Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 3

Cover art Fooocus

© Kirill Borgia, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0070-5363-1 (т. 3)

ISBN 978-5-0070-2123-4

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Disclaimer

All characters depicted in this work are 18 years of age or older. Where a character’s age is not restated in the current volume, it has been established in a previous volume of the series and remains unchanged unless explicitly stated otherwise.

The Sixth Echo

The days that followed in Rostov unfolded for Yarosvet and Taissia like a quietly enchanted interlude, suspended between the dusty, business-ridden pulse of the provincial city and the languorous current of the southern river. They passed the hours as though time itself were an indulgent host, granting them leisure to savour without haste.

Together they wandered through the bustling streets, where the smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the acrid tang of horse sweat and wagon grease, and the cries of vendors rang against the sun-warmed facades of merchant houses. Yarosvet, with his measured pace and attentive gaze, would pause now and again to point out some architectural detail — a wrought-iron balcony curling like a vine, a carved pediment darkened by decades of soot — while Taissia, quick and playful, slipped her arm into his and pulled him into the living current of the crowd. She delighted in the sheer variety of faces, the whiff of foreign accents from Armenian and Greek traders, the rough banter of stevedores on leave. Her laughter, sudden and bright, often drew curious glances; yet Yarosvet accepted it with a grave indulgence, as though he found in her unrestrained mirth both an echo of youth and an antidote to his own measured solitude.

One afternoon they took to the river again, this time downstream, where the Don widened and lay stretched like a burnished mirror beneath the heavy sky. The steamer creaked and shuddered as it cut the current, while along the banks vineyards, white cottages, and sleepy fishing villages slipped past like fleeting scenes of a painted scroll. Taissia stood at the rail, the mahogany collar at her throat catching a gleam of late sunlight, and let the wind tug at her hair until it streamed like a dark banner behind her. She leaned out dangerously far, calling to Yarosvet to look at some fisherman’s hut balanced on stilts above the shallows; his instinctive motion to steady her — a hand firm upon her back — sent a peculiar warmth into her chest, half comfort, half thrill. He, in turn, found himself strangely disarmed by the innocence of her delight, which even the smoke and noise of the steamer could not dim.

Evenings were reserved for the theatre. Rostov, with all its provincial swagger, prided itself upon stages where travelling troupes brought melodramas and comedies alive with gestures broad enough to reach the farthest rows. Yarosvet, seated beside Taissia beneath the flickering glow of oil lamps, would watch her as much as the actors — her lips parted in breathless amusement, her brows raised in mock severity, her quick, whispered comments that teased both stage and audience. She applauded with fervour, her palms reddened by the vigour of her enthusiasm, while Yarosvet’s measured clapping carried a quieter gravity, yet no less genuine appreciation.

Afterwards, when they emerged into the warm night, the city seemed softer, as though transformed by the lingering cadence of violins and stage voices. The cobblestones reflected patches of moonlight, and the distant murmur of the river lay beneath the hum of taverns and passing carriages. Taissia often walked a few steps ahead, her figure light and teasing, then fell back abruptly to seize his arm, leaning into him with a mixture of tenderness and deliberate mischief. He, grave and composed, allowed himself the rare indulgence of a smile, which in her eyes seemed richer than a thousand gallant speeches.

Thus the days in Rostov were neither marked by incident nor weighed down by solemn purpose; rather, they bore the delicate charm of hours spent in harmony, where the city itself became a backdrop for a dialogue of two spirits — one youthful, impulsive, sparkling with laughter, the other seasoned, restrained, yet open to a warmth he had long thought unattainable.

On the fifth morning of their stay in Rostov, as the light crept into their lodging through half-drawn curtains, a letter was delivered — a modest envelope, its seal already faintly smudged by the courier’s hand. Taissia, ever quick to seize the little dramas of chance, was the first to notice it upon the tray with their tea and bread. She held it aloft like a captured bird, teasing Yarosvet with her guesses at its content, before passing it to him with a flourish.

