Conclusion
That night, the knock came at the back door. A voice called, thin and rueful, “Sergei… open, father—it's Dmitri.” The baron stood at the sill, his hand on the latch. He hesitated then, an old man torn between a command of courage and the terror lodged in his bones. He thought of his son, the child who had once crawled in his lap and taken his watch to play at a man's games. He loosened the latch. The Vourdalak
The doctor performed his examinations, his practiced hands finding nothing to explain the pallor, the listless appetite, the sudden rashes that had bloomed along Dmitri's chest. “It could be a fever of autumn,” he said at first, a balm of certainty. He drew a thin line of notes in his pocketbook, suggested rest and wine, hot broth and brandy at his discretion. Conclusion That night, the knock came at the back door
They thought they had finished it. For a short while the house was again what it had been: warm, loud, and busy. The servants dared to sing. Sergei's sister wept and dried her cheeks and tried to call herself well. He thought of his son, the child who