Sofia folded her arms and said nothing. This didn't feel right.

'Well?' the blacksmith urged.

'Why you?'

'What do you mean?'

'Why have you you come to me with the offer? Instead of the schoolteacher herself?' come to me with the offer? Instead of the schoolteacher herself?'

'Oh, she's busy with the children - she lost her other a.s.sistant. Anyway she . . .' He paused, his heavy beetle-brows pulled together, and Sofia wasn't certain whether the look he gave her was one of annoyance or embarra.s.sment.

'Go on,' she said softly.

He drew a deep breath, filling his barrel-chest until it stretched the seams of his shirt. 'Anyway,' he continued, 'she wants my opinion.'

Sofia blinked. 'Of me, you mean?'

He nodded, studying her closely.

'But I spoke to her only last night at the school,' she said.

'I know.'

A small silence grew between them. Sofia was the one to break it.

'Elizaveta Lishnikova must have considerable respect for your judgement.'

He shrugged. 'She has made mistakes in the past. She's not good with us . . . peasants.' He showed his big teeth in a smile. 'Like the last teacher she employed. He's gone now.'

'So what will you report back to her?'

He chewed ponderously on his beard, the way a bull chews on the cud. 'That you have a smile that would keep the boys in order. A soft voice that would comfort the little ones. That your eyes are sharp and trust no one, but you're the kind of person to have at your back in times of trouble. Unless,' his eyes narrowed to slits, 'unless you're coming with a knife, that is.'

Another silence landed between them.

'Comrade Pokrovsky,' Sofia said after a moment, unfolding her arms, 'would you care to join me for a cup of tea?'

They didn't talk much. Just sat at the table holding their cups and eyeing each other with interest. Sofia could feel the suspicion in the room as solid as a third person, but neither seemed to mind it much. They were used to living with it, breathing its fumes, and both were careful not to mention what went on in the village the previous night. She looked at his hands. Scarred and lined, the forge imprinted in the shape of every ma.s.sive nail and knuckle.

'Have you always been the blacksmith in Tivil?'

'All my life. And my father before me.'

'The village must have changed a lot.'

'It has.'

He clamped his lips shut and said no more, but his dark eyes were not so cautious and a deep anger sparked in them. She looked away to give him a moment to hide it.

'So you've known Rafik for many years?' she said.

'I have. He's the best man you could wish for when handling a horse.'

'And when handling a mind?'

He leaned forward, fists on the table, making it creak. 'Seen him do it, have you?'

'Yes.'

'It's frightening, isn't it?'

'What is it he does?'

The smith's hand stroked the smooth skin of his head, as if unconsciously protecting the contents of his skull.

'It's gypsy enchantment,' he growled.

'What kind of gypsy enchantment?'

'Chyort! How would I know, girl? An ancient power of some kind, I suppose.' Sofia watched him spread his arms out wide, taking in the whole baffling breadth of the universe. 'It might be,' he added in a lower voice, 'drawn from the black arts, for all I know.' How would I know, girl? An ancient power of some kind, I suppose.' Sofia watched him spread his arms out wide, taking in the whole baffling breadth of the universe. 'It might be,' he added in a lower voice, 'drawn from the black arts, for all I know.'

She laughed softly. 'I don't think so.'

He reached across the table, plucked out a thread of her hair and wound it round his thick finger. 'Rafik can twist your mind as easily as I twist your hair. If you're his niece, as he claims you are, you must know all about gypsy skills, anyway.'

Sofia's heart thumped. She wasn't usually so clumsy, d.a.m.n it. This blacksmith may have lived in a Ural village all his life but he was no fool and he kept laying snares for her to run into, just as he would for the animals in the forest.

'My aunt married Rafik's brother but I possess no gypsy blood.' That was the story she and Rafik had concocted and she was determined to stick with it. 'So I was taught nothing of their traditions or ways.'

He unwound the blonde strand on his finger and dropped it into the palm of her hand. 'That explains it then.' And he laughed, a boisterous sound, though she couldn't for the life of her see the joke.

'Stop teasing the girl, Pokrovsky.'

'Rafik!' Sofia leapt to her feet.

The gypsy was standing in the doorway. His slight frame looked unsteady, leaning heavily on the doorpost of his room. How long he'd been there she wasn't sure, but she sensed it was no more than a moment or two. His shirt, which should have been a pale grey, was dark with sweat.