The handwriting, familiar and slender, belonged to Inga. Yarosvet’s brows knitted faintly as he unfolded the paper, though not from displeasure but rather from a quiet concentration that always overtook him in such moments. The letter was concise yet tinged with a personal warmth: she informed him, first of all, that his passport — a matter of much quiet importance — was now prepared and awaiting him at her office. He need not hurry in any official sense, for her superior, Mr Petrov, was determined to observe the customary fortnight’s delay before handing documents to a client. But should Yarosvet call, as if by chance and without undue ceremony, Inga would be able to place the papers discreetly into his hands.

More than that, she hinted at another matter, more delicate and wrapped in discretion. She had already spoken with Zlata and arranged the prospect of a meeting, though the particulars, she stressed, could not be entrusted to paper. Those details she reserved for a private word, once he came for the passport.

The note ended with a restrained turn of phrase, yet its undertone betrayed both a conspiratorial closeness and a flicker of feminine pride at having succeeded in smoothing paths ahead of him. Yarosvet refolded the sheet with deliberate care and set it beside his cup. For a while he remained silent, gazing at the rippling surface of the tea as though it mirrored more than steam and amber.

Taissia, chin propped upon her palm, studied him with the curiosity of a cat. She would not pry, not openly — but her eyes sparkled with unspoken questions, and her lips, curved in a sly half-smile, seemed to suggest that she already wove her own daring fancies from the mere name of Inga.

When Yarosvet, after a pause, recounted to Taissia the essence of Inga’s letter, her eyes lit up with immediate, mischievous delight. She clapped her hands softly, as though he had just revealed the promise of some new escapade.

“Then I shall come with you this time,” she declared, leaning forward, her voice vibrant with resolve. “If you are to call upon Mr Petrov’s office for your own passport, that will be the perfect excuse to order one for me as well. Let him fuss with his formalities — I’ll stand beside you and see that he takes my measure too.”

There was a reckless sparkle in her glance, half-play, half-defiance, as though she already imagined the respectable clerk compelled to enter her name in his ledgers. Then, with a sly smile tugging at her lips, she added:

“And I daresay Inga will wish to speak with you about this Zlata again. Do you remember? The last time it was during her noon interval, when she simply stepped out of the office for her meal at the little café next door, where you were waiting. So we should arrive close to midday, no earlier, no later. That will suit her perfectly.”

Yarosvet, listening, allowed himself a slow nod. There was in her suggestion both practicality and an unashamed boldness that amused him. He reached out, drew her near, and pressed a deliberate kiss upon her lips. Then, with a half-smile that softened the habitual gravity of his features, he touched her throat and adjusted the slender mahogany collar resting there, his fingers momentarily lingering on the smooth edge of the leather and the small brass buckle.

“Dress yourself, then,” he said with quiet authority, though not without tenderness. “We shall go together.”

Taissia rose at once, the triumph in her eyes only partly veiled by her mock solemn curtsy, and hurried to the wardrobe with the eager air of a conspirator dressing for adventure.

At precisely a quarter past twelve, Yarosvet laid his hand upon the latch and swung open the door for Taissia. Beside it hung a small, dark-green plaque, fastened firmly yet weather-stained against the years. The gilt letters, though already fading, still declared their bureaucratic dignity: “Bureau of Civil Documents — Registration and Amendments.” The words struck him with instant recognition, the way one recalls a stern acquaintance one would rather avoid, yet cannot dismiss.

Within, the narrow vestibule carried that faint odour of ink, paper dust, and iron stoves so typical of government offices. Behind the high counter stood Inga, her posture impeccable, her expression composed in an official mask. Yet her eyes, quick and luminous, betrayed a glimmer of something unspoken as they flicked from Yarosvet to the girl at his side. With measured formality she noted their arrival, her voice crisp and steady as she announced the presence of Mr Zorich to her superior. Then, with the deference of routine, she guided them into the main chamber.

There, at the familiar desk, sat Mr Petrov. He scarcely moved save for the slow closing of the ledger in which his fine script had been flowing. The thin wire-rimmed spectacles upon his nose caught a shard of muted daylight from the tall window, lending his gaze a clarity almost judicial. When at last he looked up, there was in his eyes the same calm discernment as before — that unhurried habit of weighing not merely appearances but hidden purposes, as though each visitor were an entry in the great ledger of his mind.

