The Phantom

Blue eyes, deeper than the most formidable sea, watched with a sly squint. The young man was illuminated only by the milky rays of moonlight shining through the windows of the old building. He was moving farther and farther away from me along the front hall, and in the gaps between the windows he was almost completely lost in the night gloom. I hurried after him, but as always, couldn't keep up. “Come,” his voice, almost a whisper, echoed at my ear, though its owner was still eluding me, flirtatiously luring me along. “Come with me.” I wanted to say that I would follow him, if he'd just wait a little longer, but I knew I couldn't say anything. As soon as I opened my mouth, I'd wake up. We reached the door at the end of the hallway, and it seemed as if the mysterious young man was about to invite me in, but I'd already learned that was not going to happen. Dreams never went that far. Knowing that I would wake up in a few moments, I decided to break the silence: “Who are you? Please tell me who are you?” I begged, feeling the dream around me fading into nothingness. The young man stopped by the wide door and stared at me blankly, emotionless, as if he couldn't hear or understand what I was saying. I'd seen the same thing so many times in my dreams, and I'd already resigned myself to the idea that I had no way of contacting him. “Tell me, how can I find you?” The young man's face suddenly came to life, as if he were just a character in a previously paused video game. “I'll find you myself,” he said firmly. The voice was not by my ear this time, but right in front of me, like a normal conversation. It wasn't a threat or a warning either. It was the first time things hadn't gone according to the usual scenario, but I didn't have time to be alarmed. The dream finally shattered completely, and I opened my eyes. It happened to me quite often. I'd been having dreams about a mysterious stranger a couple times a week since I turned twenty-one, which was roughly six months now. The plot of these visions was almost the same time after time, and always left behind a pang of certainty that I had to find the young man at all costs. But the feeling always dissipated as soon as I got out of bed and went about my business. Today, however, the dream woke me up too early to get up and go about my business. I checked the time on my phone: 5:55. It was dawning outside, and after lying there for a while, I gave up trying to get back to sleep and got up abruptly, trying in vain to shake off the longing for the character in my dream, which had lingered for an unusually long time this morning. My hopes of getting a good night's sleep before the ceremony were dashed. The sun was up, and I opened the curtains, admiring the view from the cliff-top hotel. There was only the sea below, blue, but nothing like the eyes of the young man in the dream. I ordered a coffee in my room and took a sketchbook out of my suitcase. There weren't many pages, and almost all of them were blank. When I'd first started working as a teacher, I'd been drawing less and less, which turned into a teenage dream my desire to switch from being a philologist to something more creative. The coffee arrived quickly. Other than those who had come for Daniel's wedding, the hotel was almost empty, and the staff fulfilled our requests sometimes before we even thought about them. “Do you know if the package for me has arrived yet?” I asked in English, smiling at the waitress almost pleadingly, as if her answer depended on my politeness. The girl shook her head regretfully and left. The whole staff knew that I had been expecting a delivery from the souvenir bookstore since yesterday, and I had not taken into account that the pace of life in Sicily was different from that of Russian metropolises, and a fifteen-minute delivery was out of the question. Failing to find a single pencil in the depths of my suitcase, I picked up the one on the dresser next to the phone, too hard and pale. Sipping my strong cappuccino, I sketched the face of the unfamiliar boy from the dream in my sketchbook. But no matter how hard I tried, the eyes just wouldn't work. I struggled over their shape, trying on this and that, but I didn't get a decent result. I couldn't remember some of his features very well. I had no choice but to blame my incompetence on the inconvenient pencil. Annoyed, I slammed the sketchbook shut, tossed it aside, and returned to my cup of coffee, but it was already empty. *** The wedding ceremony took place at sunset. My collector's edition of The Illustrated History of English Art was delivered by lunchtime, and although I had previously thought I would just put it on the shelf as a souvenir from my trip, suddenly I was so engrossed in it that I had to get ready for the ceremony in a hurry. But even if I had been late, with such a crowd, no one would have noticed. When the ceremonial part was over, my mother abandoned our table and went out into the garden to chat with her friends and distant relatives whom she hadn't seen for several years. Dad, who had promised to make it, couldn't show up: he had a lot of work to do at home. My own friends—cousins