'Rafik, you should be in bed.'

'No.' He accepted the arm she offered him and let her lead him to the maroon armchair. 'We are under a cloud, black as . . .' Rafik lifted the corner of his mouth in a thin smile, 'as Pokrovsky's fingernails over there. It hangs above us and-' He stopped. Listened to something. Sofia didn't know if it was to something inside or outside his head.

'What do you mean?' she asked quietly.

'Not the village in danger again?' Pokrovsky moaned.

'No.' Rafik turned his black eyes on Sofia. 'No. It's you, Sofia.' He pulled himself to his feet and skirted a hand over her head without actually touching her. 'It's cold,' he murmured. With jerky movements he wiped a large red handkerchief across his face. 'Now,' he said calmly, 'we will take you to the kolkhoz kolkhoz office to-' office to-'

A rap at the door interrupted him. He nodded, as though it was what he'd been expecting. Sofia saw a flicker of something tighten his lips - was it pain, or was it knowledge of what was to come? - before he walked to the door and opened it. A shaft of bright sunlight rushed in.

'Good day to you, Comrade Fomenko.'

The kolkhoz kolkhoz Chairman stood more than a head taller than the gypsy and for one fleeting moment Sofia thought he was going to brush Rafik aside, there was such determination in the way he stared straight at her, ignoring the two men. It made her uneasy. Chairman stood more than a head taller than the gypsy and for one fleeting moment Sofia thought he was going to brush Rafik aside, there was such determination in the way he stared straight at her, ignoring the two men. It made her uneasy.

'Comrade Morozova,' he said brusquely, 'you haven't registered yet as a resident of Tivil, I am told.'

'I was just about to take her down to the office to do so,' Rafik responded quickly.

'Good. We need her in the fields. You'll be a.s.signed to a brigade, Comrade Morozova.'

Sofia's tongue dried in her mouth. Just the mention of the word brigade brigade sent a cold shiver through her. She made no comment, just returned his stare. Did this man think of nothing but his fields and his quotas? But his observant grey eyes were giving nothing away. They turned and studied Rafik for a long moment, then with a brisk nod of his head, he was gone. Sofia felt the sapping of energy inside the sent a cold shiver through her. She made no comment, just returned his stare. Did this man think of nothing but his fields and his quotas? But his observant grey eyes were giving nothing away. They turned and studied Rafik for a long moment, then with a brisk nod of his head, he was gone. Sofia felt the sapping of energy inside the izba izba, as though something had been sucked out of the room.

'Pokrovsky,' she said thoughtfully, 'tell your teacher that if she wants an answer, she must come and ask me herself.'

'I lied to Mikhail.'

'It was for his own good,' Rafik pointed out.

'He knows I lied to him.'

'It was to protect him. The less he remembers about the sacks, the safer he is.'

'I know. But-'

'Leave it, Sofia.' There was an edge to his voice.

'Sometimes, Rafik, you scare me.'

'Good. Because you scare me, my dear. Like you scared Fomenko.'

'Did I?'

'That's why he came himself to check up on you. It's clear he's not sure about you. Our Chairman likes to be in control, so yes, you worry him.'

Sofia laughed softly and felt his answering smile strengthen the bond that had forged between them.

'Are you sure this is such a good idea?' she asked.

They were making their way down the dusty street to the kolkhoz kolkhoz office. It was by far the most conspicuous office. It was by far the most conspicuous izba izba in the village, draped with placards and colourful posters listing the latest production figures and urging greater commitment from in the village, draped with placards and colourful posters listing the latest production figures and urging greater commitment from kolkhozniki. kolkhozniki. To emphasise the point, painted in large letters above the door was the statement: To emphasise the point, painted in large letters above the door was the statement: First Five Year Plan In Four First Five Year Plan In Four. No one was going to accuse Stalin of not driving his people hard. Grey clouds were creeping up on the horizon, hovering above the ridge as if waiting for a chance to slip down into the valley. There was no breath of wind to scour Tivil clean. The smell of burned wood and ash still hung between the houses like a physical presence.

Rafik had changed into his bright yellow shirt and was walking carefully, one hand lightly on Sofia's arm for support. She knew the effort was too much too soon, but she hadn't argued against it. Never again would she put Mikhail's life in danger the way she had today in Dagorsk because of her lack of dok.u.menti dok.u.menti. Just the thought of how close it came, of the rifle pointed at his head, sent acid surging through her blood.

