touch stoically. The girl’s grin turns into a chuckle:
“Look, sister dearest,” she teases, “Your aba has learned not to flinch.” There’s a surprising amount of vitriol in her usage of the term, and Artemy wonders momentarily if she’s picked the word directly from Clara’s head in their time alone.
Clara counters, still pouting a bit from the sudden reveal of her sister’s atheism: “Of course he has.”
“Oh, but it’s weird when interacting with the Plague, isn’t it? He’s a weird one alright, ha-ha! Chose to destroy his entire Kin, yet spare me.”
“What?” Artemy bristles, “Should I tell Taya the next time she comes to play with Murky that she doesn’t exist?”
“Don’t play silly, Burakh, you know I don’t mean it this literally,” the finger she still hasn’t fully moved away now points at his face in an accusatory gesture, “You condemned them to be swallowed by the Town.”
The Haruspex knows of both sisters’ talent to get under people’s skins, yet this time he feels she got him good. Still, he stands his ground:
“Should I have condemned them to be swallowed by the Earth instead? No culture can ever move back in time, to some imaginary golden age. Trying to do that would’ve simply meant locking ourselves in a cage of our own making, rejecting the rest of the world and slowly withering as we eat up ourselves,” he pauses to catch his breath, “Yes, I chose to move forward. I hope the Kin and the Town can live together, learning from each other and both becoming richer for it. And I’ll do my utmost to see this through.”
“As if the Kin and the Town can ever accept each other, especially after what happened during the Outbreak,” the teen keeps pressing, “it’s like saying me or my sister can ever be normal teens after all we’ve been through.”
“We can be whatever we wa…” Clara starts, but her twin interrupts her. There’s tension raw in her voice now, but she’s struggling to maintain at least a facade of amicability.
“Oh this again, sister dearest? You think you can be normal? You think I can be normal?!” she laughs bitterly, a haunting, choking sound, “Well why won’t your aba let me drink a Panacea, then?”
“I just thought it could be…” Artemy stutters.
“Could be what? Give it here, you coward!” she demands; without noticing it, she’s almost shouting.
Artemy shrugs and gets up with not a further word said. Bringing another Panacea from the same larder upstairs where he got his own the last time takes him less than a minute; by the time he’s back, Clara’s holding her twin’s hands and whispering something to her rapidly; Artemy can’t make out a single word that he’d understand. Clara falls silent as their three gazes focus on the innocent-looking bottle he’s carrying. Her twin moves to stare into Artemy’s eyes sternly:
“I am ready. Give it here, I want it. I know I have no place in a world without the Plague,” at the last moment, her voice falters barely noticeably, and the Haruspex caresses the back of her hand momentarily as he hands her the cold bottle, already slightly moist with condensation. His hand finds its way onto Clara’s shoulder, but he isn’t sure whether he’s seeking to steady her or himself.
The stopper is pulled out with a characteristic pop, heard clearly against the silence in the room, and the Changeling sniffs the contents before making a childish grimace and sticking out her tongue:
“Stinks of old blood; why couldn’t it be something tastier?”
“Look,” Artemy starts desperately, “you’re very brave and we all belie…”
Before he can finish, the girl downs the Panacea in four loud gulps. The three freeze, glaring at each other. Seconds pass, yet nothing seems to be happening.
Finally, the Haruspex allows himself to breathe.
“See, I told you,” he smiles, “want to also bite me again, to make extra sure?”