Yarosvet entered with the air of a man who had merely chosen, on a warm afternoon, to escort his companion through the dry machinery of civil formalities. He inclined his head courteously, as though their presence in the office were prompted by no urgency at all, and let his measured words unfold with casual gravity.

“Permit me, Ivan Dmitrievich,” he began, settling Taissia gently before the desk as one might present a precious though unruly ward, “to trespass upon your good nature with a matter of some delicacy. This young lady” — his hand rested for an instant upon her shoulder, where the mahogany collar gleamed faintly in the half-light — “finds herself in need of a new passport. We have heard that few men in this city command the discretion and precision that you bring to such affairs. If there is a path, however narrow, by which you might extend your assistance to her, I should be deeply obliged.”

He spoke as if nothing were further from his mind than his own papers, already neatly concluded and waiting within reach. His composure, so evenly sustained, suggested a man who considered bureaucracy merely another stage upon which to perform a role.

Taissia, for her part, remained perfectly still, though her eyes betrayed both the thrill of the charade and the eagerness of a conspirator stepping into a new intrigue. She lowered her lashes, imitating a demure gravity entirely at odds with the quicksilver mischief alive in her.

Across the desk, Petrov adjusted the position of his ledger, regarding them with that cool attentiveness which could make even silence feel like an interrogation. His gaze lingered on Taissia, then shifted briefly to Yarosvet, as if to weigh the sincerity of the request against the unspoken knowledge he already held.

Petrov gave a slow, studied nod, his lips pressed into that thin line which, in another man, might have been mistaken for a smile.

“You have come, sir, precisely to the right door,” he said evenly, his voice carrying the unhurried weight of one accustomed to being obeyed. “To hear of my modest qualities is one matter; to receive their undeniable proof is quite another.”

With composed serenity he slid open the upper drawer of his desk and withdrew a neat envelope of heavy paper, its edges clean and uncreased, the seal unbroken. He extended it across the desk with a gesture at once formal and intimate, as though presenting not merely a document but a token of confidence.

Yarosvet accepted it with grave courtesy, broke the seal, and unfolded the crisp contents. There lay his new passport, pristine and complete, its lettering sharp as though etched upon glass. For the briefest instant he allowed his features to assume an expression of pleasant astonishment, as if fortune had chosen to surprise him in this dry chamber of bureaucracy.

“My thanks, Ivan Dmitrievich,” he said warmly, inclining his head.

Mr Petrov waved a hand in modest dismissal, though the gleam in his spectacles betrayed a certain satisfaction.

“Yes, yes. It was concluded somewhat sooner than promised,” he admitted, “but I cannot in good conscience demand anything further of so esteemed a client beyond what has already been settled. What was paid suffices.”

He paused there, fingers resting lightly on the closed ledger, his eyes shifting to Taissia with a measured slowness.

“As for a new passport…” His voice trailed into silence, leaving the words suspended between courtesy and calculation. It was clear he was weighing, not merely the fee, but the implications of the request itself.

Taissia, tilting subtly, extended her passport in his direction, as though presenting not merely a document but a deliberate challenge. A faint, roguish smile curved her lips, and her eyes sparkled with that audacious fire which could unsettle almost anyone — save, it seemed, Mr Petrov himself.

He took the passport, lifting it carefully to eye level, and examined it with the meticulous attention that had become second nature to him. Each movement was precise, ritualistic, as if the simple act of reading a paper could command both respect and obedience. Then, his gaze still fixed upon the document, he began to read aloud, articulating each entry with measured clarity:

“Name: Larisa Petrovna Kovalyova. Date of birth: the eighteenth of June, eighteen seventy-eight. Place of birth: Moscow. Current residence as stated. Profession: none. Religion: Orthodox. Marital status: unmarried. Height: five feet four inches. Build: slender. Hair: red. Eyes: grey-brown. Distinguishing marks: none recorded.”

Each word was pronounced with that calm authority which rendered even mundane facts compelling, as if the recital itself were a performance of civic ritual rather than mere bureaucracy.

