This was not the first time a sitting Tsar had named him a traitor to the crown.  However, the fallout from this incident had catastrophic effects that rivaled the creation of the Fold.

Aleksander was in that transient place “between lives,” his last persona having been driven off a cliff like a herd of stampeding cattle.

Jurda Parem, he had learned, was not a tool to be wielded.  It was a harbinger of chaos and destruction.

The things he had seen—the way his Grisha had taken the drug into their systems and transformed into near-mythical gods and goddesses—were as magnificent as they were horrifying.

Unfortunately, what he thought to be carefully controlled experiments with the substance quickly disintegrated into a maelstrom of havoc and anarchy driven by indomitable Grisha.

The catastrophe was too large to cover up.

The Tsar and Court had seen the destruction and sounded the alarm.  ‘Grisha were enacting plans to overthrow the King with their distorted magic.’

The Black General was driven off a cliff to his death—or it at least appeared that way, with the help of a Tailor.

The Second Army was disbanded and hunted.

The Tsar’s heralds ran laps around Ravka, reading the same thing from village to village.

The Grisha attempted a coup. It failed.  With their powers, they slaughtered thousands of innocents. All Grisha are to be extracted from society like a splinter and put to death. The Grisha are an aberration of humanity and must be stopped.

There had been no ‘slaughtering of innocents,’ but the bit about being an aberration stuck.

Over the last couple decades, Ravka’s fear of Grisha grew and evolved, but their slurs remained: Aberrants. Perversions.

Older populations just adopted the Fjerdan drüsje. Drüsje, ’witch’ in Fjerdan, was lovingly taught to Ravkans by the Queen of Ravka, who found sudden favor among the people for her Fjerdan roots.

The Fjerdans had always seen the Grisha for the abomination they truly were—now Ravka would join them in the genocide of Grisha.

It was the Apparat who encouraged non-Grisha to think of themselves as pure.

The tenuous peace between Grisha and otkazat’sya was effectively severed, and the Apparat praised those who would turn in their neighbors.

From the pulpit, he emphasized the pure nature of humanity—orthodox, good. It was from this series of sermons, shared across Ravka, that all otkazat’sya began setting themselves further apart from the mutations that were Grisha, naming themselves Orthodox. Good, pure and normal.

In contrast, the Apparat named Grisha distinctly unorthodox, unholy aberrations of science. They could not be born after all—now we see how they can expand their powers through experimentation.

The Fold was simply an early example. A warning that was not properly heeded. It was not a mistake Ravka could afford to make a third time.

*******************

In the wake of the catastrophe, the Tsar disbanded the Second Army, scattering Aleksander’s soldiers into hiding under threat of public execution.

Fortunately, the King’s men were largely unsuccessful in locating the Grisha in the Little Palace—young children and teens, who had been evacuated with the help of Baghra and the tunnels.

She led them, as far as Aleksander knew, out of Ravka altogether and into hiding. Baghra had always been good at hiding.

Unfortunately, the General was unable to get to a party of his troops in time to help them.

They were returning from Kribirsk on mission, dirty, tired, and ready for their beds in the Little Palace, unaware of the turn in sentiment toward their kind.

They were ambushed on the Vy by King’s Men and First Army soldiers out on a new assignment: Grisha Patrol.

Every one of his Second Army soldiers died in the square in Os Alta.  The first of many public executions.

Five years after his "death,” Aleksander’s mother disappeared.

When she returned, some twenty years later, Baghra had only cryptic riddles to provide for him: “I have looked into the face of the living sun, and it was magnificent.”

“You have seen the Sun Summoner? There is a Grisha with such power? Where are they—are they protected?”

Excitement and panic rose within him in a duel for dominance.  This could change everything. This could be the way out of this mess.

His mother remained silent to his questions. Aleksander stepped back from her, unnerved.

“Why are you telling me this? I thought you completely objected to the idea of me with the Sun Summoner. Why taunt me with the existence of one now?”

She laughed. “You have nothing to offer Grisha now, boy. You have no power, no leverage. You would not take the Sun Summoner into the Fold and expand it to your will—even you know now is a terrible time to take such actions.”

“Yes, of course, that would be unwise right now, but—don’t you understand what this means? This could be the end of our persecution. A Sun Summoner who makes a safe passage through the Fold—the people of Ravka would weep and praise! That would begin to turn the tides for our people in the eyes of all of Ravka.”

Baghra sighed, shaking her head at him, “You hang your hopes too high. The modern world is against us once more—”

“They’ve always been against us. Before, they simply had a need for us—to use us,” he said with a hint of petulance.

“They had your Second Army. Yes, you are right. But your experimentations with Jurda Parem backfired spectacularly. The world might have been warming up to Grisha, but then you supercharged a few and brought down an entire population.”

Aleksander did not want to hear this. He turned from her, pacing and rubbing at his jaw.

“Perhaps the Sun Summoner could still be of use, though. The otkazat’sya still revere the idea of one as a saint. They want to see the Fold removed, the land reclaimed—”

“After all these years, you still need to be reminded.” Baghra grasped his shoulders, looking up into his face, imploring him to listen.

“You cannot trust them, Aleksander. Not any of them. Leave the Sun Summoner be, boy. Let Ravka move on and move forward. We will do better to let time pass than to act before…well, before anyone is ready.”

With a pat to his shoulder, she turned and left him again.

*********************

Even if it was in him to obey his mother, he could not have resisted his own curiosity. After centuries of waiting, he had to know—needed to see the Sun Summoner for himself.

It took a couple years of looking, traversing Ravka, asking after reports of an old woman, and following the rumors.

He knew Baghra’s patterns, the way she hid. Could find her dens and caves in the forests. Knew to call on children in the villages to find out what he needed to know. Children who were bought off with the rare sweet, and who observed everything.

The same report continued to crop up. After its repetition from multiple independent accounts, Aleksander was forced to accept the authenticity, though strange.

Several children mentioned hearing their parents speak of an elderly woman who came into town several years back.

This occurrence was notable in one singular fact: the elderly woman appeared to be with child.

The more he heard the strange rumor, the less mythical it became to his ears. The general otkazat’sya population took it as some sort of omen, and they venerated the vision of her as if they had witnessed a Saint in their midst.

Aleksander followed the rumors to every village and hamlet imaginable, emotions whirling in his chest at the various implications until finally, he resigned himself to the truth.

It appeared that even as she meant to make her exit from the world, Baghra underestimated the staying power of her own life force and somehow became with child once more.

Following these reports, he began to catch new rumors.

Innocuous tales of three passersby (quite unusual for this part of the country) in the form of a Shu woman, her elderly mother, and her small son.

The cruel gloating of his mother suddenly made sense.

His mother had dangled a carrot before him when they last spoke, claiming to have looked into the face of the ‘living sun.’

Baghra had birthed the Sun Summoner herself.

Of course. It fit well enough.  Fate was, indeed, this cruel.

It was fitting that Baghra should have birthed Aleksander, the greatest Shadow Summoner of all time, centuries before—at the beginning of her life.

And now, here at the end, as she stopped summoning and hoped for death, she had birthed his salvation.

He was the dark son. The one who brought ruin to his people.

Now there was another. A pure light, arrived from his mother near her death like some miracle to bring his people back out of the darkness.

Aleksander sighed. Even he could not be upset at the poetry of it.

After centuries of hoping and dwelling on the existence of a Sun Summoner, this was fulfilling a prophecy of sorts. No matter the circumstances of this brother of his, he could not find it in himself to be anything less than hopeful.

Baghra had raised him to be hidden and isolated. Friendless and ruthless.  Aleksander did not want that for his little brother.

He needed to meet the boy—to teach him and guide him. To help him to understand the mistakes Aleksander had made, and guide him through life in a way that Aleksander had been forced to navigate on his own.

*********************

When at last he tracked them down, set up in a bakery off the main street of a small village, Aleksander did his best to stay back and observe.

Despite having finally found his little brother and the woman who must have adopted him, it was a rather inauspicious day.

The townspeople of Staraya Dukh were gathered in the square, watching in near silence as Grisha Patrol Officers stood on a raised wood platform.

It seemed a young man had been discovered by the officers to be an Inferni disguised as a farmhand.

This was why people were often wary of travelers. Many were believed to be Grisha in disguise, or otherwise on the run from someone.

As Aleksander watched them stringing the man up by his hands, a long iron bar shackled to his wrists to prevent him summoning, they read the evidence of his ‘crimes' aloud, then specified the law for all to hear:

For crimes against the sovereign crown of Ravka, all Grisha, hereby understood as aberrations of humanity, unorthodox and inhuman, shall be put to death.

The last time Aleksander had witnessed a public execution of Grisha—his soldiers—the crowd had been brutal. Screaming for blood and calling out slurs.

Some twenty odd years later, the villagers here were present, but many looked dismayed and solemn.

The Inferni did not protest. Did not make a noise. He held his head up and ignored the jibes of the officers who were whispering cruelly and spitting in his face.

