It's rare for anyone to have a serious breakdown. It's only training, after all, not a test. And the height set for every individual is no higher than he can jump – provided he calls on every last ounce of his strength, leaving scraps of blood-stained skin behind on the razor wire along the top of the barrier.

But when the people on the course matter to you, or even if you simply like them, it starts getting to you, tearing you apart. You catch a strange glance cast in your direction and start wondering what your friend has just learned on the course. What truths? What lies?

And what the student is learning about himself, about the world around him, his parents and friends . . .

And you have a dreadful, unbearable yearning to help. To explain, to hint, to prompt.

But no one who's been through the course will ever give way to that desire. Because that's what they're learning through their own pain and suffering – what to say and when.

Generally speaking, we can and should say everything. We just have to choose the right time, otherwise the truth can be worse than a lie.

'Olya?'

'You'll understand soon,' I said. 'Just wait a while.'

I glanced through the Twilight and hurled the car forward, flitting neatly between a clumsy jeep and a military truck. The mirror cracked as it folded back after clipping the edge of the truck – I didn't care. Our car was first across the intersection, tearing out on to the Highway of Enthusiasts.

'Is he in love with me?' Svetlana suddenly asked. 'Is he, yes or no? You must know, don't you?'

I shuddered and the car swerved, but Svetlana took no notice. I sensed it wasn't the first time she'd asked that question. She and Olga must have left a difficult conversation unfinished.

'Or is he in love with you?'

That was it. I couldn't keep quiet any longer.

'Anton is very fond of Olga,' I said, speaking both of myself and the owner of my body in the third person. It was rather artificial, but it gave an impression of cool, distant politeness. 'Comrades-inarms. Nothing more than that.'

If Svetlana asked Olga how she felt about me, it would be harder to avoid lying.

She didn't. And a moment later she touched my hand, as if she was asking me to forgive her.

But now I couldn't stop myself:

'Why do you ask?'

She answered simply, without hesitation:

'I don't understand. Anton is behaving very strangely. Sometimes he seems to be madly in love with me. And sometimes it's as if I'm just one of hundreds of Others that he knows.'

'A destiny node,' I said briefly.

'What?'

'You haven't studied that yet, Sveta.'

'Explain it to me, then!'

'You know,' I said, accelerating rapidly – that must have been the body's motor reflexes kicking in – 'you know, when he came to your place that first time—'

'I know that I was influenced. He told me,' Svetlana interrupted.

'That's not the point. The suggestion was removed when you were told the truth. But when you learn to see destiny – and you'll learn to see it a lot more clearly than I do – then you'll understand.'

'They told us that destiny is variable.'

'Destiny is polyvariable. But when he came to see you, Anton knew that if he succeeded in his assignment, he would fall in love with you.'

Svetlana didn't answer that. I thought I saw her cheeks colour slightly, but maybe that was just the wind in the open car.

'And what difference does that make?'

'Do you know what it's like to be condemned to love?'

'But isn't it always like that?' Svetlana asked, trembling with indignation. 'When people love each other, when they find each other out of thousands and millions of people. It's always destiny!'

Once again I sensed that infinitely naïve girl in her, the girl who couldn't hate anything except herself. The girl who was already beginning to disappear.

'No, Sveta, haven't you ever heard love compared to a flower?'

'Yes.'

'A flower can be grown, Sveta. But it can be bought too, or given as a gift.'

'Did Anton buy it?'

'No,' I said, rather too sharply. 'It was a gift. From destiny.'

'What difference does that make? If it is love?'

'Sveta, cut flowers are beautiful, but they don't live for long. They're already dying, even when they're carefully placed in a vase and given fresh water.'

'He's afraid of loving me,' Svetlana said thoughtfully. 'Isn't he? I wasn't afraid, because I didn't know all this.'

I drove up to the building, weaving between the parked cars, mostly Zhigulis and Moskviches. This wasn't a smart district.

'Why did I tell you all that?' asked Svetlana. 'Why did I make you answer? Just because you're four hundred and forty-three years old?'

I shuddered. Yes, a real wealth of experience. An immense wealth. Next year Olga would be celebrating a very special kind of birthday.

I'd like to believe my body would still be in such condition, even at a quarter of that age.

I left the car without putting on the alarm. No human would ever think of trying to steal it in any case: the protective spells provide greater security than any alarm system. Svetlana and I walked briskly up the steps without speaking and went into her apartment.