As they pa.s.sed the blacksmith's forge, Pokrovsky raised an oily hand but Sofia only had eyes for Mikhail's son, Pyotr, who was standing there with him. He was a small figure beside the great bulk of the blacksmith, a pair of tongs clasped in his young fist. The boy wiped a hand on his heavy burlap ap.r.o.n and then across his mouth, leaving a smear of grease. Sofia smiled at him but he didn't respond.

Rafik stumbled.

'You shouldn't be doing this,' Sofia told him. 'You should be resting.'

'Don't fuss. If you don't register as a member of this kolkhoz kolkhoz today people will start asking questions.' His black eyes sparked at her. 'You don't want that, do you?' today people will start asking questions.' His black eyes sparked at her. 'You don't want that, do you?'

'No, I don't want that. But neither do I want to see you ill.'

A drawn-out growl rattled inside his chest. 'And I don't want to see you dead.'

The man behind the desk stood no chance. He was in his forties and was proud of his position of authority in the kolkhoz kolkhoz, the set of his mouth faintly smug. His steel-rimmed spectacles reflected the bright lamp that shone on his desk, despite the sunshine outdoors, and his hand kept fiddling with the cord of the telephone, the only one in the village. A telephone was a status symbol that he did not care to be parted from, even for a moment.

'Ident.i.ty papers, pozhal.u.s.ta pozhal.u.s.ta, please, Comrade Morozova,' he asked politely. He stroked his moustache, held out his hand and waited expectantly.

Sofia hated the office from the second she stepped inside it. Small, crowded, littered with forms and paperwork. Walls covered in lists. Just the stench of officialdom turned her stomach. She'd seen how it could warp a man's mind till people became nothing but numbers, and sheets of paper became G.o.ds demanding blood sacrifice.

'Dok.u.menti? ' the ' the kolkhoz kolkhoz secretary asked again, more forcibly this time. secretary asked again, more forcibly this time.

Sofia did exactly as Rafik had instructed her. She took a folded blank sheet of paper from her skirt pocket and placed it on the desk. The man frowned, clearly confused. He picked it up, unfolded it and spread its blank face in front of his.

'What is this, comrade? A joke?'

Rafik rapped his knuckles sharply on the metal desk, making both Sofia and the man jump.

'No joke,' Rafik said.

Words in a language Sofia did not recognise started to flow from the gypsy's mouth, an unbroken stream that seemed to wash through the room in waves, soft, rounded sounds that made the air hum and vibrate in her ears. A resonance echoed in her mind. She fought against it, but at the same time her eyes registered that the man at the desk wore a blank expression, as though the waves had swept his mind as empty as a beach at low tide. Sofia swore she could even taste the salt of sea spray in her mouth. She wondered if her own face looked as blank.

'No joke,' Rafik reiterated clearly.

He walked round the desk, his bright yellow shirt as hypnotic as the sun, till he was standing beside the man. He placed one hand heavily on the secretary's shoulder. The other slapped down with a loud crack on the sheet of paper.

'Ident.i.ty papers,' he purred into the man's ear.

Sofia saw the moment when understanding flooded the man's eyes. It was as sudden and savage as a punch in the stomach. He blinked, ground his teeth audibly and gave a brisk nod of his head.

'Of course,' he muttered in a voice that had grown thick and unwieldy.

While Rafik returned to stand beside Sofia, the man rifled through drawers, yanked out forms, flourished the Red Arrow kolkhoz kolkhoz official stamp. But she barely noticed. All she was aware of was the tang of salt on her tongue and Rafik's arm in its yellow sleeve firm against her own. How long it was before they stepped out into the street again, Sofia wasn't certain, but by the time they did so, the clouds had slunk into the valley and Tivil had lost its summer sheen. In her pocket was an official residence permit. official stamp. But she barely noticed. All she was aware of was the tang of salt on her tongue and Rafik's arm in its yellow sleeve firm against her own. How long it was before they stepped out into the street again, Sofia wasn't certain, but by the time they did so, the clouds had slunk into the valley and Tivil had lost its summer sheen. In her pocket was an official residence permit.

'Rafik,' she said quietly, 'what is it you do?'

'I wrap skeins of silk around people's thoughts.'

'Is it a kind of hypnotism?'

He smiled at her. 'Call it what you will. It kills me slowly, a piece at a time.'