A Razor Wrapped in Silk by R. N. Morris Page B

Neither spoke. Once, Maria Petrovna reached out and touched a wall, as if to convince herself of the reality of what she was experiencing.
    They descended by a back staircase. Porfiry had a vertiginous sense of disaster. He tried to make his steps as quiet as he could, to make himself weightless, as if he believed he could float away from this.
    He had no wish to see the dead woman again. However, he realised that he would have to watch Maria Petrovna as she confronted her friend. He wanted to witness the transformations wrought in her face. The recognition of this repellent curiosity created an invisible force of resistance against which he had to push.
    A door as bland and blank as any other faced them as they reached the foot of the stairs. A politseisky stood to one side, the only indication of anything untoward.
    ‘She is here?’
    Porfiry nodded.
    Maria glared at the door with starting eyes; her hand shook as she reached for the handle.
    ‘You do not have to go through with this,’ said Porfiry, grasping her careening hand in his.
    She looked down at his protective hold. A smile, small and faltering, flickered on her lips. Then she looked into his eyes, her gaze pleading and urgent. ‘Let me see her.’
    *
    Her cry shamed him. High, like a wheeling bird, it was the inarticulate voicing of flesh crying out to flesh, her throat opening without the intercession of thought, beyond consciousness, knowing only the need to voice.
    He watched her face, as he had known he would. He watched and mentally recorded the rippling fluctuations of her horror and her suffering. He told himself that it was right that she should have someone with her as she endured this, some living person to reassure her that life triumphs over death. But it felt like a platitude. The thought came from somewhere: that life should triumph over death is no consolation to the dead . Then he remembered that other life, the eternal life that comes after death, and marvelled that he had forgotten something so important, so central to his being. He had declared himself a believer but minutes earlier. But was it merely a pretence, empty words, another piece of play-acting?
    He held out an arm to steady her. She clutched at it with both hands, like a bird clawing food. But instead of lifting him into the air, she pushed down with all her weight. His arm shuddered with the effort of keeping her upright. He had to shift position or she would take them both down. He stepped towards her, into her collapse, and held her with both arms around her body. Her head was on his shoulder, rolling in a strange, infinitely soft motion of denial. She clung on to him. He could feel the quivering spasm of her chest against his own. At some point their breathing became synchronised. He was very aware of the heat of her body.
    Eventually, the burden of her physical weight eased, and a different weight replaced it. He felt it in his face and in his chest, a weight of longing and loss. They drew apart, their heads bent, each scrupulously avoiding the other’s eye.
    The door swung open with a rude, intrusive force. Porfiry and Maria hastened to increase the distance between them.
    ‘Ah, Porfiry Petrovich, there you are.’ It was Virginsky. He held before him a black military hat, with a chain chin-strap and an extraordinarily long plume standing irrepressibly upright. As he took in the presence of Maria, and the quickly changing configuration of their bodies, his eyes contracted with suspicion. ‘One of the men found this,’ he said at last. ‘Outside.’
    ‘A shako,’ said Porfiry.
    ‘It’s Captain Mizinchikov’s,’ said Maria. ‘He was holding it earlier. When Yelena struck him.’
    Porfiry took the hat and turned it in his hands. The name MIZINCHIKOV was sewn into the lining. ‘It would appear so. Apparently, he abandoned it in his haste to flee the palace. Possibly also to make himself less conspicuous.’ He handed the shako back to Virginsky. ‘Take it back to