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thin for his face. His fingers, spread out across the surface of the desk, were the same. He was watching Scarlett intensely, and as she drew closer, she saw that there was a growth — a sty — sitting on one of his eyes. The whole socket was red and dripping. It was as if, like the rest of the building, he was rotting away. Scarlett shuddered and felt ill.
    The man still hadn't spoken. Scarlett drew level with him so that the desk was between them. Despite everything, she had decided that she wasn't going to let him intimidate her. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Where am I? Why have you brought me here?"
    His eyes widened in surprise. At least, one of them did. The diseased eye had long since lost any movement. 'You are English?" he said.
    Scarlett was taken by surprise. She hadn't expected him to speak her language. 'Yes," she said.
    "Please. Sit down." He gestured at one of the chairs. "Would you like a hot drink? Some tea should be arriving soon."
    Scarlett shook her head. "I don't want any tea," she snapped. "I want to go back where I came from. Why are you keeping me here?"
    "I asked you to sit down," the monk said. "I would suggest that you do as you are told."
    He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't even sound threatening. But somehow Scarlett knew it would be a mistake to disobey him. She could see it in his eyes. The pupils were black and dead and slightly unfocused. They were the sort of eyes that might belong to someone who was mad.
    She sat down.
    "That's better," he said. "Now, let's introduce ourselves. What is your name?"
    "I'm Scarlett Adams."
    "Scarlett Adams." He repeated it with a sort of satisfaction, as if that was what he had expected to hear.
    "Where are you from?"
    "I live in Dulwich. In London. Please, will you tell me where I am?"
    He lifted a single finger. The nail was yellow and bent out of shape. "I will tell you everything you wish to know," he said. His English was perfect although it was obvious that it wasn't his first language. He had an accent that Scarlett couldn't place, and he strung his words together very carefully, like a craftsman making a necklace. "But first tell me this," he went on. 'You really have no idea how you came here?"
    "No." Scarlett shook her head. "I was in a church."
    "In London?"
    'Yes. I went through a door. One of the people here grabbed hold of me. That's all I can remember."
    He nodded slowly. His eyes had never left her, and Scarlett felt a terrible urge to look away, as if somehow he was going to swallow her up.

    'You are in Ukraine," the man said suddenly.
    "Ukraine?" Everything seemed to spin for a minute. "But that's…"
    It was somewhere in Russia. It was on the other side of the world.
    "This is the Monastery of the Cry for Mercy. I am Father Gregory." He looked at his guest a little sadly, as if he was disappointed that she didn't understand. 'Your coming here is a great miracle," he said. "We have been waiting for you for almost twenty years."
    "That's not possible. What do you mean? I haven't been alive for twenty years." Scarlett was getting tired of this. She was feeling sick with exhaustion, with confusion. "How come you speak English?" she asked. She knew it was a stupid question, but she needed a simple answer. She wanted to hear something that actually made sense.
    "I have traveled all over the world," Father Gregory replied. "I spent six years in your country, in a seminary near the city of Bath."
    "Why did you say you've been waiting for me? What do you mean?"
    The door suddenly opened and one of the monks came in, carrying a bronze tray with two cups of tea.
    Scarlett guessed that Father Gregory must have ordered it before she was brought in because there was no obvious method of communication in the office, no telephone or computer, nothing modern apart from a desk lamp throwing out a pool of yellow light. The monk set down the tray and left.
    "Help yourself," Father Gregory said.
    Scarlett did as she was told. The liquid was boiling hot and