Aleksander could not watch the proceedings. Could not do a thing to save the poor soul, now that things had progressed this far.

He looked around the crowd, knowing that if Baghra were still with his brother, she would have brought him to watch the execution. It would have been a lesson.

Know now that no one will lift a finger to save you. You must protect yourself at all costs. They will prey on you the same as the tiger preys on the red deer.

There were several children in the square. Several with dark hair and fair skin. However, every report told him of a Shu woman. Those details had not changed once from village to village. She was not here.

He left the square to continue his search.

Watching from the darkness of the alley across the street, he cataloged every interaction of mother and son that took place.

Them in their little bakery.

A small, weedy boy of no more than seven and his ‘mother,’ half-Shu, with white flour clinging to her dark hair.

They were smiling at each other. The sight sat strangely in his chest. That bond was wholly unfamiliar.

Observing them, it was immediately clear that he would not be able to simply take the boy away and raise him.

The attachment between these two was strong. They would need to learn to trust him. Allow him to get close.

After all, he had rendered people in half with The Cut as a child. A powerful young Sun Summoner with someone to protect—a mother who cherished him—was dangerous.

He took in the details of the street. Quiet and sprinkled with empty buildings and few shoppers in the wake of the execution.

Eyeing the empty space next door to the bakery, Aleksander began to formulate his plan.

*********************

Within the span of three weeks, Staraya Dukh had added another business owner to their number.

Next door to the bakery, the little connected shop saw shelves going up the walls from the floors to the ceiling to accommodate the crates of books which were now arriving.

Staraya Dukh was one of the few villages that remained close to the Fold. The population was sparse, and they did not get many travelers due to the general fear of getting close to the looming wall of Shadow.

Few would choose to reside in the hamlet. Families who had stayed did so because of the generations of life poured into their lands or their businesses.  Land and businesses which they would not be able to give up without losing their livelihood. There was no one around to whom they could sell.

No outsider wished to buy any property in Staraya Dukh—a cursed village, if ever there was one.

And so it was a subject of great gossip when a petite young woman had arrived in town.  A presumed widow and her small son, who used her funds to purchase a decaying shop.

It took a few months, but soon the villagers had their very own bakery once more.

Coming to rely on her goods and services—and seeing she had passed the tests of the roving Grisha Patrol Officers in the spring—the locals grew to trust her and her son. Some to the point of fondness.

Despite this exception, the stranger who rolled into town the next year to purchase the empty shop next door to the bakery raised more than a few brows.

The addition of a book and tea shop off the main street seemed almost frivolous after the scarcity they had endured for decades.

To luxuriate over a hot cup of Ravkan Caravan with a spritz of lemon while perusing a book was decadent, to say the least. Whether he could be trusted would remain to be seen.

The villagers resolved not to get too attached until the Patrol came through again to ensure he would be allowed to live, much less run his little tea room in Staraya Dukh.

*********************

Electing to play it slow with his newfound neighbors, Aleksander set up shop, sleeping in the apartment upstairs and keeping to himself.

He had made eye contact with the adoptive mother on several occasions and was met only with suspicion.

Her son—his brother—on the other hand, often looked at him with open curiosity.

Other than a passive wave, Aleksander did his best to appear uninterested in them as he worked on restoring his side of the building.

The apartment upstairs needed the plaster patched, walls painted, and pipes repaired. Once he had a clean, dry place to sleep at night, he took on the storefront.

Aleksander built shelves, painted walls, and restored the broken windows. The fireplace needed to be cleared of debris, and the chimney properly swept. Two days were spent refinishing the double wooden doors which took up a large portion of the shared wall with the bakery next door.

It was locked on both sides—the wide wooden panels were double stacked and could retreat into the walls behind his shelves—but the woman next door would have to choose to open her side as well if they were to pass freely between the tea room and the bakery.

The sign outside was painted fresh in a careful hand to read ‘Antonov Books and Tea Room’ in red, white, and black.

While he worked, adding the finishing touches to the shop, Aleksander thought about how to approach a relationship with the little duo next door.

How to introduce himself, disarm them. Make them trust him.

Ultimately, it was unnecessary—the boy found him first.  The little tea room had only been open for a week or so with very little traffic at all. When the bell rang over the door, Aleksander sat up on his stool behind the counter, staring in awe at the small dark haired boy now tilting his head in survey.

“The shop’s open, isn’t it?” he asked.

Here he was—the Sun Summoner. Innocent and small as he stood in the same room as his brother. His opposite. A Shadow Summoner.

It was almost overwhelming.

“Ah-uh, yes. Welcome. Please look around,” Aleksander said, eyes lingering on the facial features of the boy. This was the closest he had ever been, and he was eager to see what similarities they might share.

He had never known family outside of Baghra.

“I know you,” Aleksander said. “You’re the little boy from next door, aren’t you? Does your mother know you are here?”

“I can handle myself pretty well,” he said, not turning away from the shelf.

Conversation was not easy with a sibling, he supposed. What do you talk about when you have a six-hundred-year age gap?

“Keen interest in religion, young master?”

“Nope. Just looking.”

“Will you at least tell me your name, lad?”

The boy hesitated for a moment. “Misha Starkov.”

Aleksander smiled, trying to bring a warmth to it that he wasn’t sure he possessed.

“It is nice to meet you, Misha. My name is Mr. Antonov. Can I interest you in books on folklore and mythology?”

Misha turned quickly, interest sparking in his eyes for the first time since he entered the shop. “You have those sort of books here?"

“Of course.” Aleksander directed him to the correct shelf, pulling out a few books of interest and placing them on a small table for Misha to sit at while he looked.

The boy spent the afternoon leafing through volumes, asking questions, turning up his nose at certain stories he’d heard before. After a few hours, he relocated to the corner armchair, nestled like a cat with books stacked around him.

As he observed him, Aleksander did not notice any particular trait that might reveal his true identity. Not so much as a faint glow.

Then again, he hardly knew what to expect in a Sun Summoner.

When the day was coming to a close, Misha got to his feet and put everything back on the shelf—their correct shelf, even.

He pulled his hat on his head, stopping before he reached the door. “Er—thank you, Mr. Antonov, for letting me look at your books.”

“Of course. You are welcome to come back tomorrow if you like, young Mr. Starkov.”

“I-well I-thanks but I can’t buy anything so…”

Aleksander smiled at him. “Your mother is the baker, right?”

Misha nodded, guarded as he stepped back.

“I happen to have something of a sweet tooth. Bring me a slice of whatever looks best tomorrow and, provided you keep your hands clean, I would be happy to share my books and my armchair with you, free of charge.”

Misha brightened. “J-just a pastry or slice of cake?”

“Yes. Something to go with my tea in the afternoons would be best.”

“I can do that, sir. Thank you again!” Misha scurried out.

Misha made good on his promise, arriving early the next day with a slice of honey cake in tow.

He lingered in the same section as the previous day, selected his books, and returned to his chair.

For a week or so, Misha loitered in his shop, reading books and drinking a cup of tea on occasion while Aleksander contemplated what to do about the mother and how to begin conversation with a child.

Misha did not fret so much, often surprising Aleksander with his abrupt questions—

“Don’t you have any friends?” Misha asked Aleksander on the fifth day.

He laughed, taken aback. “I am new in town. I’m afraid you are the only person I see regularly.”

Misha nodded in understanding and not-so-hidden pity, and Aleksander found himself laughing again.

“As you are a seven-year-old who spends his days with his nose stuck in a book, I’m more concerned if you have any friends.”

Misha shrugged, biting off a piece of apple Aleksander had shared with him around lunch.

“Your mum knows you come here, doesn’t she?”

Misha avoided his eyes. “Sure.”

Aleksander was not convinced.

“Well then, I had better go see if there are any books she would like to see more of so I might entice her to spend her days in my shop like her son.” He took long strides to his store front.

“Wait! Don’t!” Misha scrambled to stop him, closing the tome in his lap with effort. “Look, she doesn’t exactly know this is where I go everyday.”

“Where does she think you are?”

“I might have told her I found a group of kids who play marbles in the square. I’ve sort of been making up activities with them ever since.” Misha stared at his shoes dangling off the edge of the chair, doing his best to look pitiful.

“And she lets you go without question?”

“I told you I can handle myself. She doesn’t worry too much.”

Aleksander sighed. “Misha, I do not wish to stop you coming to my shop everyday. But as a fellow adult, I cannot keep this secret from your mum.”

Misha rolled his eyes, his head hitting the back of the armchair with a thunk. “Fine. But let me tell her, okay?”

“Do it soon, and you have a deal.”

Aleksander walked back around the counter, pulling a book down from the shelf behind it. “And since she doesn’t know you are here, I suspect I should swing by to pay for all the treats you have brought for me.”

Misha waved his hand at that. “Don’t bother, everything I bring you is in what she calls a ‘bad batch’—she can’t sell those. It would upset her if she knew anyone but me saw them.”

“Bad…how?” Aleksander asked, knowing full well he had finished every bite of cake and pastry brought to him that week.

