I don't know when exactly I fell asleep, but I woke up one of the first that morning to a woman's scream echoing down the hall. I looked around the room, trying to remember how I had ended up here, and struggled to locate the source of the sound. The noise had roused not only me but Viola as well. Her concerned gaze met mine, and I could tell she was already assessing the situation. She hurriedly checked to see that everyone who had been watching Carrie with us was still in the room, muttering numbers under her breath. Once she was satisfied, she carefully turned Arthur's wrist to see the clock.
"Eleven in the morning. Good thing it's daytime," she whispered with relief.
"And what difference does that make? Someone screamed—I heard it. Besides, breakfast is already over."
Viola waved her hand dismissively.
"Well, now that it's morning, the problem is clearly not supernatural in nature and probably doesn't concern us—unlike the breakfast issue."
"Since when does everything bad in Ksertoni happen exclusively at night? Just yesterday, I had a freak-out in broad daylight," I muttered.
"But you're here, and the screams are there. Besides, the weak-blooded have been sneaking around at night lately. They may be possessed, but they're not stupid enough to show themselves when the city is alive with activity. Their job is to strike from the shadows, targeting vulnerabilities."
"Cheerful," I muttered, carefully lifting Diana's head from my shoulder and sliding off the bed to look for my shoes. Surprisingly, the others didn't stir—they continued sleeping peacefully—and Viola seemed only mildly interested in the cause of the noise.
"You're going to check it out?" she asked.
I perched on the edge of the bed, lacing my sneakers.
"Yes. What else can I do if no one else cares?"
Viola leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes. She rubbed her nose bridge with two fingers, trying to quell her irritation. Back in her foul mood. Just what I needed to start the day.
"I'll go with you," she finally said, rising as I started lacing the second sneaker.
"No need," I said, standing and stepping into the hall, determined not to let Viola's mood infect me.
Despite the hour, the girls' floor was unnervingly quiet. Too quiet. Every door was closed. No repair workers were in sight, though they should have been tackling the shower in my room, no cleaning cart, no classmates, and not even athletes. Strange. Very strange.
I moved cautiously along the doors, listening for any unusual sound, but all I heard were Viola's solid footsteps as she joined me in the corridor. She had pulled her hair into a high ponytail and zipped her dark purple hoodie to her chin, as if bracing herself against the unwelcome awakening, even though it had happened in the arms of someone she loved.
"So, what's going on?" she asked impatiently, shuffling alongside me.
"Could you walk a bit quieter? You can do that, right?" I whispered.
"I'm in flip-flops," she replied.
I drew in a nervous breath.
"Then please just stay where you are. I can't hear a thing."
"And what exactly are you expecting to hear?" she smirked. "Another scream?"
"I don't think I'd need to strain my ears for that. I'm trying to figure out if anything strange is actually happening on this floor."
"Yes," she said confidently. "You're sneaking along the rooms, eavesdropping under other people's doors."
Kaandor, give me strength.
"Do you always have to be such a pain? What did I ever do to you?"
The question caught Viola off guard. She frowned, arms crossed, clearly unsure whether to be honest with me or not. In the end, I realized that kind of gift from Viola was hopeless—too valuable, and clearly beyond my reach.
A crash sounded, as if someone had broken dishes in the room ahead, followed by muffled curses. And that voice—definitely familiar to both of us.
"There," I said, pointing to the correct door. Viola stepped forward.
"I hear it."
She knocked twice, and when no one answered, she jabbed her knuckles against the wooden door several more times, insistently. The door swung open, and Tanya appeared, her face a storm of indignation. I couldn't help but smirk, recalling how she had recently been pounding on my own door—what, did she not enjoy a taste of her own medicine?
"What do you want?" she demanded from the threshold, blocking our view inside.
"Where's Dasha?" Viola's eyes flashed like lightning.
"In Karaganda," Tanya shot back defiantly, already moving to slam the door in Viola's face—but Viola stopped her effortlessly halfway.
"We're not in the mood for games; come back later," Tanya added.
"What happened?"
"Was that Dasha screaming?"
Viola and I spoke at the same time, relieved to see that she cared as much as I did about our friend's well-being.
"Nothing happened," Tanya ground out through clenched teeth, leaning against the door with all her strength. But the door didn't budge. Perhaps Rostova had a hidden arsenal of talents, yet she was no match in strength for a young, concerned vampire.
"Who's there, Tanya?" came Dasha's voice, and I could have sworn she was crying.
Viola seemed to think the same. She pushed the door open, and Rostova flew backward, hitting the wall with a loud thud. Viola didn't even glance at it—she stepped into the room, scanning for Dasha. As soon as she turned into the sleeping area, she froze, her eyes locked on something. For a moment, it seemed she even held her breath—but there was no relief in her posture.
"You okay?" I asked Tanya out of politeness, not real concern, as she rubbed the back of her head with a grimace. Receiving only a brief nod, I quickly lost interest in her fate and followed Viola. She remained rooted to the spot, staring ahead.
And there was indeed something to look at. Dasha was sitting on the bed, utterly broken, covering her face with her hands and quietly crying. At her feet lay a wet towel, and on her head, instead of the noble, soft raven-black curls, was a mess resembling a frizzy yellow dish scrubber. It almost physically hurt to watch—because I knew that if something like this had happened to me before graduation, I would have wished to sink through the floor and hide under Kaandor like a blanket, ready to bite anyone's fingers if necessary—just to be left alone. But Viola and I were now witnesses to her humiliation, and she sat silently, waiting for our reaction: mockery or, conversely, sympathy.
