In late August, the farmers' market closed at nine in the evening. It was already getting dark. Colored lightbulbs suspended from the stalls swayed in the wind; vendors were wary of taking a counterfeit bill, while buyers dreaded ending up with bad fruit or rotting vegetables. As darkness fell, the farmers moved their produce into their pickups, vans, or whatever else they drove, and went to sleep right there, crawling into sleeping bags inside the cabs or truck beds. Those who lived just across the Moscow Ring Road could have gone home, but they usually preferred not to waste time and energy, wanting to set out their goods as early as possible in the morning to catch the first buyers. A night or two of discomfort was a small price to pay for a good profit. The streetlights and colored string lights on the tents went out, and the deserted market sank into a drowsy silence—until midnight. But at the exact moment one day turned into the next, the dark row of stalls seemed to shudder, splitting in two to cast another, almost imperceptible shadow. Those in the know, knew: if you stand at the very gates, locked with an electronic keypad, turn your back to them, close your eyes, take a step backward so you lightly bump against the grate, and then step forward, you will find yourself inside the market. Not the one for humans, where they sell fruits and vegetables. This market is for those who live alongside humans but are not human themselves. Here, a vast labyrinth of kiosks, stalls, shopping centers, and street carts twists before the visitor. The lights here are bleak, the glow obscure, yet any visitor can see perfectly well in this heavy twilight. Lyova, a recent graduate of the Russian Academy of Black and White Magic, knew how to get in and how to behave. This wasn’t his first time visiting the secret market. Just in case, he put on several amulets and charms, but he still didn't allow himself to relax. If he could, he would have grown eyes in the back of his head as he threaded his way into the motley crowd filling the market rows. Buyers bargained and sifted through the trinkets on the carts, while vendors tirelessly hyped their wares. "Fresh dreams! Rosy reveries! Who wants a daydream?" droned a plump woman in a rose-gold dress adorned with a multitude of ruffles, flounces, and lace. Nearby, a blonde clutching a lyre bellowed at the top of her lungs: "Inspiration for any genre, five hundred rubles per author’s sheet! A special promotion in honor of Apollo’s name day!" Two steps away from the muse, a middle-aged man shifted from foot to foot. "Conscience, anyone? Hardly used," the man offered hesitantly, scanning the crowd for a buyer. Alas, no one paid him any mind. Conscience was a slow-moving commodity these days. "Psst!" A wrinkled old man waved his skinny little hands upon spotting a potential client. "Care to purchase eternal life? Today only, at a discount!" "Yeah, right," Lyova thought. "You'll sell me the life, but youth isn't included, judging by your parchment-like mug." Silently brushing the old man aside, he walked on. He didn’t get very far, though. From behind a neighboring stall, a girl glided out. She was elegant, exquisitely beautiful, clad in a white, multi-layered dress of some translucent fabric. The layers of cloth slid and quivered, alternately outlining her seductive body and concealing it like a silvery cloud. Dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, flowing over her back and chest. “Handsome youth, wait!” Lyova involuntarily slowed his pace. “Help me, youth! I am lost and need to find my way back. Come with me, it’s not far. Just follow me, please!” The girl smiled, her eyes gleaming with an unnatural light, and Lyova swallowed hard, feeling a sudden drowsiness. His thoughts clouded, but at that exact moment, the ring on his finger burned with an invisible flame. “Get lost, fiend!” the young mage snapped. “You’ve got some nerve, trying to trick me!” The mavka hissed, her hair flaring up around her head like a dark halo. Then she spun around and vanished around the corner, for a split second exposing her bare back—which was not just without a dress, but without skin. Within the cage of her white ribs, a heart beat steadily. Lyova shuddered and hurried on, deeper into the labyrinth. He needed one specific merchant, one specific item. The tiny tent owned by old Ermiy was hidden in the most secluded corner of the labyrinth, in almost total darkness. The sky here was so bottomlessly black and scary, it felt as though the market were located not in the middle of a metropolis, but in the desolate taiga. The tent itself consisted of a few poles draped with canvas that smelled of resin, burnt wood, and something else—cold and sweet. The old man looked much hardier than the one selling eternal life. His long gray hair was neatly combed and covered by a strange hat with wide, square brims; his brown eyes gleamed like olives in the flickering light of an oil lamp, which closely resembled the famous vessel that had once imprisoned a genie. “Come in, guest,” Ermiy smiled with just his lips. “Your order is ready.” Lyova had to duck as he stepped through the low entrance. He saw nothing now but a thick kraft-paper packet lying on a low table. “Is this…” The youth’s throat went dry. “These are the diaries of the man who walled the Hand of Midas into the Kremlin wall.” “Do you think they are genuine, Ermiy?” “I haven’t read them,” the old man said, shaking his head. “The man’s descendant packed and sealed them himself. Of course, I could have opened them out of curiosity, and no one would have found a trace, but I am not that foolish. There are things better left untouched, and knowledge better left unsought. I am a mediator, young guest, and I value my reputation above fleeting curiosity.” “Well then… Here, take the payment.” Lyova swung the backpack off his shoulder and fished out a birch-bark box. “That very red honey from the sacred bees of the Himalayas—your commission. And the book for the seller.” A tome bound in dark leather was placed on the table. At its corners, blackened silver overlays gleamed with garnet cabochons. Ermiy opened the book and flipped through it carelessly, but he lifted the lid of the box far more gently. The aroma of honey instantly filled the tent: heavy, intoxicating, and sweet, resembling a blend of Arabian incense and rare herbs. “You are honest, as always, guest. You may take the diaries, and the deal is complete.” Lyova reached out to grab the packet but hesitated. “And the seller… No, I don’t doubt you, Ermiy, you truly have a reputation. But what if the seller gave… not entirely…” “What if the seller deceived me?” Ermiy’s voice sounded not at all like an old man’s; quiet but deep, it filled the tent with echoes and shadows, and even the lamp seemed to dim. “If he deceived me, there will be serious consequences. And he knows it, boy. Take it, do not fear.” Lyova hurriedly stuffed the diaries into his backpack and said goodbye to the mediator. He left quickly, without looking back, which is why he didn't see the expression with which Ermiy watched him go. Who else but Ermiy-Hermes would know that the author of the diaries had a partner? Tonight, the great-grandson of that partner had managed to slip into the right place. Right now, he was chipping away at the plaster, preparing to break through the masonry that hid the cache with the priceless artifact. Lyova had received exactly what he had bargained for—the diaries. But the Hand of Midas would not go to him, although… The future owner had no idea yet what the ancient magic would demand of him. Perhaps he would yet envy the young mage who was left with nothing. Hermes smirked and lowered the flap, cutting off the insinuating market night, and soon the tent itself dissolved into the shadows, leaving no trace that anyone could ever find.