“Bad because it looks too ugly to go in the case, or because she cut it too big or too small. She usually gives them to me. I’ve just been bringing them to you instead.”

Just then the baker herself passed in front of the shop windows, crossing the street to meet the delivery from the grain mill, a man unloading a crate of flour from his cart.

“Your mother seems awfully young to have a seven-year-old.” Aleksander said, watching the summer sun glimmer on her black hair. She was quite beautiful as well, though Aleksander liked to think he was too old to notice things like that anymore.

The way the man from the grain mill was speaking to her, lingering over her shipment, he thought that he was not the only one to notice this fact.

Misha shrugged. “I’m adopted. My mother died in childbirth, but then my mum found me and decided to raise me as her own.”

“Do you and your mum get along well?”

Misha scratched behind his ear absently. “Of course. She’s…my mum.”

The boy really was perplexed by the question. As if it had no merit, or no other possible answer.

Jealousy like Aleksander had not known before bubbled up inside of him.  Memories peppered his vision. Memories of Baghra leaving him alone in a cave, telling him off for trying to make friends, moving him around the world in hiding for months on end.

Crippling loneliness, smacks from a cane, chiding words when he had simply voiced a desire for anything.

He loved his mother—their mother—but he would not have ever said they got along well.

Aleksander tore his eyes away from the woman on the street.

“Misha,” he said, waiting for the boy to meet his eyes, “I’ll give you two days to come clean to your mum. Otherwise, I’m telling her myself.”

Misha groaned again but stifled it under an arched brow and stern look from Aleksander.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Antonov. I will.”

*********************

It did not take two days, however. That evening, Aleksander stood in front of his cashier’s counter, taking inventory with the company of the delightfully delicious pastry Misha brought him that afternoon.

Though he inspected it for ugliness, he found none. How this could be considered a ‘bad batch,’ he did not know.

The bite melted in his mouth, and Aleksander closed his eyes in response.

“So. You like those after all.”

He choked.

Coughing, he turned to the sound of the voice. “P-Pardon me? Oh.”

The baker of said pastry stood in the small gapped opening between their shops.

At last, she had opened her own panel doors. Through the gap, he could see the little bistro tables of the bakery, the calming blue-green coloring of the walls.

“It’s you—I mean…You must be Misha’s mother.”  Stifling his surprise at the interruption, he lifted the half eaten pastry in his hand. “And, incidentally, the baker of this particularly delicious Plushki.”

“Alina Starkova,” she supplied, walking into his shop without invitation. “And you must be the person my son has been spending his time with all week when he lies and tells me he is going to play marbles in the square.”

Aleksander opened and closed his mouth, blushing and surreptitiously wiping the sugar from his beard.

“Alexei Antonov,” he lied, extending his hand to hers.

He had wondered idly if Baghra would leave the Sun Summoner in the hands of a defenseless otkazat’sya.

When she took his hand, openly inspecting him, he tried to call on her power–any power. Nothing happened, save a strange look she gave him for lingering beyond the normal length of formality.

That question settled, he continued.

“And about the pastries—I told your son I insisted on coming to pay for them, but he advised they were fished out of the bad batch, and it would only upset you to see them.”

Alina had trouble stifling her laugh. “Yeah, well, I’ve been on to him for a while. I started making one ‘bad’ pastry from each batch to try and smoke him out. An ugly pastry here, a poorly cut slice of Medovik there—”

“That sounds like an irresponsible thing to do as a business owner.”

She brushed it off, turning to inspect the titles. “I keep a close enough eye on my margins to know where I can make allowances."

He smirked, surprised at her humor.

“As for your son, I only just found out he was lying to you. I sent him back today to make his confessions.”

Alina stared at him, once more checking for truth. Seemingly she found it, because she turned back to the shelves, reaching for a red hardback.

Aleksander watched her with bright curiosity.

Misha was forward and bold—that was no surprise, given the blood line and traits they must share—but this woman…

Something about her forced him to straighten up where he stood, bringing him to attention so he did not miss a detail about her. Her words, her voice, her gestures.

Simply put, he was caught in an inexplicable fascination with the woman.  It was unsettling.

“I knew Misha was lying. That was what was important.”

“Why didn’t you confront him about it?”

She laughed again. He shifted on his feet.

Aleksander was not used to being the subject of a joke, could not remember the last time someone had a laugh at his expense.

Alina’s smile was warm, though, and Aleksander squinted at it, feeling it inside as the warmth spread through him.

“I would prefer Misha believe himself to be a good liar rather than learn how to get better at concealing things from me.”

Intriguing parenting method. Quite the opposite of Baghra.

Do you not own a cane? Aleksander wished to ask.  His own private joke at her expense.

Instead, he queried, “But what if Misha had been unsafe here?”

“That is precisely why I am here to meet you. I couldn’t put it off any longer.”

Alina put the book back on the shelf, leaning against it and crossing her arms over her chest. Her gaze was penetrating, and her previously warm expression had hardened, turning cold.

Aleksander was reminded fiercely of the mother bear, guarding her young in the wild, assessing for threats.

“You…do not like me, do you, Mrs. Starkova? What am I to have done?”

“Miss—and your sudden arrival into the village is…disruptive.”

Aleksander scoffed, setting the rest of the Plushki on the counter in protest of her attitude. His pride could not afford to pay her the compliment of finishing her product in front of her.

“Surely no more so than yours was when you first blew into town.”

Why was he so irritated by her disposition?  She was right to dislike him. Right to be suspicious.

And yet he heard himself adding, “You had baked goods and a pretty smile to win over the local skeptics. Have pity on me, for I have neither.”

Despite the way she rolled her eyes at him, she blushed.

Something warm prickled inside of him again at the sight.  He pressed it down. Now was not the time.

“Don’t be self-deprecating, Mr. Antonov. You have an attractive sort of look about you and something akin to charm, so you are not good at pulling off self-deprecating. Besides, I am not in the business of pitying men. It can be a fatal mistake for a woman, don’t you agree?”

Aleksander blinked at her, opening and closing his mouth again. Where had his mother found this woman?

No doubt she had picked a good protector for the Sun Summoner. This Starkova woman was uncomfortably adept. Wheedling Misha from her grasp would be an arduous task.

Deciding to start small, he stepped forward, moving around the cashier counter to the shelves behind.

“Do not have pity for me, then. Instead, please accept a token of my gratitude for the pastries with a return on the goods I have to trade.”

Running his hands over the titles, he selected one, bringing it down from the shelf and gesturing to her to join at his side.

With a wary glance at him, Alina grasped the book, opening the front flap.

Inside the front page, a small symbol was drawn in thin black ink.  A cluster of ten lines, five on each side, drawn together into a point in the middle.

To an Orthodox eye, it might look like the drawing on the sides of the grain mill—similar to a bundle of wheat, strung tight in the middle and bowing out on the ends.

For Grisha, the hidden and the hunted, the little drawing signified safety, sympathy, and invitation from the person who held it.

The symbol, five lines on each side connected in the middle, represented the meeting of two hands touching at the wrists. A simple summoning gesture.

Alina’s eyes skimmed over the lines.

He watched her for a reaction.

She looked bored, turning the page without a pause.

Aleksander squinted at her. Was she a good liar?  Or had Baghra not taught her the symbol at all?

It had been his mother’s idea—something she spread to Grisha far and wide as she ferried people out of the capital and into hiding.

He supposed, if he thought about it, she might not have shared its meaning with Alina for fear of anyone learning of the existence of the Sun Summoner. Meaning to keep both Alina and Misha isolated, just as he had been his whole life.

Alina continued flipping through the pages, not looking up as she spoke.

“It is dangerous to keep books on these subjects in your shop. You know that, don’t you?"

The book itself was one of his personal collection. Early writings on the powers of Grisha, their suspected origins, and a catalog of various abilities.

Aleksander chose his words with care. “It is even more dangerous to see the direction of public discourse and do nothing to interrupt the loudest voices. If even one person in this town can find a different point of view to consider, it will be well worth it.”

Alina stiffened next to him, continuing to skim the pages on Materialki. "You are playing a reckless game.”

He understood her dilemma. It was not simply that it was a reckless game for him. It put her son in danger. The proximity of Misha to this potentially volatile idea—someone who publicly disagreed with the Tsar and Ravka about the fate of Grisha—meant Misha would be less safe.

If Alina were truly concerned about the book shop potentially being a magnet for trouble, she might leave.

Aleksander was suddenly fearful of losing her—losing them. That one night they may disappear from his life altogether. All this work to find them and establish their trust, lost in an evening.

“I-I will do everything in my power to ensure I am careful and that those around me do not endure any measure of retribution for my risks.”

“You were not very careful in showing me, just now. I am a perfect stranger.”

“Perhaps there is something about you that I find…trustworthy.”

A flash of fear stole over her features. Fear that he already knew about Misha, perhaps?  The next second, her expression was blank once more.

“Bold of you, Mr. Antonov.”