Petrov’s eyes lifted from the document, meeting Taissia’s with that quiet scrutiny he always wielded so effortlessly. His thin spectacles caught the muted light of the window, giving his gaze an almost judicial sharpness.

“And pray tell,” he asked, his tone calm but edged with genuine curiosity, “what, in this passport as it stands, is found lacking? Surely the details are complete and accurate.”

The question hung in the air like a measured challenge, formal yet subtly inviting, leaving Taissia a moment to craft her reply while Yarosvet observed, his expression carefully composed, concealing the faint amusement stirring behind his measured gravity.

“Yes, the details are correct,” she said, her voice clear and unwavering, “except for my name. The Kovalyovs took me from the orphanage and named me Larisa, though I remember that before, I was called Taissia. I wish to renounce that name entirely and become Taissia Alexeyevna Zorich. Keep the year of birth the same, but assign a different day and month — so that my adoptive parents, from whom I ran away, will have no way of finding me.”

She leaned forward slightly, the roguish smile still tugging at her lips, and added, “I suggest the eighth of March.”

Yarosvet’s gaze met hers, and only he understood the weight of that choice — the day when, not long ago, he had lifted her from the station platform and brought her to his compartment, the moment that had quietly marked the beginning of their peculiar, irrevocable bond.

Mr Petrov, meanwhile, regarded her with measured attention, his thin spectacles reflecting the soft afternoon light. He made careful notes in his ledger as she spoke, each word recorded with the meticulous precision he applied to all official matters. Then he paused, a faint shadow of hesitation crossing his face. “As for the surname,” he said slowly, “this will require alterations in both passports, particularly in the column denoting marital status…”

Taissia, unfazed, lifted her chin with that characteristic sparkle in her eyes. “No changes are necessary,” she interjected with calm assurance. “We may simply be namesakes, he and I.”

Mr Petrov’s thin lips curved ever so slightly, a faint acknowledgment of the logic behind her words. “Indeed,” he said, “that is entirely possible, and it simplifies matters considerably.”

Yarosvet, as was his habit, posed the question with calm directness: “And what, pray, will be the cost of her new passport?”

Mr Petrov let a pause linger, fingers tapping lightly against the closed ledger as though performing some intricate mental calculation. “The matter,” he finally said, “is somewhat more complicated than usual. Not only does the date of birth change, but — most importantly — the name and surname themselves must be altered.”

He tapped the table with a measured rhythm. “In conclusion, I believe this can be arranged for… two hundred rubles… and another two hundred. Four hundred in total.”

Taissia’s eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her face. She glanced at Yarosvet, incredulous, as if to confirm she had heard correctly.

Yarosvet, serene and unshaken, withdrew a neat bundle of notes from his pocket and counted out half the sum. “The remainder will follow on the day of receipt,” he said quietly. “When, may I ask, can we expect that?”

“Just as last time,” Mr Petrov replied, “in two weeks’ time — though that fortnight will be over in a week.”

With careful hands, he took the payment, returned Taissia’s passport to her, and added with a measured tone, “Mr Zorich, you understand the matter perfectly.”

Yarosvet inclined himself with his customary gravity, bowing slightly in quiet acknowledgment of Mr Petrov’s words. Taissia rose beside him, the subtle glint of triumph still dancing in her eyes, and together they moved toward the door.

As they passed by Inga, who had returned to her post behind the counter, her voice, low and smooth, drifted after them just enough to be heard.

“Wait for me at the usual café,” she murmured, “on the far side of the square.”

Yarosvet’s gaze met hers for a brief instant, a flicker of understanding passing between them, and he inclined his head in silent agreement. Taissia, catching nothing but the tone, gave a barely perceptible nod, her curiosity piqued, and they continued on their way, the muted bustle of the street welcoming them into the warm, sunlit square.

As they made their way across the sunlit square toward the café, Taissia’s indignation flared, her voice rising with animated protest.

“That Petrov is a thief, truly! Such prices — what a robbery! The police ought to have their eyes on him, if ever there was a man crying out for justice,” she declared, tossing her head and letting the straps of her dress shift with the motion.