and second cousins with their spouses—after the situation with Daniel did not know how to talk to me and decided not to talk at all. Every now and then I saw any of them stare at me across the room, but when I caught them doing so, they looked away guiltily. Regardless, the wedding was beautiful. Half of the magical atmosphere, of course, was Sicily itself, but the hotel, a medieval castle by the sea, and Italian cuisine definitely turned the holiday into a genuine fairytale. I admired this fairytale, alone at the table, while everyone else danced and socialized in groups that occasionally burst into laughter. I was just watching Daniel and his new wife cooing and feeding each other meringue cakes when someone sat down across from me. “Does it hurt?” asked the man in English with a delightful British accent. I immediately turned to him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” I replied, secretly glad to be able to practice my meticulously crafted pronunciation with someone. “At the beautiful wedding of a Russian nobleman and an American actress, to be the only unhappy person, does it hurt?” repeated the man, smiling slyly and enticingly. He was wearing a black tuxedo, rather modest at first glance, but the trained eye would immediately notice the pricey fabric and perfect tailoring. The tuxedo fit the man so well that it even took my mind off the groom for a second. The stranger was devastatingly good-looking. I cleared my throat. His dark, wine-colored eyes could obviously see right through me, so I didn't dare protest. His eyes scared me, but I couldn't look away. “What is it like to watch someone you love marry someone else?” the man continued, smiling sweetly. I glanced at my mother in the garden but she wasn't looking at me. “Loved. Past tense,” I corrected. “Who told you?” Yes, some of my relatives knew that Daniel and I had dated before his engagement to Phoebe, but there had never been any official statements, and there weren't very many people in the know. Besides, I had no idea who I was talking to, and I wasn't sure the man knew me. “It's written all over your face,” the man explained, and laughed at me as if I were a cute little toy. But then he shook his head and smiled politely again. “I apologize profusely. That's not where I should have begun. I am Sebastian Michaelis, the bride's side.” He flicked his hand, and a business card appeared between his fingers. I accepted the card and read the name and the title. The man was a historian and had a doctoral degree. What interesting guests Phoebe had invited to the wedding! I had no card, so I held out only my hand to Sebastian in response. “Elizaveta Serova, the groom's side.” We introduced ourselves to each other informally, so I did not mention my titles, remembering, moreover, how my mother and father did not like to mention their family backgrounds. “The daughter of the Duke and the Duchess Serov?” The man raised his eyebrows in surprise, and I didn't quite understand why. There were many nobles around us, and my status shouldn't have intimidated him. Maybe he knew my father? “That’s me.” “What a ring,” Sebastian noted as he shook my hand. A brand-new Trinity by Cartier shined on my index finger. “A gift from your lover?” The man didn't specify which lover, former or new, but I could tell he was mostly interested in my relationship with Daniel. So I shook my head. “No, there is no lover. My mom and I bought the ring yesterday while we were exploring the town before the rehearsal dinner. She has the same one,” I explained as I looked at my ring. Then I added for some reason: “And I also bought a book on art history of England.” A handsome Englishman, a romantic encounter in Italy, Russian melancholy. Of course, that could only happen at Daniel's wedding. “Are you interested in art?” Sebastian suddenly perked up. “Or in England?” “Both, Dr. Michaelis,” I smiled charmingly. I didn't realize what I was doing yet, but the last sip of the champagne from my glass only convinced me to keep it up. “Just Sebastian,” the man allowed and smiled back at me. Once he noticed that I had finished my drink, Sebastian called the waiter over and, in fluent Italian, asked him to bring us more wine. I watched him mesmerized. “You wouldn't mind if I joined you for the evening, would you?” I stole a glance at the guests around us - as if by magic, no one was interested in me anymore. With a sigh of relief, I nodded. “I'd be thrilled!” The waiter brought the wine and poured some into Sebastian's glass. The man tasted it and watched the wine flow as he tilted the glass. Apparently he liked it, because afterward, at Sebastian's request, the waiter left us with the whole bottle. By the time the wine in that bottle ran out, we'd had the chance to discuss the culture of Victorian England and argue heatedly about the opium wars. I was almost laughing out loud at my companion's unsophisticated but witty jokes and tortured him with historical inquiries. I apologized for making him think about his work at the party, but over and over again Sebastian assured me that it was a pleasure to discuss the object of his passion with a knowledgeable individual. I