He laughed. “You have no idea. Come, I wish to show you one of my favorite philosophers. If you have time to look over his writings, perhaps we could discuss your thoughts next week over tea?” She began to shake her head but he persisted. “On Wednesday afternoons, the shop is open to groups of people to do readings or share their thoughts together. It…well, it has not quite picked up yet, but I am certain it will.”

He thought her expression might have lost a little edge—that she was slightly more relaxed with him, or that she was at least curious as she followed him to the shelf.

Then again, with the way he dwelled on their interaction long after she left his shop, he was more concerned about his own sudden curiosity for her.

Alina Starkova.

She was a means to an end. Nothing more. He would steal her son from her. She would come to hate him. This would be the way of things.

Aleksander could not afford to forget this truth.

*******************

Establishing his Wednesday afternoon gatherings was arduous work, but he advertised to anyone who came in the shop.

It was to be a time for the locals to come and sit with their friends, have a hot cup of Ravkan Caravan, and converse about any manner of subjects.

Four weeks into it, and his only regulars were a boy who continued to pay him in sweets and a man whom he understood used to be the blacksmith, but who had since lost most of his vision and therefore could not read his books.

In the interim of such lulls in business, Misha kept him on his toes.

Aleksander realized now that the boy had been somewhat shy in that first week, but since then, he rarely held back–raining down a litany of questions spanning several subjects.

There was no denying the intelligence of the boy, who sat in his chair and processed engineering and mathematical books interspersed with questions on carpentry, metalwork and masonry in-between.

Is this who Aleksander could have been, with a mother who fostered his curiosity?

He had hidden in caves and researched in private and obsessed over his own thoughts, whereas Misha pondered aloud without a hint of unease. He naturally assumed that if he was pondering a subject, Aleksander might be interested in working through it too.

When Misha did not understand a concept well and had to be corrected by Aleksander, he took the blow with a nod and a head scratch and then blew forward with his next question, determined to circle closer to the truth of the thing. No embarrassment, no shame.

It was incredible. Aleksander was envious. Aleksander was…enjoying their conversations.

“What I don’t understand about light is how, if I use the light from your fireplace here to shine through my glass like this, nothing of much consequence happens, does it?”

Misha crossed to the front of the shop where the afternoon sun lit up the front windows with an orange glow.

“And yet when I do the same thing with my glass, directing the sun beams, I can start a small fire.” Misha held up the dead leaf, now smoking in the middle.

Autumn had started in Staraya Dukh.

“Do you have a book that can help me understand this principle?”

Aleksander’s ears were perked. An interest in the sun. Naturally.

“I do have several books on light, but it is my understanding that the latest research out of Ketterdam has not been able to crack that question yet. Now,” Aleksander crossed to the opposite wall, “what do you know about infrared radiation?”

Some afternoons, when the sun had warmed the crispness of the autumn morning away, Misha would sit out in front of his shop, reading at one of the tables in front of the bakery.

Aleksander brought him cups of hot water with lemon and sugar while he read.

When another little boy popped up one day, interrupting Misha from his reading, Aleksander almost flinched with the effort to stop himself from intervening.

Do not go seeking time with other children. It is a fool’s errand. They will find out what you are, and they will seek to take your power from you.

Misha was not Aleksander.  Was perhaps not an amplifier and had, so far, concealed his powers from someone like himself who was looking for them constantly.

So though he knew it was dangerous for Misha to be friends with otkazat’sya while Grisha were still hunted and executed, he knew he had better let the boy try things anyway.

*******************

One morning, Misha did not show up. Nor did he come the day after. He had mentioned he would be working on a project and had asked to borrow a few books on engineering, heat conduction, and a book of recipes from the prior century.

Aleksander had not realized how long the project would take him.

From time to time, he could be seen in the alley behind their shops, dragging large pieces of metal and discarded pipes.

He waved to Aleksander from the front windows as he disappeared down the streets and returned hours later, buckets of bricks or coals weighing down his journey.

This was a rather lonely stretch for Aleksander. Surprised to realize that he missed the company of the boy, Aleksander turned back to his early journals, making the effort to get reacquainted with the child he had once been—preparation for when Misha did return and they could have new discussions.

In the evenings, he heard the sounds of metal clanging and smelled burning. He lay in his bed in the upstairs apartment, wondering what his two neighbors were up to and whether he might see them again soon.

Alina had stayed away since that first visit, though she had not yet returned the book he gave her. Something about that small fact buoyed his hope.

*******************

The day Aleksander adopted a stray cat into his home was the same day the Grisha Patrol Officers returned to Staraya Dukh.

He had lingered in the back alley, hoping to run into Misha as he stacked empty crates against the wall, when a small gray tabby weaved between his legs.

He had never been particularly fond of pets. Or rather, they were never particularly fond of him. But as this one looked up at him with its teal-jewel eyes and mewled, he sighed.

Ushering the cat in the back door, he took down an unused saucer and filled it with milk, petting the cat as it lapped vigorously.

It would be nice to have someone else around, for a change.

The bell over the door rang, and Aleksander stood up from behind the counter, his smile of greeting fading as he noted the trio of men in First Army uniforms congregating at the front.

The frisson of fear that vibrated down his spine was virtually hidden on his blank face.

“Good afternoon, Officers.” His eyes lingered on the red and gold patches over their left breast pockets.

GP Grisha Patrol

“Afternoon, Mr…Antonov, is it?” The middle member of the group stepped forward, looking around at the shelves, reading the labels of the subjects closest to him.

“Alexei Antonov, yes. Can I interest you in a cup of tea, Officer…?” He was smooth and unhurried as he asked.

“Volkov,” he said, taking in Aleksander’s features with a grimace. “And I think not. You’re new to town, are you? You aren’t listed on our roster for this region.”

Quite suspicious. New to town and unlisted in the region.  They were predators, waiting to pounce.

“I am new since this summer. I had to leave my last home due to a blight. Surely you heard about it? It took out crops all along the northern border.”

They did relax marginally as they consulted each other—this rumor had matriculated to the south by now, and it held up.

“The work of some drüsje they think, Volkov,” one of the supporting officers grunted, the slur dripping off his tongue as if he were a native Fjerdan. Aleksander seethed inside.

Volkov considered this and granted a short nod in return.

“Very well. I assume you still have your registration card, Mr. Antonov? That didn’t get lost in the move, I hope.” The tone in his voice was dangerous, and Aleksander arched a brow in response.

“Of course. It’s kept upstairs in my apartment. Will you permit me to retrieve it?”

That he even had to ask permission to leave the room made his insides writhe. His shadows could wrap around their throats in the span of ten seconds and hollow out their insides in another ten.

“Smirnoff!” Volkov said, startling the young boy behind him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Escort, Mr. Antonov. Ensure he does not intend to…escape the will of the Tsar.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy’s voice had a nervous tremor to it, but he followed Aleksander through the back room and up the stairs.

The cat scurried between them, nearly tripping Smirnoff in his haste to stick to Aleksander.

It was strange to experience the sense of comfort he felt as the dark gray fur brushed against his ankles.

“It’s just here, in my study,” Aleksander said, pointing to a small, dark room, devoid of windows.

“L-light a candle. Let me see it,” the young officer said, hesitant to follow Aleksander into the pitch black.

He let his shadows loose, further obscuring the room, and the boy could be heard from the doorway once more. “I said light a candle, s-scum.”

The insult was clunky on his tongue. Like a child who learned a curse word at the foot of a seasoned veteran, but had not yet learned to mean it.

The cat slipped into the room without hesitation, finding Aleksander’s legs and pushing his warm body into them.

“I am working on it, Mr. Smirnoff,” Aleksander said mildly. “I seem to have misplaced the matches. You understand I was not prepared for your visit today, but it seems prudent that I collect my card so you can do your test.”

“Don’t you have matches somewhere else?” he asked, trying to be helpful and authoritative in one.

Aleksander laughed. “Probably yes—downstairs. It would not be wise to return downstairs without my registration, don’t you agree?”

“Erm…yes. Right—” Smirnoff said, shuffling his feet.

“I happen to be able to open my desk just fine in the dark—I take my proof of registration very seriously, you understand,” he advised, opening the middle drawer with his shadows and silently extracting a small blade.

From the doorway, he heard Smirnoff click back the hammer on his revolver.

“H-hurry up, then.” The boy squinted into the room, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Unaware that they were not likely to ever pierce the fog of shadow. Aleksander did not doubt the boy would shoot anyway, not caring whether he could see.

Aleksander moved the collar of his tunic aside, taking a deep breath and slicing a harsh cut into his upper back.

He exhaled through his nose and put the dark fabric of his tunic back in place.

“Found it,” he called, cricking his neck as he wiped the bloody knife clean and slid it into his back pocket.

The sting of a fresh wound was familiar now. How many times in the last twenty years had he submitted to this test? How many scars did he have now?

The cat purred at his feet.

Downstairs, the remaining officers had taken to redecorating—presumably looking for a hidden room behind the shelves, because neither of them stared at the titles as they tossed books onto the floor behind them.

