Free Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk by Boris Akunin Page A

posturing. They decided definitely not to succumb to Alyosha's attempted provocation or to indulge in any speculation concerning the mysterious hints contained in the postscript, but to wait for the following day's delivery from New Ararat and then discuss everything in detail.
    But the post that arrived the following day did not include the promised letter from Lentochkin. Nor did it arrive on the second day, or the third. His Grace became extremely alarmed and began wondering if he ought to write to Father Vitalii about his missing emissary, and the only reason he did not was that it would have been awkward to have to admii to the archimandrite that Alexei Stepanovich had been sent to Ararai unbeknownst to the monastery's father superior.
    On the seventh day, just when Mitrofanii, haggard and tormented by insomnia, was on the verge of setting out for the Blue Lake in person (the bishop was so fearful for Alyosha that he was no longer concerned about the diplomatic complications), the letter finally arrived, but it wa: quite different in kind from the first. The bishop once again summoned his advisers and read them the epistle he had received, but, unlike the previous occasion, he seemed puzzled rather than pleased. On this occasion Alyosha went straight to the business at hand, without any introductory remarks or exhortations.
    Alexei Stepanovich's Second Letter
    I realize that I am quite impossibly late with this continuation, but there are serious grounds for that. Precisely serious grounds, not humorous ones. The Black Monk is no trick played by some adroit swindler, as I assumed at first; this is something different. But so far I have not been able to understand exactly what.
    I had better tell you everything that has happened in the right order—first, to avoid any confusion, and second, because I need to clarify for myself how it all happened, what came first and what came later. Because my head is spinning.
    After sending off my last letter to you and eating a hearty supper (was that really only a week ago? It feels like months or even years), I set out for Lenten Spit as if I were on my way to a jolly picnic, savoring in advance the cunning trap in which I would catch the presumptive hoaxer who had decided to frighten the peace-loving monks. I took up my position between two large boulders in a spot I had noted earlier, settling in with every possible comfort. I spread out the blanket I had brought with me from the hotel, and I had tea with rum splashing in my thermos flask and a bundle of small cakes from the remarkable local confectioner The Temptation of St. Anthony. I sat there, enjoying my snack and chuckling to myself as I waited for the moon to rise. The lake was as dark as could be—you couldn't have spotted a water sprite, if there had happened to be one—and Outskirts Island was no more than a vague outline.
    But then a yellow stripe of moonlight appeared on the smooth surface of the water, the color of the night changed from an inky black monotone to a shimmering gleam, and the darkness shrank away to the edges of the sky, leaving the moon enthroned on high at its center. And at that very instant, right in front of me, a black silhouette appeared, partly blocking out the pale disk of the lamp of night. I am prepared to swear on anything at all that only a second before, it had not been there, and then suddenly there it was—elongated, with a pointed top, swaying slightly. And not exactly in the place I had been expecting it, where a flat rock protruded only slightly above the water, but a little to one side, where there were no rocks at all.
    At first I was simply astounded. Where could he have come from? It had been dark before the moon rose, but not so dark that I could have failed to see a man only a dozen paces away!
    According to my plan, the moment “Basilisk” appeared, I should have emerged from my hiding place, wearing a long cloak with a hood, very similar to the hermit's own robes, and