up.
“Jerry?
“Yeah? Yes? ”
“ S Roždestvom Khristovym! Merry Christmas.”
Jerry was caught off guard, having forgotten what day it was. “Oh. Merry Christmas, Ana. How did you know?”
“A little trick I learned from Grigori: ‘See everything. Miss nothing.’ When you turned on the telly-vision, the date appeared.”
“Smart girl. Grigori?”
“Grigori Rasputin—a monk who was trying to heal my brother. He, too, was murdered. Have you heard of Grigori?”
He chuckled. “Definitely. He’s almost as famous as you are. They even have a song about him.”
“A song about Grigori ?”
“I’ll see if I can track down a copy of it for you.”
Ana smiled and Jerry saw the imp in her. “Yes, please. Now, go—you have responsibilities, and I need to rest again. I never thought a ghost could get tired, but I find that it is taking a great deal of strength just to speak and hear. Now that I know that there is more than the dark and shadows of the book, I am less afraid to return to it for short times.”
“No problem. You rest and I’ll work. Merry Christmas, Anastasia—Shvibzik.”
The young Grand Duchess giggled, and returned to the book, but not before she winked at her host.
When she was gone, Jerry rubbed his eyes with both palms and then blinked to clear his head. “What the hell is going on here?”
Chapter Eight
@TheTaoOfJerr: “Life is like a beautiful melody, only the lyrics are messed up.”
~Hans Christian Andersen
HIS FIRST SHORT day of actually tackling some of his new Station Manager duties went smoothly, in Jerry’s humble opinion. Being Christmas Day there was only a skeleton crew working—the current on-air personality, the producer, the security guard, and one or two others who dropped in briefly to wish the on-duty staff a Merry Christmas. Jerry was able to relax and take his time to discover some of the subtle differences between British Columbia advertising regulations and the ones he was accustomed to back in Ontario, as well as getting a better handle on his new staff, their duties, and their skills.
His email in-box held pass-codes and H/R file locations from Manny, so Jerry took some time to appreciate both the depth and the talent of his new radio family. He was impressed. As he’d seen at his party, Manny had hired some really off-the-wall characters, but now that Jerry could peruse their resumes and accomplishments, he saw that Manny knew exactly what he had in each one of them. Yes, Jerry was definitely impressed. Unfortunately, it probably took him twice as long as it should have to get through the files because he kept getting distracted by thoughts of the strange, ghostly girl back in the loft. He wasted nearly an hour researching Anastasia and her life and family on the web, and emailing the results to his personal email account for later perusal.
There was no shortage of theories, both political and social, of what had happened to Ana and her family, but at least now he was pretty sure he could put to rest all of the stories of her survival and later life. If he was going to believe in a ghost, he might as well believe that she was Anastasia Romanova. Once the first big stretch was made, a second one seemed so easy. “Of course I could get home and discover that it was all a delusion brought on by last night’s alcohol and pain meds, which would really suck.”
A soft beep came from the clock on the wall and Jerry looked up to see that it was already six o’clock. The time had floated by, its passing unnoticed. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, shot back the last of the lukewarm herbal tea at the bottom of his new CKVB mug, winced at the bitterness, then stretched his neck left and right and in slow circles in both directions to get the kinks out. He logged off his computer, and while it was shutting down, he changed his voicemail message.
He was tired, but happy, and it took very little effort to put energy into
“Jerry?
“Yeah? Yes? ”
“ S Roždestvom Khristovym! Merry Christmas.”
Jerry was caught off guard, having forgotten what day it was. “Oh. Merry Christmas, Ana. How did you know?”
“A little trick I learned from Grigori: ‘See everything. Miss nothing.’ When you turned on the telly-vision, the date appeared.”
“Smart girl. Grigori?”
“Grigori Rasputin—a monk who was trying to heal my brother. He, too, was murdered. Have you heard of Grigori?”
He chuckled. “Definitely. He’s almost as famous as you are. They even have a song about him.”
“A song about Grigori ?”
“I’ll see if I can track down a copy of it for you.”
Ana smiled and Jerry saw the imp in her. “Yes, please. Now, go—you have responsibilities, and I need to rest again. I never thought a ghost could get tired, but I find that it is taking a great deal of strength just to speak and hear. Now that I know that there is more than the dark and shadows of the book, I am less afraid to return to it for short times.”
“No problem. You rest and I’ll work. Merry Christmas, Anastasia—Shvibzik.”
The young Grand Duchess giggled, and returned to the book, but not before she winked at her host.
When she was gone, Jerry rubbed his eyes with both palms and then blinked to clear his head. “What the hell is going on here?”
Chapter Eight
@TheTaoOfJerr: “Life is like a beautiful melody, only the lyrics are messed up.”
~Hans Christian Andersen
HIS FIRST SHORT day of actually tackling some of his new Station Manager duties went smoothly, in Jerry’s humble opinion. Being Christmas Day there was only a skeleton crew working—the current on-air personality, the producer, the security guard, and one or two others who dropped in briefly to wish the on-duty staff a Merry Christmas. Jerry was able to relax and take his time to discover some of the subtle differences between British Columbia advertising regulations and the ones he was accustomed to back in Ontario, as well as getting a better handle on his new staff, their duties, and their skills.
His email in-box held pass-codes and H/R file locations from Manny, so Jerry took some time to appreciate both the depth and the talent of his new radio family. He was impressed. As he’d seen at his party, Manny had hired some really off-the-wall characters, but now that Jerry could peruse their resumes and accomplishments, he saw that Manny knew exactly what he had in each one of them. Yes, Jerry was definitely impressed. Unfortunately, it probably took him twice as long as it should have to get through the files because he kept getting distracted by thoughts of the strange, ghostly girl back in the loft. He wasted nearly an hour researching Anastasia and her life and family on the web, and emailing the results to his personal email account for later perusal.
There was no shortage of theories, both political and social, of what had happened to Ana and her family, but at least now he was pretty sure he could put to rest all of the stories of her survival and later life. If he was going to believe in a ghost, he might as well believe that she was Anastasia Romanova. Once the first big stretch was made, a second one seemed so easy. “Of course I could get home and discover that it was all a delusion brought on by last night’s alcohol and pain meds, which would really suck.”
A soft beep came from the clock on the wall and Jerry looked up to see that it was already six o’clock. The time had floated by, its passing unnoticed. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, shot back the last of the lukewarm herbal tea at the bottom of his new CKVB mug, winced at the bitterness, then stretched his neck left and right and in slow circles in both directions to get the kinks out. He logged off his computer, and while it was shutting down, he changed his voicemail message.
He was tired, but happy, and it took very little effort to put energy into
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