Her feet sank deeper and deeper into the snowbanks at the hotel walls; she had long since lost the feeling in her toes. Just a few more steps to the Nevsky Prospect. The main street might just as well have been on the other side of the world. It was too late. Too cold. Too Outside.
Her sight blurred completely as she stumbled with the last of her strength past the corner of the building into the flickering gas light. Here she fell down, rolled in the snow onto her side, saw at a distance the light of the main entrance, gold and brass and the glass revolving door. Much too far.
She was so tired. And now she was warm. So that was what Kukushka had meant. Freezing was not terrible, once you were past the worst. She was so hot. So cozy, so relaxed.
Someone was next to her.
Impossible. Not so late at night, and in this temperature.
But indeed, someone was there. Bent over her. Stroked her forehead. And suddenly it was as though the warmth she felt was runnning out of that hand. Many colors were there at once, bright as a rainbow before her eyes.
“Poor thing,” whispered a female voice.
Then the woman’s actions seemed to stiffen, as though all at once she had found something, sensed something.
“You smell like her!”
Like who? thought Mouse. But then it did not matter anymore, because she was being lifted like a half-starved puppy and carried through the light of the lanterns, towards the high entrance crowned with awnings.
Soon she would be inside again. In the Aurora again! The thought gave her new strength. “I can walk…by myself,” she croaked.
“Certainly,” said the woman, but made no move to put her down.
“Please…I…”
And then she really was let down to the floor, stood on her own feet, right in front of the revolving door that in the summer led to a red carpet.
Light. Warmth. Walls. Ceiling.
Safety.
Mouse stood there, still uncertain, half staggering. She looked around herself. The woman had disappeared, but the warmth inside Mouse stayed. She was no longer freezing.
Somehow she stumbled through the revolving door. The long coat caught on it. Mouse cast it off while walking and let it lie like a lost shadow. The night porter looked back at her in surprise and called something but she did not heed him.
Then she was in the stairwell that led to the cellar, held fast to the handrail, hurried downwards. There could not be enough stone and wood and mortar around her, sprawling into the heights.
The memory of the woman blurred together with the warmth in her body. It was still cold in the cellar, but at least not as frosty as the open air.
Soon Mouse reached her room, the walled cave in the depths of the earth, where she slept during the day and cleaned shoes in at night. She crouched in front of the hot coal oven, listened to the hiss of the fire, and felt the frozen tears on her cheeks melt away.
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