Ловушка для Мыслеформы. A Trap for a Thought-Form. Премия им. М. Булгакова / M. Bulgakov Award (Билингва: Rus/Eng) - страница 38

«This is my gift for the Museum,» I explained. «And the book of poems, „The Moon Cat“, is for you.»

I was in a hurry to leave my mark before everyone, including that man, would stop noticing me.

He disappeared and reappeared with his book, handing it to me. I opened the book to a random page, and the title of the story caught my eye, «The GLOVES that fell from the Sky». I shuddered, too.

We sat at a table across from each other. In silence. He got my «Magic» and «The Moon Cat», and I got his «Gloves». He worked in the Mansion as Guardian of the Portal. Definitely, all these people around existed in some other dimension, where there were neither me nor the Guardian, who still reminded me of Roman and Ray.

I returned «the Gloves» to the author, asking him to sign it for me.

«Hmm… today is a magical date,» writing it under the dedication, the Guardian said either to me or to himself. Dates and numbers had some meaning to him.

«Has SHE come back?!» the Guardian’s mind raced.

«Show me the Mansion, please!» I asked him mentally.

The Guardian stood up from the table and held out his hand to me. Having grabbed an antique lantern along the way, we slowly descended into the Dungeon, and I felt more and more strongly that the Portal was there, and I would find it for sure!

«To the right is the Theater, where our performances take place,» the Guardian looked at me with genuine interest, «but I prefer to show you something… unusual. You see, extremely strange stories constantly happen in this Mansion. Perhaps you help me to reveal the meaning of one of them!»

The Guardian took out a bunch of keys, opened the door to the secret pantry on the left side of the corridor and put the lantern on a small antique dressing table with a mirror and some drawers.

«In the left one…» the Guardian whispered mysteriously, letting me know with a look that I could open the box myself, which I did, but it turned out to be absolutely… empty, and for some reason that fact alarmed the Guardian.

He rummaged through the pantry for a long time, scanning it up and down with the lantern, his eyes, and hands. In vain.

Then I took out of my bag and silently handed to him…

…the GLOVES…

Это был первый из сорока вечеров Союза Писателей, которые мне предстояло провести здесь, в легендарном Особняке за Дверью Слева, где находился действующий в XXI веке Портал в Иную Реальность. О презентациях договорились ещё осенью, однако из-за эпидемии произошёл временной сдвиг – все ждали начала массовой вакцинации для получения разрешений на проведение культурных мероприятий. Так Осень незаметно исчезла со сцены, уступив место Зиме.