Chapter Text
The row of ivory figurines observed the room, neatly arragned on the mantelpiece. They glinted with reflected candlelight, the half-empty wine glasses winking back from the table, almost playfully, as if there was a secret they shared between the cutlery and the fine china plates, two of them now boasting unsightly chips. The once white tablecloth dripped with a dark liquid.
A young man took one last look at the room, nearly stumbling on the worn, crumpled carpet, and turned to leave. The night was ending earlier than he had imagined. A new plan was due.
Almost exactly a week ago, a letter, folded to create an envelope with its blank side, found its way into his dwelling. It was unusual for many reasons, not the least of which being that the place in question, chosen for its inconspicuous location, belonged to a different man, whose body, as was anticipated, was to be found no sooner than in a fortnight. And yet, there it was: a sheet of linen laid paper with Richard Goldsworth in royal blue. Nothing about the sender, as such things go. Nothing about the purpose of the invitation.
Ricky did not tend to get invited places, which he, to be fair, seldom took for a reason not to show up. He eyed the pale square on the table with suspicion, as one would a particularly large spider.
One thing it certainly meant was that he was now to find a different place of residence. A shame, that, the bathtub would be sorely missed.
The man lifted the collar of his jacket against the wind and rushed to the entrance of a shabby, once-grand concrete building with the promise of warmth and bus stop food. Tired people, watching over their luggage, children, wallets, and schedules, paid him little attention, used to the sight of foreigners. He crossed the hallway, passing by lingerie stores and nail salons, aiming to procure a cup of questionable coffee and while away the twenty minutes till the promised arrival of his bus.
Ricky eyed the apple-patterned apron in the window of the nearest place of business, idly wondering what cursed him to go ahead with the invitation - an invitation that suggested traveling across the globe, to a place with an unpronouncable name and little else to offer. His curiosity shall be the death of him one day, if nothing gets him earlier. It paid in his line of work not to get too attached to breathing.
A waft of sweet scent enveloped him, mixing with the less tantalising evidence of the nearby restroom. Ricky found himself in a crowd of people with backpacks and colourful clothes. At least hippies here did not have a preference for patchouli.
He had been in the country for three days now, making his way from Lviv to Dnipro last night; the environment had shifted from largely Ukrainian to largely Russian - knowing neither language, the man explained himself mostly through whatever English locals understood and ample gestures. He did not have the opportunity to shave or clean up much beyond the services of a train sink; last night he spent at some pay by the time cafe in the company of guitar-wielding teenagers. On the bright side, after a few fresh banknotes no-one looked twice at his documentation or asked for a name.
A short while after, Ricky made his way towards the platform, pleasantly surprised to see his bus on time. Another forty minutes, and his life shall be one mystery poorer.
Darkness swiftly descended on the world, as the bus spat out two people onto an empty space that was indicated as a bus stop by nothing but a sign. The old woman with a black plastic bag shuffled away with a purpose of someone who made the trip daily. The young man stood for a moment, stretching to wake his limbs, and inhaling the earthy scent of his surroundings. Fields, endless, now empty fields. As the invitation in his pocket informed him, he was to be escorted to his final destination, but his guide was nowhere to be seen.
The shadows were growing colder, swaddling everything in a dark, murky blue, when he heard what sounded like - he almost could not believe his ears, - hooves on the solid soil. The source of the noise revealed itself shortly after, showing up on top of a steep hill: a honest to God wooden cart, and a pair of skinny chestnut horses directed by a man of an equally thin stature, with a dry face half-covered by a cap and collar of his coat.
- Richard Goldsworth? - he asked with surprisingly little accent, speech a little muffled.
- Took you a while. - Ricky noted, hand moving across his pocket to feel the knife nestled in it. Just in case.
- My master is a busy man. - The stranger remained expressionless, gesturing towards his cart in invitation.
In the hindsignt, he should have predicted where this was going. A person showing up out of the blue meant either a job or trouble. Friendly dinners are scarse with a lifestyle like his.
As it was standing, Ricky climbed into the vehicle and looked around, trying to memorise the direction. He tended to avoid carrying a phone with him. No GPS to use meant no GPS to track.
The journey took another while, bringing him further from the nearby village, into untouched lands with sparse autumn trees. The gusts of wind made their way underneath his jacket, sending shivers down the spine.
Finally, they approached a two-storey house with two windows, evidently belonging to the same room, glowing warmly. Ricky felt the sense of thrill in him balloon, keeping his face blank. Nobody would look for a foreigner in the middle of nowhere, which, depending on the way the night develops, could be both a blessing and a curse. He was willing to bet on the former. As the sky took on a decidedly inky hue, the young man was settled in his decidion. This game failed to provide amusement. He was set to make his own fun.