Things had changed a bit, of course. Svetlana had left her job, but her study grant and the initial allowance paid to every Other when they were initiated came to far more than her modest earnings as a doctor. She had a new TV, but I couldn't imagine when she found the time to watch it. It was a flashy widescreen model, too big for her apartment. I found this sudden yen for the good life amusing. It's something everyone goes through at the beginning – probably a defensive reaction. When your world crumbles around you, when the old fears and anxieties disappear and new ones, still vague and unfamiliar, take their place, everyone starts acting out some of the dreams from their former life that seemed so unreal only recently. Some go out to expensive restaurants, others buy flashy cars or haute couture clothes. It doesn't last for long, and not just because working in the Watch won't make you a millionaire. The very needs that seemed so compelling only yesterday begin to fade, disappearing into the past. For ever.

'Olga?'

Svetlana looked into my eyes.

I sighed, gathering my strength.

'I couldn't tell you earlier. We can only talk here. Your apartment is protected against observation by the Dark Ones.'

I could see that Svetlana already suspected the truth.

'This is only Olga's body,' I said.

'Anton?'

I nodded.

The two of us must have looked absurd.

It was a good thing Svetlana was already used to absurdity.

She believed me straight away.

'You bastard!'

Spoken in a tone that would have suited the aristocratic Olga. And the slap to my face came from the same opera libretto.

It didn't hurt, but it upset me.

'What's that for?' I asked.

'For eavesdropping on other people's conversations!' Svetlana snapped.

It wasn't an entirely accurate way of putting it, but I got the idea. When Svetlana raised her other hand, I ignored the Christian teaching and dodged the second slap.

'Sveta, I promised to take care of this body!'

'I didn't!'

Svetlana breathed heavily, biting her Up. Her eyes were blazing. I'd never seen her in such a fury, never even suspected she had it in her. Just what was it that had made her so furious?

'So, you're afraid to love cut flowers?' said Svetlana, advancing on me. 'That's your problem, is it?'

I got the idea. But it took a moment or two.

'Get out of here! Get out!'

I backed away until I bumped into the door. But the moment I stopped, Svetlana stopped too. She jerked her head to one side and yelled:

'Stay in that body! It suits you better, you're not a man, you're a spineless wimp!'

I didn't answer. I didn't say a word, because I could already see how it would go. I could see the probabilities stretching out ahead of us, destiny derisively weaving its pathways together.

And when Svetlana burst into tears, suddenly robbed of all her fighting spirit, and lowered her face into her hands, when I put my arm round her and she sobbed in relief on my shoulder, I felt cold and empty inside. The cold was piercing, as if I was again standing on a snow-covered roof in a blustery winter wind.

Svetlana was still human. There wasn't enough of the Other in her yet, she didn't understand, she couldn't see the road leading off into the distance, the road we were destined to follow. And so she couldn't see how that road divided in two, running in different directions.

Love is happiness, but only when you believe it will last for ever. Even though every time it turns out to be a He, it's only faith that gives love its strength and its joy.

Great knowledge brings great sorrow. How I wished I didn't know the inevitable future. I wished I didn't know it, and that I could love her without thinking twice, like an ordinary, mortal human being.

And what a pity that I wasn't in my own body.

To any outsider it might have looked like two women who were close friends had decided to spend a quiet evening in front of the TV taking tea with jam and chatting.

'You really like bread rolls, don't you?' Svetlana asked in surprise.

'Yes. With butter and jam,' I replied.

'I thought someone promised to take care of that body. . .'

'I'm not doing it any harm! Believe me, it's having a really great time.'

'Well,' Svetlana replied. 'You ask Olga afterwards how she takes care of her figure.'

I hesitated, but went ahead and cut another roll in half, then spread it generously with jam.

'And whose great idea was it to hide you in a woman's body?'

'The boss's, I think.'

'I thought it must be.'

'Olga supported him.'

'I should think so. She worships the ground Boris Ignatievich walks on.'

I had my doubts about that, but I kept quiet. Svetlana got up and went over to the wardrobe, opened it and looked thoughtfully at the hangers.

'Why don't you put on a robe?'

'What?' I said, choking on my roll.

'Are you going to sit around in the house like that? Those jeans are bursting on you. It must be uncomfortable.'

'Can't you find something like a tracksuit?' I asked pitifully.

Svetlana gave me a mocking glance and then relented.