He clenched his jaw and extended the yellowing card to them.

“The seal is crumbling,” Volkov muttered, rubbing the wax from his thumb as he squinted at the Lantsov Coat of Arms, looking for inaccuracies, or signs of counterfeiting.

“I apologize. It has been a while since I’ve come across the Patrol offering replacement cards. Perhaps you could tell me when you will do that here in Staraya Dukh?” Aleksander said.

“Smirnoff!” Volkov barked, his eyes still on the card, counting the stamps.

“U-uh, it’s typically in the…spring?” he said, looking at his fellow officer who grunted in confirmation.

“Well then, I will be first in line, Officer Volkov.”

Volkov was looking at him now, “Assuming you pass the test today, you mean?”

He was watching for signs of anxiety.

Aleksander smiled, the cat hissing from between his legs. “After the number of tests I’ve endured, I know what I am and what I am not, Officer.”

He presented his arm, lifting the sleeve up to his elbow to reveal dozens of small white scars.

“Smirnoff. You take this one. Should be easy for you, a veteran like this.”

Volkov was still eyeing Aleksander with distrust, but he stepped away so Smirnoff could pull out his testing key. A long rod of Grisha steel, no bigger than a pencil, with a large eye at the end for hooking onto their belts.

The sight of the instrument tested his resolve. Grisha steel testing keys, designed by him, crafted by his Fabrikators and then plundered from the Little Palace—only to be issued to these otkazat’sya scumbags.

Weapons to hunt Grisha, created by Grisha.

He looked into Smirnoff’s eyes, even and measured. Smirnoff would not meet his gaze.

The blood from his upper back was creeping down his shoulder blade. His shirt stuck to the gash where it was congealing and crusting. He displaced the fabric with a roll of his shoulders, reopening the wound.

The fresh wave of pain was reassuring. This never failed.

“This-uh…this might hurt a bit, Mr. Antonov,” Smirnoff stuttered.

“Might hurt a bit?” Volkov sneered in a mimicking voice. “Are you going to kiss it better when you’re done, too, boy? Do it already,” Volkov demanded.

The bite of the steel cut a fresh line into his forearm.  Red blood rushed to the surface.

His shadows swirled inside of him, but did not escape.

“Well then. Welcome to Staraya Dukh, Mr. Antonov,” Officer Volkov said, adding a tick to the card and handing it back to Aleksander.

Shaking his sleeve down over his arm, he pulled a pleasant smile for them.

“Can I offer you a cup of Ravkan Caravan before you go, gentlemen? I promise you haven’t had anything as good in this region.”

Volkov was lifting his hat from his head, wiping at the sweat pooled under the wool. The fireplace kept the shop too warm in the afternoons when Aleksander was unable to tend to it properly.

“Go on then,” the officer answered with a dismissive nod, kicking aside the books he had thrown the floor as he crossed to a table.

As Aleksander stood in the back kitchen, heating a pot to boil, he heard a shuffle in the back alley. Quietly, he opened the door.

“Misha,” he whispered.

However, it was Alina who appeared from around the pile of crates.

“Mr. Antonov, what—” she began.

“The Grisha Patrol Officers are here. They have already tested me, and I’ve persuaded them to stay for a cup of tea.”

Her eyes were wide.

“I was wondering if you would not like to bring a few of your Plushkis over for their enjoyment. They would be most agreeable if you did.” The urgency on his face was ill-concealed.

Did Alina know how to keep Misha from failing the test? Surely she must. They had survived this long, and she was decidedly, inconveniently, not a simpleton.

Her wide-eyed expression melted into nothing, and she smiled a tight smile.

“That is a good idea. I will be over with Misha and something fresh shortly,” she said, turning quickly.

He hoped that would be enough warning for her to do what needed to be done.

As Aleksander carried the hot pot to their table, he informed them of treats which would soon accompany their tea.

“My neighbor was emptying the trash in our shared alley, and she consented to bring over some of her baked goods.”

“That Shu woman?” Volkov asked.

“Yes,” he said tightly. “She should be along shortly.” He filled their tea cups, setting the pot down, and retreated to the kitchen to get the forgotten sugar bowl.

“You’ll like this one, boy,” Volkov said across the table to Smirnoff. His voice carried across the shop.

“She’s Shu, but that just means she’s all the more tight for us big Ravkans!” Volkov violently grasped at his crotch, and the laughter of the two older Officers devolved into bellowing guffaws.

Before he could get through the next step, Aleksander’s fingers closed over a thin blade of Shadow—conjured on instinct from air and matter and rage.

It was lifted up in one moment, poised for release, and in the next, the bell above the door was ringing.  The Darkling dropped his hands, watching as the blade dissolved into mist.

Alina’s eyes met his with a weak smile, her hands carrying a tray of assorted tea cakes into the shop. She looked down at the floor, navigating the piles of discarded books with a grimace.

“Misha, pull that table closer to the Officers, please. I need to set this down.”

Misha rushed forward, grasping onto the marble edge of the closest table and tugging. It was heavy, and Aleksander stepped forward to help him maneuver it across the floor.

When it was settled, Alina set the tray down and lingered uncomfortably. “Here are our registration cards, whenever you’re ready.”

Aleksander stiffened where he stood, not allowing himself to move between her and the men who joked about raping her one minute ago.

Drawing any amount of attention would make her a greater target.

“Just a minute now, rybka—the tea is hot, and you’ve just brought us the most lovely little cakes,” Volkov said to her breasts.

Aleksander opened his mouth to speak, but Smirnoff was already getting to his feet.

The way the young officer stared at Alina, it was immediately clear he was sweet on her. Smirnoff pulled his hat back on his head and began to take out his key once more.

“It’s all right, I’ll take care of these two as well.” The boy tripped over Volkov’s chair leg, and the other two officers burst out with another round of guffaws.

“Such an eager recruit, this one, ain’t he?” Volkov jerked his thumb at Smirnoff.

The other officer grunted a chuckle back.

Alina pulled up her sleeve and looked at Smirnoff with an enchanting smile that sickened Aleksander. At his feet, his cat weaved through his ankles as if waiting for Aleksander’s signal to attack someone.

Deciding it would be better to have his hands occupied, he bent and lifted the cat into his arms, scratching behind its ears as he watched Alina submit her forearm for the test.

He barely blinked and it was over, Alina was pulling her sleeve low and crouching down to help Misha with his test. She lifted him onto the cashier counter with ease and drew his sleeve up to his elbow, all the while chatting with Smirnoff about his budding career in the military.

Smirnoff was quick with the test once more, and Alina was smoothly guiding Misha’s sleeve down his arm with one hand, sliding their registration cards across the table with the other.

The young officer blushed at something Alina was saying, taking out his stamp to mark their cards, when Aleksander saw it.

Three large drops of deep red on the white stone tile at their feet.

It was not uncommon to bleed from a test.  It was uncommon to bleed enough to drip.

Aleksander’s eyes raked over Misha, pausing on one of his hands. The sleeves he wore were long, but Aleksander could see where blood had streamed down his palm and off his fingers. The blood was dripping off his untested arm.

“Misha,” Aleksander called. Alina jumped, turning to him in alarm. Aleksander remained calm, petting the cat in his arms. “Come look here—I’ve found this cat in the alley and decided to keep it. I will need help naming him, though.”

Aleksander crouched to his knees, waiting for Misha to come close enough that he could whisper.

“Do not jump. Do not look. You are dripping blood from your left hand onto the floor.”

Misha froze. His small chest stuttered with his shaking breaths.

“Don’t worry. Pet the cat with your good hand and cover the other with your sleeve so it will stop dripping on the floor.”

Aleksander shuffled closer, peaking around the cat to see Misha follow the instructions.

“Good. I’m going to send you home now,” he whispered, getting to his feet and turning into the stern shopkeeper once more. “Now, I think you still have the book of fables I lent you last week. Please bring it back at once—another customer has requested it.”

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Antonov, I’ll go get it.”

Aleksander’s eyes met Alina’s, a mixture of relief and confusion on her face at the sequence of events.

“I’ll be along soon, Misha,” she called around Officer Smirnoff, who was still trying to hold her attention.

The bell over the door rang as Misha opened it—

“Stop,” Volkov said from his table.

He set down his tea cup and stood.  Volkov’s eyes were on the floor. “Is one of you bleeding?”

Alina opened her mouth to speak, but Aleksander cut her off, his hand lifting smoothly out of his back pocket where he had stored his knife.

“I believe I cut myself on the marble table when I moved it.”

He held out his hand for inspection, revealing a long cut in his palm. Volkov wrinkled his nose at it. “After you were tested, weren’t it?”

Volkov looked to Smirnoff for confirmation. The young officer nodded vigorously. “That’s the arm I tested as well, his palm was clear before. No cuts.”

“Right,” Volkov grunted, picking up his hat from the table and tucking it under his hand.

