Chivalry is dead

The Prologue

The Beast.

Ellie always dreamed of it, wherever she was.

A pale oval of an inhuman face, protruding from the darkness, eyes glowing scarlet, sharp teeth sticking out of the mouth.

Ellie never could watch this dream to the end.

As soon as the Beast appeared from the void, she woke up in a damp nightgown, with her heart fluttering like a bird frightened by a hunter. Fluttering not so much from fear, but from the agonizing anticipation of the denouement. Completion. The end.

Ellie got out of bed and, throwing a bathrobe over her shoulders, went out onto the balcony.

The sun's rays fell on her face, giving soft warmth to her skin covered in beads of cold sweat. Despite the early hour, the city below was already in full swing—the rattle of food delivery men's bikes, the shrill honk of bus horns, the pounding of builders' hammers, the voices of street vendors calling out the names of their goods.

Ellie's vacation was almost over.

But the enchanting warm cerulean sea, the lush greenery of tall palm trees, the rustling of grass and the chirping of birds could not rid her of a vague uneasiness. The feeling that something was about to change hung in the stifling air, which had absorbed the sweet smells of a carefree life— spicy street food, exotic fruits, food waste and human bodies.

Ellie's phone rang, bursting into the default melody.

She left the balcony and, picking up the smartphone lying on the bed, pressed the "accept" button.

"Yes?"

The cool laminate flooring chilled her bare feet.

The hoarse voice of Mr. Norman, her boss, came over the line. The office fan rustled in the background, "You have a new client."

Ellie didn't say a word, waiting for him to continue.

"His name is Milo Novak."

"Milo Novak?"

"A photographer," Mr. Norman explained, "Exhibited in Paris, Prague, Berlin and, most recently, Madrid. Son of Michael Novak, who died in 1990."

Milo Novak's name didn't ring any bells in Ellie's head, but she remembered the smiling face on the torn dust jacket of "The Night Atlas" and "An Ink Dream".

When she was having a hard time, Michael Novak, or rather his worlds woven from myriads of words, his characters acting like real people made of flesh and blood, saved her life time after time, not allowing her to give up and surrender.

In 2016, Ellie learned that Michael Novak's death was rather horrific, like one of the stories that make your whole existence seem fragile and futile. Good deeds do not guarantee a safe life. At all.

On April the 5th, in 1990, during his morning jog, Michael Novak was shot by some madman, who didn't even get caught. Michael Novak died in the hospital seven hours later—the bullet got stuck in his abdomen, and the doctors couldn't get it out. The news of the death of the stranger whose books she had accidentally stumbled upon in the library devastated Ellie more than her father's words about wishing for another daughter. A grateful one, not a frigid and cold bitch who took after her mother.

"I've read his father's books."

"It hardly matters", Mr. Norman responded dryly. "He needs you to organize an exhibition in August. You will help him with documentation, correspondence, meeting organization and so on."

"Good".

"His father's death was rather messy, and Milo Novak is, first and foremost, our client. So don't bring any of that up."

"Got it."

Mr. Norman rustled some papers and asked, a bit softer than usual, "How was your vacation?"

Mr. Norman had no idea why Ellie suddenly decided to stop her work and take some time away. He didn't like the personnel, who could halt midway without any plausible reason at all. So it was the request of one of his best employees, Eva Miller, Ellie's friend, that forced him to let Ellie go without any repercussions. After all, Mr. Norman valued those who brought him profit and knew how to reach consensus.

Ellie couldn't tell her boss the real reason even if she wanted to. Mr. Norman would have thought she was crazy. So she put on a polite smile and added some cheerfulness to her voice, "Excellent."

"Good. Then hurry up and come back here. A lot of work needs to be done."

"I'll hurry."

As she hung up, Ellie's mind went blank. She felt the floor shifting slightly from under her feet. As if she was an inexperienced seafarer, caught in a terrible storm. Or a drunkard, wobbly from his morning hangover.

The cleaning lady who came into her room had two shadows.

The old problem reappeared, before Ellie had even had the chance to return to work.