Yarosvet’s expression remained calm, measured, his voice steady as he sought to temper her fire. “Money exists to be spent, Taissia,” he said simply, “and there is no shame in giving it where it is needed. As for the police, they have their eyes on Petrov too, and he is compelled to share accordingly.”

She scowled, stamping a delicate foot. “Why pay so dearly when one could pay far less?”

A faint smile touched his lips, and his gaze held hers with gentle patience. “Then perhaps we should seek out an office with cheaper rates,” he suggested lightly.

Her cheeks warmed as she realized the heat of her earlier words. “I… perhaps I spoke too sharply,” she admitted, her roguish smile softening.

He offered a subtle bow, the faint glimmer of amusement in his grey-brown eyes. “Indeed,” he added, “though, for what it’s worth, you are worth every ruble.”

The words struck her like a soft, warm gale. Without hesitation, she rose onto her tiptoes and pressed a brief, bold kiss upon his lips. Together, fingers lightly brushing, they entered the café, leaving behind the square and the murmurs of their private triumph.

Before long, Inga joined them at the table, slipping into the familiar corner with her usual composed grace. Her eyes, bright and alert, found Yarosvet first.

“Congratulations on your new passport,” she said, her voice warm yet tinged with that subtle professional precision which always kept personal sentiment carefully in check.

Yarosvet inclined his head in acknowledgment, the faintest shadow of a smile crossing his features. “Thank you for your assistance, Inga. We intend to remain in Rostov for at least another week.”

“I am aware,” she replied, a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips.

Taissia, ever inquisitive, leaned slightly forward, her impish glance fixed on Inga. “And tell me, how did your meeting with your fiancé proceed?”

A delicate flush crept across Inga’s cheeks. She looked away for a moment, collecting herself, before answering evenly, “According to plan. So that, should — or when — I find myself with child, there will be no question as to the cause.”

Her words hung in the air, stated with that calm, precise manner which rendered them simultaneously intimate and disarmingly forthright, leaving both Yarosvet and Taissia to absorb the weight of their quiet implication.

Taissia, unable to restrain her impish curiosity any longer, leaned forward, a mischievous spark in her eyes, and asked Inga bluntly, “Which one do you think is larger and more beautiful — your fiancé’s or Yarosvet’s?”

“You are terribly bold, Taissia,” Inga said softly, her voice calm but edged with amusement. “If one were to judge by… presence alone, one might say that Yarosvet has the advantage in stature, yet in refinement and elegance… well, you see, each possesses qualities the other cannot claim.”

Taissia’s eyes flashed with playful defiance as she leaned slightly closer. “I simply cannot imagine anyone possessing a member more elegant, more… refined, than my beloved master’s,” she declared, her voice light but charged with certainty.

Inga’s gaze flicked down for a brief instant, noting the leather collar snugly encircling Taissia’s neck, its craftsmanship neat and precise. A faint smile curved her lips, warm and appreciative. “Indeed,” she said softly, “it suits you remarkably well — an exquisite choice, befitting both your spirit and… your devotion.”

Taissia’s cheeks tinged with a delicate warmth at the compliment, but her mischievous spark remained undimmed, as if the praise had only encouraged her boldness further. Yarosvet, seated quietly, observed the exchange with that calm, measured patience of his, his grey-brown eyes betraying the faintest trace of suppressed mirth.

Yarosvet’s grey-brown eyes met Inga’s, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Taissia has shown herself a most capable pupil,” he said, his tone calm yet edged with approving regard, “and by her own initiative, she has identified another… doll.”

Inga’s brows lifted slightly, her eyes brightening with pleasant surprise. “Indeed?” she said, a soft note of admiration in her voice. “Congratulations, Taissia. I am glad to have been of service in such a worthy pursuit.”

Taissia, leaning back in her chair with a mischievous glint still in her eyes, recounted the visit of the girl, Darya, to their hotel. She described, in a tone that was equal parts teasing and factual, how Yarosvet, in her presence, had twice brought Darya to fulfillment, his control and precision evident in every movement.