“All this bleeding and mess,” he looked at the sprawling books with disgust, “has lost me my appetite.”  He picked up a cake and pushed it into his mouth.

“For the road,” he said with a heavy swallow.

“Come on Smirnoff, Laskin—we have a few more to test on this street before the day is done.” The other two officers followed suit, gathering their hats and following Volkov out the door.

Misha still stood at the front, holding it open for them as they passed.

Smirnoff looked back at Alina, blushing as he smiled and waved goodbye to her.

When they were gone, Aleksander crossed the shop in three strides and flipped the lock on the door, curses falling from his breath with increasing anger as he let out the pent up anxiety.

“Do…do you still want your book back now? Mr. Antonov?” Misha was still shaking, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Aleksander glared down, unseeing. “What? No. No, of course not.” He clutched the wrist of his newly injured hand and brought it up for inspection.

“You did nothing wrong, Misha,” Alina said gently, sending a glower to Aleksander and kneeling before her son.

“Are you all right?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes. The boy blinked rapidly. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, and then his face crumpled.

“Oh Mishka,” Alina sighed, bracing herself as Misha fell over her shoulders, sobbing into her neck.

Aleksander watched them, perplexed and dismayed.

Misha could have been taken away. His blunder almost cost him his life. Alina’s, too—she would have been charged with harboring him and helping him cheat on the test.

Misha had been inattentive. Bleeding all over the place in front of Grisha Patrol Officers.

Aleksander was enraged. He was…scared. If Misha and Alina had been taken, dragged from the shop before his eyes while he watched—

“Thank you, Mr. Antonov,” Alina said, looking up at him and still rubbing Misha’s back. “You didn’t have to do that, but…I appreciate it. Misha had been building something when they arrived. He cut himself by accident, and we knew the officers would not like the timing of that, so we just threw a shirt on him and hoped for the best.”

Alina stared up into his face, spinning the bald-faced lie with an effortlessness that took his breath away.

“You know how brutal the patrol can become—even with us Orthodox people. It frightens him whenever we have to get tested.” Alina got to her feet, lifting Misha into her arms as she stood.

Aleksander was speechless. Was she really going to pretend as if the three of them did not now know that Misha was—well, the opposite of Orthodox?

Alina glanced around at the shop, distressed as she took in the mess. “They really are scoundrels. I would stay to help you clear up, but—”

Aleksander found his voice at last. “Please, Miss Starkova, take Misha home. I’ll return your tray in the morning.”

The grateful smile she gave him was unsettling in its lack of guilt, further confusing his good senses.

Was there a chance that her son actually wasn’t Grisha?  That all of this really was an unhappy coincidence?

When they left, he locked the door behind them once more, sighing as he looked around.

Books and blood on the floor. Dirty cups and crumbs on the tables.  His registration card, still sitting on the counter.

At his feet, the cat curled around his ankles, purring.

————

Follow the link below for the rest of the fic

As she stepped into the woods, she held her lantern out in front of her.

Around her neck was a newly fashioned bouquet of sage, coriander, mint and mallow all bound together with the last of her red ribbon and tied like a necklace.

Protection which had worked well enough for her on the last visit until she dropped it.

While she walked, she thought about the light inside of herself. Sought it out like the pinpointing of a sound in the distance. Searching and turning within until it emerged.

The glow was faint but present as it presented in her palms. The chanting in the woods was still present but muffled now, less dangerous. Alina followed her light in a new direction.

Once more she found the lost little stream and followed the path until the stream tapered off, ending at a dam of rocks.

Alina held the lantern aloft, the gas-fueled glow brighter than her hands.

She turned in a circle, startling at a large mass yards away. The warmth of the light urged her and she followed.

A shattered cottage emerged from the darkness.

Alina paused, her light was drawing her to go around the structure, behind it.

Still, her curiosity was growing and though her light persisted, tugging at her, Alina turned toward the house anyway.

With the help of the lantern she found the door, throwing herself against it with some force before it opened.

It looked as though a great storm had blown through the place.

Split beams angled down from the ceiling. Walls were crumbled down, littering the floor. Wallpaper, torn and molded and personal items could be seen strewn beneath the debris.

It had been a home once.

Lining one wall was a built-in curio cabinet with dangling doors, broken panes and a mess of items. It was virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the debris except for the sparkling glimmer of something winking at her, reflecting the lantern light back.

Cautious, Alina stepped over and around the splintered wood beams, tottering across long sheets of the fallen ceiling. The moonlight above her winked through the gaps in the roof where long standing leaks wore away the integrity of the boards overhead.

Reaching into the curio, she clutched at the glimmering object. Her hand closed around a piece of mirror glass, no bigger than a book.

With the lantern held to the side of the object, Alina glimpsed what looked to be an image of two men. Not an illustration but rather more like the thing Mr. Kostyk had shown to her all those weeks ago in the study.

An image printed onto mirror. This object seemed more primitive somehow.

She remembered then that innovating image making devices had been an investment and pastime of the former Lord Kirigan and his late partner.

Alina squinted at the two men, blowing the dust away from the surface of the glass and staring at the men reflected back to her. Her gasp was only heard by her own ears.

Aleksander himself seemed to stand in the portrait. He was holding the lapel of his tailcoat with a straight back and all the dignity of a Lord.

This must be Lord Kirigan. Practically fabled to her due to the lack of any portraits in the house.

Brushing her fingers over the image, Alina took in the details closely. The eyes were a slightly different shape, the ears as well. This man looked to be at least ten years older than Aleksander was right now. Otherwise they were identical.

The resemblance was uncanny. It was a wonder the current Lord Kirigan did not allow his portrait to hang in the house given the resemblance between father and son.

In the same image, the man next to him was covered with smudges of dirt. It was with great delicacy that Alina swiped it away, revealing the former partner of Lord Kirigan. The man who Mr. Kostyk now emulated.

She blinked.

The glass was brought closer to her face for assurance of what—or rather who—she was seeing.

It was Misha. It appeared to be anyway. There were a few differences here and there too. This man’s hair looked much lighter and the man in the image was undoubtably taller than Misha.

Misha Morozov. Misha said he had grown up on the estate.

Alina looked around the little cottage, determined now to confirm her suspicions. She made her way to an opening the wall, stepping carefully so as to avoid tumbling.

A brief exploration of the cottage confirmed her hunch.

She found in the single bedroom, a small bucket with a handful of toys. A makeshift nursery of sorts. Among the torn bedclothes lay pants small enough to fit a boy of George’s size. A woman’s nightdress.

This had been Misha’s home. His father had worked with the former Lord, Harold A. Kirigan and Misha and his…mother had lived here on the estate.

The rumored witch of Blyth Fell, perhaps?

Her head felt very full suddenly.

An overwhelming urge to run far away from this place caused her joints to lock up in some bizarre reverse reaction.

Dread was coloring her insides and the chanting which had been muffled before intensified now.

Something was happening.

She crossed into the former kitchen and found herself staring through a large hole in the back wall of the house through to the woods behind.

Darkness. Pitch black and thick. The warped blanket of black was about the size of the house itself.

Alina squinted, adrenaline coursing through her and foreboding urging her backward. It felt…wrong. Not of this world.

Within her she felt the light surging in response. Alatyr, having its say. Urging her closer.

She stood at the edge of the ruin and from within the depths of darkness, the chanting loud in her ears, a great winged beast emerged with a shrieking cry.

It soared silent as a shadow overhead and as she watched, it morphed. Its wings retreating into its back as it lay down, belly to the earth. Slithering.

Heading toward the big house.

Though her mind was trying to reject what she was seeing, Alina began to run after the creature. Was it not the same creature that had attacked George? Was it one of many?

The thought of the children sleeping in their beds pushed her further, the light of Alatyr flowing from her more easily than it had on the journey into the woods.

She was gaining on it, the slithering creature floating over the leaves of the forest. Winding through trees but headed toward the same destination.

Alina pushed her legs faster, her feet knocking against the hard winter ground. She ran and she prayed and she thought of the children and of her friends and of Aleksander and—

Her light was exploding out of her, swelling in a radius around her.

The creature halted, spinning back and veering up just as it had with George.

Her eyes took in the otherworldly thing and she was nauseous with the way her brain continued to try to reject it.

The snake-like head reared back, poised to strike.

Alina screamed her prayers out loud and the light pulsed through her, piercing the creature with white beaming rays.

The dying shriek was worse than any sound she had ever heard.

When it was over, the light now receded and the forest completely still around her, Alina looked through the trees.

She was a few yards from the edge of the grounds. The kitchen lanterns blinked in innocence on the walls of the big house. She was panting.

That creature was called forth and it came as it was bid. It was going to attack someone in Blyth Fell. She could not be sure who.

******************

Upon reentering the house, all was quiet.

Alina filled the teapot with shaking hands, putting it on the stove to heat and stared blankly out the kitchen window toward the woods.

Light from inside her. Darkness outside of her.

“Alina?”

She jumped, backing against the wall and raising her hands in defense.

“It is just me.” Misha stood in the doorway, cane in one hand and hair completely disheveled.