was honored that he thought of me as a “knowledgeable Individual”. Here's what I learned from the first hour of our conversation: Sebastian was English and was indeed most interested in the history of his motherland, but he specialized professionally in a completely different field. “And what do you study?” I asked, when Dr. Michaelis' scientific research came up again. “You seem to know so much! I can't imagine a direction in which you could study all these things.” Sebastian chuckled softly and leaned closer to me, as if he were about to tell me a secret. I held my breath, and then, changing his mind, the man pulled away again. “No,” he shook his head. “You are going to laugh.” “Surely not!” I hastened to reply. “I wouldn't dare. Please tell me! I'm so very curious.” After a pause, drawing my already undivided attention, Sebastian answered. “I'm writing a major paper on the esoteric beliefs of various ancient peoples,” the man said, lowering his voice. His eyes glowed with interest in his own work. He looked at me piercingly, as if expecting something specific. “You know, witches, vampires, curses... deals with the Devil.” I didn't know what reaction Sebastian was expecting from me, but I didn't have time to think about it; I was completely absorbed in the rapture. I'd never been particularly interested in magic or clairvoyants, though I'd had to study some elements of various mythologies at university, and the subject was exotic and intriguing to me. “And what have you found out so far?” I asked, not realizing I'd lowered my voice as if hypnotized. Sebastian grinned patronizingly again. “Not a great deal at this point,” he answered. “Only that the concept of evil supernatural forces is suspiciously similar in many unrelated cultures. What could that mean? That is something I have yet to find out. I'll be sure to send you a copy of the research as soon as I finish it.” Seeing that I was still staring at him like a deer at the headlights of a car, Sebastian shook his head. “Enough about me.” The man poured me more wine. I didn't even notice when he ordered another bottle. I took a sip and felt like I probably should have been cutting back on the alcohol. But in such fine company, it was hard to resist. “Tell me, what do you do, knyazhna Elizaveta?” I hesitated. After my companion's astonishing stories about his field of endeavor, I felt disappointed: I had nothing to surprise Sebastian with. “I'm a philologist,” I said as proudly as I could. Dr. Michaelis, whom I would probably never see again, didn't need to know that I wasn't at all interested in being a philologist. “Now I'm working part-time at a school and writing my master's thesis.” “You're a teacher?” Sebastian asked. I was just an assistant, because I didn't have the time (or inclination) to teach full classes, so I only did foreign language clubs and substituting for absent teachers. But I nodded anyway, and Sebastian's eyes lit up with respect. “That's respectable.” So thought my mother, who insisted that I work part-time at school, although I wanted to go to the city library and continue working on my thesis there. I took another sip of wine. My thoughts were getting clouded. It felt refreshing that the English historian found me an entertaining interlocutor. It was also satisfying that a handsome man was paying attention to me. After asking me a few more personal but rather vague questions about how I lived and what I was interested in, Sebastian asked me to dance. And after a couple of beautiful Viennese waltzes that Dr. Michaelis was surprisingly good at, my partner volunteered to escort me to the suite. To my own suite, of course. I'd been on my feet since the morning, and the lively conversation and the wine had taken all my energy. On the way to my floor, holding Sebastian by his elbow, I was practically hanging on to him out of fatigue. When we left the reception hall, where the guests were still celebrating, I didn't even say goodbye to my acquaintances or to my mother. But, on the other hand, none of them had come up to me during the whole evening, so it didn't even seem necessary to say goodbye. I wished my cousins would notice the interesting man I'd danced the waltz with and gossip enviously about it, but no one paid any attention to Sebastian and me all evening. It seemed strange at first, but then I was glad of it. The last thing I wanted at that moment was to be a duchess. In fact, I was never really forced to act like a duchess. I was grateful to my parents for such a liberal upbringing, but I still had to conform to the norms of the society in which I had lived until then in order to function properly. It was often stale and dull among the aristocracy these days, and talking to Sebastian seemed like a breath of fresh air at today's event. So when he bowed to me and kissed my hand as he led me to the door, I gathered all my strength and, in a voice trembling with nervousness, glued my thoughts together in an imperfect English sentence. “If you're not very tired, we could continue our conversation in my suite. We could order more wine,” I invited as I opened the door. Sebastian wasn't taken aback by my invitation. He