I wasn't amused, and neither was Viola, judging by her expression. We stood stunned, staring at Dasha, waiting for any reaction—would she shoo us away or break into more tears? But there was nothing. Tanya was no help either. Rostova returned, closing the door behind her, and stood aside, observing what would happen next.
When the silence dragged on, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I couldn't bear watching Dasha suffer any longer. After all, if she didn't want help, she could always shoo me away later.
I approached and reached for a damp strand of hair, still wet from the dye wash.
"Some good news," I began carefully, crouching in front of Dasha. "Your hair isn't burned."
She hiccupped and finally revealed her face. Seeing my friend without her usual glasses for the first time, I noticed how beautiful her irises were—golden, flecked with dark green like the tips of summer spruce trees.
"And the bad news?" Dasha asked nasally, on the verge of new sobs.
"The bad news," I said, placing my hands gently on her knees in a comforting gesture, "is that the color probably won't match your dress."
Even my gentle, carefully worded phrasing didn't spare Dasha from another scream of despair and fresh tears. Only then did Viola snap into action, climbing onto the bed beside her. Like a lifeless puppet, she drew Dasha close, pressing her palm to the back of her head and holding her against her shoulder, letting her cry freely. Dasha melted in Viola's arms, seeking solace, finally releasing all restraint.
My own mind was already spinning. I hoped to recall some useful tip about hair dye, but the problem was, I had never really cared: I'd always worn my natural color, and every trip to the salon had ended with nothing more than a trim.
There was nothing to do. Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I opened the contacts and found my mother's number. A few long rings sounded before she finally picked up.
"Hello? Asya, are you all right?"
"I'm fine, but Dasha…" I cast a glance at my inconsolable friend and decided it would be better to step into the hallway for the rest of the conversation. "…not so much."
I briefly explained the situation and asked my mom for help. She, like me, didn't know much about hair coloring, but she suggested a solution that, at least temporarily, would fix the problem. The only thing left was to get to a larger supermarket, where we might find what we needed.
"I'd take you, but I'm helping Denis and his mother with the garden on the complex grounds. By graduation, it'll look amazing!"
"I can't wait to see it—it's where the formal part of graduation will take place, isn't it?"
"Yes, so we're really putting effort in now. Without magic, you understand, we wouldn't get much done in such a short time."
"Isn't that dangerous?" I whispered, lowering my voice conspiratorially, afraid someone might appear in the hallway and accidentally catch a fragment of the conversation.
"What do you mean?"
"You're… casting spells on the complex grounds."
"No one has access except us. The garden is surrounded by tall wooden shutters to keep the surprise safe."
"That's… complicated," I admitted. "And Tanya's father didn't object?"
"Oh no, on the contrary. The garden will be one of the highlights of the complex's opening!"
"They really love cultivating greenery in Xertonia…"
"And why not, if it's beautiful?" Her voice was so carefree, it reminded me of the mother I used to know, and the thought brought a brief smile. But then the bitterness returned—I no longer knew when my mother was truly herself, and when she was playing a part to hide her identity as a fugitive witch.
"Beautiful, but short-lived, like the flowers themselves."
"We'll see about that," she replied with a slight smile and a deliberate pause, adding a note of intrigue. "You'll be surprised what these flowers can do when we're done."
"All right," I hesitated briefly. "Okay. I have to go."
"If you want, we could go tomorrow and buy everything to help Dasha."
The offer was tempting, but a quick glance and a careful listen told me that Dasha's sobs had no intention of stopping. Whether I liked it or not, the problem had to be dealt with now—and fast—before other classmates saw her yellowed disaster: if they did, she'd be mocked and teased for the rest of graduation.
"I'm afraid tomorrow will be too late. Thanks for the help. We'll manage somehow ourselves."
"All right," she sighed mid-sentence, a faint note of disappointment in her voice. "If anything, call me—don't be shy. We might figure out another option if nothing works. We've been talking so little lately…"
Her words struck a chord in me, but the last thing I wanted was to pull on that string. One problem at a time—that was my new limit.
"Let's hope it works the first time. Bye," I said, pressing the hang-up button and staring at the phone's screensaver for a while, unsure what I was waiting for. I just needed a breather, but life refused to grant it.
I returned to the room and announced from the doorway that I knew how to fix the problem. Viola looked at me skeptically but still listened.
"We need to cover the color," I said.
"Are you insane?" she protested. "We'll kill her hair with another dye!"
"My mom said we won't if we use a tinted dye," I replied.
I turned to Tanya. "What did you dye it with?"
Tanya looked at me in alarm. "What do you mean 'you'? I had nothing to do with it," she said, pointing at Dasha. "She did it herself."
"It doesn't matter now—herself or not. What did you use? Where's the box?"
Tanya went into the bathroom and returned with a dark rectangular box from the store-bought dye. I examined the package and confirmed that Mom had understood the situation correctly.
"All right, clear enough," I said, shaking the box for emphasis. "This is a strong lightener. It lifted Dasha's dark hair by nine tones. Her natural color could never have turned into a nice blonde in one go. But now we have a yellowish base that another shade can sit on beautifully. The main thing is not to go for black or very dark right away—it could come out patchy on the first wash."
"And what do you suggest?"
"Go to the store and pick a brighter shade."