“May I?” He gestured at the shrieking teapot and Alina realized the water had been boiling for several minutes.

She nodded, “Of course.”

Misha blinked hard, the purple bags beneath his eyes in sharp relief tonight and she realized he was out of breath.

He turned toward the stove and Alina had to stifle her gasp. A set of long gashes ran from his temple down his cheek, crusted in blood.

Fingernails.

“Are you all right, Misha?” Alina rushed forward, whisking the teapot from the stove before he could reach it and gathering a clean cotton cloth from larder.

He sighed.

“Really, Miss Starkova. It is fine. I merely wish for a cup of tea and to go to bed.”

“Sit down, Misha.” She said, firm.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking vaguely like Aleksander in the process. She stilled at the sink.

Her hand pressed against the pocket of her coat. A firm weight pushed into her stomach from the pressure. The image was still in her pocket. Misha’s father and Aleksander’s.

Sweat broke the skin on her forehead as she poured the boiling water onto the cloth. Should she show the image to Misha? Surely he would relish seeing a picture of his father?

Kirigan though…he did not have a single portrait up of his own father and she could not be sure he would welcome the emergence of this novelty.

Where would Alina say she found it? Misha would surely know.

Lord Kirigan would likely ask to be shown and then there was the small matter of that dark abyss which resided just behind the ramshackle cottage.

“Are you quite all right, Alina?” The question was tentative and nervous. And then, “Come to think of it, why are you awake?”

If she had not been so wrapped up in getting herself on track, Alina might have noticed the suspicion that laced his tone as he asked.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Alina replied, brushing his hair back from his face and applying the cloth immediately. He hissed.

“Same as you, I expect, Mr. Morozov?”

Misha nodded once but added nothing else. The stalemate of their situation was well felt.

Neither Alina nor Misha was up for conversation and after the kettle boiled once more, she sent them off to bed with a cup of chamomile and a barely audible goodnight.

The last thing Alina did after checking on the children was to store the image in a safe place. She dug up her grandmother’s journal and hid it in the middle of the pages, stowing it under the seat cushion of the armchair.

As Alina lay in bed, staring at the window, she realized her distraction in the kitchen was so great that she had not even thought to press Misha about who had scratched him.

******************

In the next few days, Alina kept herself busy with the children. When she stilled for too long, her thoughts invariably drifted toward that abyss in the woods and she struggled to come back to reality.

At night she tried to bring out the light again but just as her mind was rejecting all of the impossible things of the last few days, so she was unable to produce so much as a faint glowing.

Alina had not seen Lord Kirigan since that night he had come to stop Vasily from his attack.

She had not let herself have the opportunity to see him, instead passing the children to Genya or Nadia or Ivan when a mealtime arrived and skipping any other possible brushes with the party residing at Blyth Fell.

Genya asked few questions but Alina did allow her into her confidence enough to intimate the attempts Vasily made on her person. The darkening of Genya’s expression and solemn nod of understanding was all the support she could have asked of her friend.

On the evening of the fourth day, Alina learned that another visitor was to join the party in time for the hunt tomorrow.

“And, I’m afraid, you will have to collect the children from the parlor after. You see, I have the evening off and I think…well I might have plans for a change.” Genya said, apologetically.

Alina frowned in confusion but nodded as Genya quickly added, “Do not worry. Ivan will be accompanying you and the children to your hall under the guise of collecting more wine from the cellar. It has all been sorted out. No one will have the opportunity to take liberties with you again. You will not be alone.”

Alina smiled, squeezing her hand, “I cannot tell you how grateful I am to be taken care of in this way.”

“Please do not mention it. I know what it is to be taken advantage of by someone who thinks himself very high class.” The bitterness of her tone set Alina once more into confusion.

“Genya, you do not have to say, of course but I hope it is not—”

The redhead shook her head, patting Alina’s hand, “Of course not. It is no one you know, dear. That man is long dead and good riddance.”

“Oh. Well good then. I am happy never to have known him.”

“Yes and I will be happy when this house is quiet once more and the charade over.”

“Charade? Genya, surely you must know as well as I do that this is only the beginning. Once Lord Kirigan is married—” The housekeeper responded with a doubtful grunt.

“Alina. Let us not mince words between us. Kirigan is not going to settle with this woman. There will be no more of this, you will see. He was not made to toil in parlors and numb his mind with insipid conversation. You know that as well as I do.” She added.

“I am not so sure. He has several choices before him and he has been very clear which he plans to see through. We had better get used to Miss Nazyalensky. She will be our mistress before long.” Alina pushed her food around her plate.

Genya watched her with something like pity on her face.

“You may think what you wish, darling girl. Lord knows you are sweeter for it but,” she leaned conspiratorially toward the governess, “I have seen our Lord the last few days and you have not. I have watched his looks of great anticipation every night when I drop the children off at dinner. I have seen the disappointment in his eyes when I am the one to pick them up from the parlor. It does not take more than a simpleton to put two and two together, Alina.”

Alina was hot all over. Flushed in the cheeks with her heart racing in her chest.

Alina, please. Don’t go—

She shook the memory away, unable to meet Genya’s eyes. It would not do to hope. They would not and could not be anything more than this—he had told her as much. Aleksander himself had confirmed it several times over with his words and actions.

The man who did not actively choose her, was not going to drop everything one day to do so. Alina determined she should let it go.

******************

Unfortunately, the resolve to let it go did not extend to her emotions around seeing him. Outside of the parlor doors the following evening, she fretted, twisting her fingers together as her nerves danced in spirals in her stomach.

Laughter sounded behind the doors and Alina thought that moment would be as good as any. She opened the door softly and immediately sought out the children, hoping to avoid eye contact with anyone.

Lillian she spotted immediately, seated next to Miss Nazyalensky who was trying to engage the seven year old in conversation. Her attempts appeared unsuccessful.

Alina met Lillian’s eyes and the girl brightened, getting to her feet and excusing herself with a hurried goodnight as she crossed to the door.

“Let us get George and we can go,” Alina told her as Lillian slipped a small hand into hers.

“He is in a tizzy over the soldier. Please may we leave?” Lillian urged, tugging on her arm.

“Lillian, please wait—” Alina searched the room for George, reluctantly meeting the eyes of Lord Kirigan in the process.

She could feel it in her bones the way his eyes fixed on her. Raking over her body until she flushed with heat once more.

He looked different than when she had last seen him just a few nights ago.

Bags under his eyes indicated a lack of sleep and he had a yellowing bruise on his jaw.

The concern reflected in her eyes and she asked him a silent question which he shooed away with a gentle shake of his head.

Despite her determination to extract the children quickly and be on her way, Alina felt caught in his gaze and could not move as they looked at each other—

“Nurse Starkova?” An unfamiliar voice in the room called out to her, interrupting her thoughts.

Alina looked around for the source and her eyes landed upon a newcomer in the corner, George staring up at him and Nikolai now turning to look at her from their little trio.

“Corporal Oretsev,” Alina responded, breathless in her surprise.

“I am all shock and surprise!” He said, crossing the room to stand in front of her.

Alina found the face of Aleksander over the Corporal’s shoulder and plead with him to be extracted. This was exactly what she hoped to avoid—reasons to stay in the parlor longer than she ought.

Kirigan barely seemed to register the look, brow twitching in scrutiny at the newest development.

“Do you two know each other then?” Nikolai asked, as if sharing in a great joke.

“Erm, yes,” Alina supplied. “We met when Corporal Oretsev was on leave in London several years ago.”

Her anxiety was rising and Lillian must have sensed it because she squeezed her hand.

“Miss Starkova is being generous. I was not on leave so much as on bed rest.”

He smiled at her and she reluctantly blushed at the attention, “You remember Lantsov? That war wound that nearly cost me my left leg? I was convalescing in London under a brilliant doctor. And his lovely nursemaid, of course. Though you were much younger then.”

Alina laughed, “Yes, I was newly sixteen that summer.”

“Well you have grown into a fine young woman, Miss Starkova.” He said in a low voice, nodding in deference to her.

“That is very kind of you to say, Corporal,” Alina said, unable to hold his gaze.

“Well you should know he is far from a Corporal now,” Nikolai interjected, “Oretsev is all modesty but he has been promoted several times over since that injury. It is Lieutenant Oretsev these days.”

Alina blushed, smiling at him in congratulations.

Certainly she remembered Corporal Oretsev. In her teen years, she had taken a shine to him as she tended to his wounds and helped keep he and his comrades entertained during their unhappy circumstances.

But now she could only see Aleksander behind him, confusion and jealousy warring on his features and though a small part of her felt satisfaction at seeing it, another part of her wanted to crawl into a hole and be left alone until Blyth Fell was safely devoid of strangers once more.

Briefly, she considered wandering out to the black abyss in the forest and letting it take hold of her in lieu of enduring the attentions of so many men who would only trouble her life without the promise of a match.

