Mykhailo finished his chalice, uncorked a new bottle of imported wine, poured himself another glass and drank again.
Then he sat there, downcast, staring somewhere into a corner. Finally, he lifted his eyes to the guest and gave a pained smile: “Let’s go to sleep, father! It’ll be dawn soon. Do you hear the second roosters crowing?”
During the day Hryhoriy felt bad. A dry scratching cough and unbelievable exhaustion chained him to the armchair, though not forcing him to stay in bed. He couldn’t even see off the coachman who was returning to Pan‑Ivanivka. His body would not obey, begging peace, rest, and quiet.
The rain did not relent. It would come down in a fine drizzle, then rained cats and dogs, then attacked in a taut wave, shaking the building. And it continued, without an end in s