seemed to recognize my intentions long before I did. The friendly smile on his face, however, didn't waver for a moment. The man took my hand gently, as if in a dance, and led me into the suite and toward my bed. Breathless, I followed him obediently and sat down on the bed. I looked up at Sebastian. The blood was pounding in my temples. “Sweet dreams, knyazhna.” He put his hand to his heart and bowed to me once more. Then, as if in the blink of an eye, he vanished into the darkness of the room. Of course, he couldn't have just vanished into thin air, I blamed the wine for my perceptual errors. The curtain at the open window swayed as if from a gust of wind. I chuckled. Yeah, right! As if he'd stay… I cupped my face with my hands, no longer afraid of ruining my makeup, and fell back against the pillows. How foolish of me! *** “Finally! What took you so long?” Ciel was indignant. He stopped fidgeting with his hands when he saw Sebastian appear in front of him. They were both outside the hotel. The older demon lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Master, what are you doing here?” He asked, and his tone immediately changed to a more caustic one. “Is there something more interesting to you here than in Palermo?” Ignoring the sly grin on his butler's face, Ciel strode confidently toward the building Sebastian had just emerged from. “Maybe so,” he replied, his head held high and proud. “Take me to her.” “I want to see her,” he almost added, but stopped himself before he did. Of course he didn't exactly want to, he was just... curious, that's all. Ciel didn't explain why he was reluctant to show up at the wedding itself. Sebastian only nodded briefly, obeying. The demon picked up his master in his arms, as effortlessly as a rag doll, and soared into the air so fast that anyone would have assumed it was just a raven flapping its wings in the night. Once on the balcony of Elizaveta Serova's suite, Sebastian lowered Ciel back to his feet, and Ciel fixed his suit as if he were shaking off a long journey. “I must warn you though, she's-” the butler began. “Asleep already? It's nothing,” Ciel said, stepping carefully into the room through the balcony door, which was open wide. He looked inside only for a moment, but it was enough to see the girl sitting on the bed, unbraiding her long fair hair. Ciel froze. The girl was obviously not asleep. She turned her familiar face to him, backlit by the yellow light of the lamp on the bedside table, and looked at him with familiar green eyes. And in the same instant, Ciel and Sebastian were back on the street again, away from the hotel. “Her name is Elizaveta Serova,” Sebastian finally said. “Can you believe it?” And though the name should have struck the young man with its resemblance to a different, long-forgotten one, the young demon paid more attention to the surname. “Duke Serov, you sly dog!” grinned Ciel excitedly. “What mysteries you've left us…” He didn't know what sort of mystery was before him, but now, more than anything else in the world, he wanted to solve it. And perhaps in it lay the solution to a problem that had plagued him and Sebastian for a hundred years. *** Even under the influence of wine, I could not fall asleep. I slept restlessly and poorly. I dreamed of the same young man as always, only this time the dream was even fainter than usual, and it ended even more abruptly. But that was not what made the night memorable. I was easily distracted from my thoughts about the mysterious historian Sebastian, because soon after he left, I saw the young man from my dream in the darkness of the Sicilian night. He was there, right in front of me. My recurring dreams with him were weird enough as it was, but seeing actual hallucinations instead of dreams was a bit much. I probably should have seen a doctor. But there was one upside to this strange vision: this time I got a better look at the stranger. I went home alone. Daniel and Phoebe's wedding celebration would go on for a few more days, but I had no desire to attend anything but the official ceremony, so the day after, I packed my bags and headed to the airport. On the airplane, when I still couldn't sleep after reading The Illustrated History of English Art, I picked up my sketchbook again. I opened the page with a previously unfinished drawing of a young man from my dream, with only his eyes lacking, and, remembering my strange night vision, I tried to complete the drawing. Not at once, but I succeeded, even with the aid of an unfortunate hotel pencil. The face of the man from the dream was staring back at me. The familiar features were soothing. But I couldn't shake the feeling that my own sketch reminded me of something. I pondered it for a moment, looking at it one way and then another, until I realized what it was. I opened the art history book again and found the chapter I'd read this morning. There was a portrait of an English earl, dated back to the nineteenth century, on barely a quarter of a page. The young earl's name was Ciel Phantomhive. His face was identical to the one I'd drawn in my sketchbook, which meant he was just a spitting image of the young man from my dream.