“Well that is settled then!” Exclaimed Nikolai, rubbing his hands together. “You must join us again after the kids are abed, Miss Starkova. Do not think I have not noticed your absence.” He said jovially, wagging a finger at her.

Alina opened her mouth to protest but the Lieutenant was grinning at her and her rebuttal wilted on her tongue.

“Very well, Mr. Lanstov. Please excuse me for now. George?” George hurried forward, reaching for her free hand.

The heavy parlor door snapped shut behind them.

Lillian stared up at her as they walked, “Do you like that man? The new one?” Alina glanced down at her. There was a hint of hostility in her tone and it baffled Alina.

“He is very nice, Lillian,” She said, placidly. Lillian huffed.

“Run off with him, why don’t you?” She soured, pulling her hand out of Alina’s and walking ahead of the other two.

“Lillian—”

“Alina.” She started, looking behind her to see Lord Kirigan—Aleksander—catching them up.

“I-Yes? My lord?”

His face snarled briefly at the title, matching the agitation already clouding his entire person.

“Are you coming to put us to bed, father?” George asked with excitement.

“I-I…” He looked at her, flustered and lost for words. Alina got the distinct impression that he had not known what he would do upon leaving the parlor.

Lillian stared back and forth between the two of them.

“Yes, father. Please do come,” and with a kindness Lillian had never quite extended to her father before now, she held his hand in her own and led their progress back toward the nursery.

When the children were tucked in bed, Alina led the way back into the hall, not stopping for Lord Kirigan whose brisk footsteps could be heard catching her up.

“You plan to continue to avoid me then? Even when we are the only two around?” He stared at her as they walked.

Alina huffed, speeding her pace, “Especially when we are the only two around.”

Lord Kirigan halted her, standing in her path, “And why are things to be this way exactly?”

“Because I am a governess, my lord. Nothing more.” She hissed, moving around him.

“Like hell you are—” He said, sliding in front her once more.

“Stop this, Aleksander.” She demanded, holding up her hands to keep him from touching her.

Kirigan’s eyes darted rapidly between hers, mouth opening and closing as if her command had actually stolen the words from his being.

Seeing he could not form the words himself, Alina continued, “You promised me you would make this as painless as possible. This—” She gestured at their current proximity, “is you breaking your promise.”

“Alina—” He started.

“No. I have let you press your advantage too often. You think now—now you see another man who is familiar with me that it is within your right to claim me.”

He swallowed, pain breaking over his face, “I’m not…I don’t want…You don’t understand what is…” Aleksander swallowed again and stared into her eyes.

It was too much for her. Always too much. He would break her.

Alina stepped around him, “Get a hold on yourself and respect my request, Aleksander.”

******************

Begrudgingly, Alina returned to the parlor. She was in no mood for games or even for laughter, struggling to smile as both the Lieutenant and Nikolai told her stories of their youth together.

Aleksander returned to the parlor ten minutes after with a new bottle of wine in hand and a blank expression his face.

Throughout the minutes following his return, he was not the only one to cast a jealous glance in their direction. Ruby glared openly at Alina while making every effort to sit pretty on the chaise and insert herself into their conversation.

“Do tell me more, Lieutenant,” Ruby said with a simper in her voice, “about your life in London. It sounds quite lively compared to the countryside.”

The soldier scratched behind his ear, turning to the address the whole room as opposed to entering into a private conversation with Ruby.

“Ah, well, not much to say is there? With my leg they have stopped sending me to the front so I’m doing little more than pushing paper around the army offices, if you believe it.” He said with a laugh.

Nikolai thumped him on the back, “You’ll always be the war hero of my heart, Oretsev. I was telling Kirigan the other day that we might travel to London ourselves for the Christmas holiday. Perhaps you might join us for the New Year?”

“Yes! And you can tell us what all we may do in London?” Ruby prompted.

Alina tuned them out, an absent smile stuck to her face as she sipped her drink and nodded along with the rest.

Lieutenant Oretsev had paid her every compliment with his attentions but Alina could not find the will to consider them. Her life was far beyond their difference in station now.

All she could think was how bizarre it was to be standing here in this room with these perfect strangers knowing full well that oddity in the woods existed. Knowing she had seen light emerge from her hands.

Who cared about the London fashions or the opera or the concert hall? They did not know of the strangeness in the woods—of the strangeness within her.

“You remember him, Miss Starkova, don’t you?”

Alina blinked. The whole room was looking at her.

“Pardon me, Lieutenant, my mind was lost in thought. Could you repeat your question?”

The Lieutenant looked uncomfortable but persisted, “Do you remember a man who came into the hospital that summer with his face bloodied? I believe he had been on the money-losing end of a cock-fight.”

The memory of it returned to the surface of her brain, vivid. “Oh yes. Dreadful thing. He was there for weeks after you left and was a nightmare for the caretakers. As I recall, he went blind in one eye as a result.”

“Good lord! That is dreary.” Nikolai exclaimed, “Why bring him up, Oretsev?”

The Lieutenant was looking at her still, “Do you recall his name?”

Alina puzzled, thinking on it for a moment before it came to her and she looked up at Aleksander.

He was quiet, watching her with ill-disguised interest. Yes, she remembered the name.

The Lieutenant opened his mouth, pushing the subject further, “It was Kirigan, was it not? You do remember him, don’t you?”

It felt as if the spike of panic within her was not her own.

Fear and anxiety welled up her throat and she tore her eyes from Aleksander’s and forced a laugh, “You are quite mistaken, Lieutenant, you were on bedrest yourself. His name was Kirwen, not Kirigan. Easy enough to mistake after all these years.”

Lord Kirigan was staring at her with rapt attention now, emotions playing over his face as he realized what she had done. Sensed the lie she had told.

The Lieutenant seemed reluctant to accept this answer but the conversation moved on and he could not come back around to press his point.

The man in question, a frequenter of opium dens and a gambler at the cock-fights, was certainly named Kirigan.

Though she would never be able to pick him out of a crowd. Each time she saw him that summer, his face was badly bruised and swollen or otherwise disfigured.

However, she was certain that he was called Kirigan.

Her eyes found the portrait over the mantle. Lady Kirigan stared down at them from her perch.

Her blond locks were bright and golden. The exact same color as her…nephew? Cousin?

Son?

At the next break in conversation, Alina quietly stood, setting down her glass and glancing toward Ivan.

He shuffled forward, announcing he would need to fetch a new bottle from the cellar. Alina excused herself, brushing off the offers of the Lieutenant and Nikolai to join in their game of cards.

Aleksander got to his feet, looking as if he might follow after her. Alina shook her head but it was Ivan, glaring at him, issuing an unspoken reprimand, that had Kirigan falling back into his chair.

Ivan left her at her door with a short bow and whispered, “Thank you, Miss Starkova, sincerely,” which had her puzzled. Hours later, Alina still sat up in her chair by the fireplace.

******************

Again and again she looked at the little glass portrait of Lord Kirigan and Mr. Morozov. Two men, now long dead, staring back at her.

Aleksander knew she had lied for him. Alina could not explain why she did it.

It was possible a distant relation of his had been a cad of London who squandered fortunes and lost himself in an opium den frequently. This would be highly embarrassing, of course, but not detrimental.

And yet the way Aleksander had looked at her, full of fear and stress…

Once more, Alina got to her feet. If she was going to lie for him, the least he could do is explain himself.

On her way to the study, Alina heard it. Not the familiar worn chanting of before but the shrieking cries of distress and anguish which had haunted some of her early nights at Blyth Fell.

Without questioning it, she followed the sounds, venturing deep into the East Wing.

A heavy wooden door stood ajar, light pouring from the crack into the dark corridor. Shouting and cries issuing from within the room behind it.

She opened the door.

The details of the sad, dreary bedroom were slow coming. Blank walls, a small furnace filling the room with a stifling heat. A narrow bed with sparse bedclothes.

And in the corner, Misha and Aleksander wrestled someone to the ground, grunting and shouting at each other to coordinate their efforts.

Misha had a fresh black eye and blood was falling on Aleksander’s collar from a long gash on his neck.

Beneath the men, writhing on the ground, an old woman shrieked inconsolably.

Her eyes were pitch black, her neck and face was marred with black vines creeping beneath the skin. The room appeared to be filling with a thick, black smoke.

The woman abruptly stopped moving. Her attention turned to Alina.

***************

It was easy enough to avoid the party the first couple of days.

Alina was busy with lessons and then would still lend a hand to Marie or Genya with the housekeeping.

From a distance she monitored the group—or monitored as much as she could stomach, in any case.

She learned that the one they called Vasily was married to the older of the blonde women, Irina.

Irina was quiet and easily startled. Even under observation or direct questioning, she did not speak much. Over time, Alina began to see her meek nature as something slightly more sickly.

The dark bags under her eyes and the blank stare she bestowed on those around her was disquieting.

Where Irina was disposed to quiet, her younger sister, Ruby, was vivacious and prone to complaint. According to Alexei who stood by during evening meals, more than once Ruby returned a drink from Ivan to have him make it up again until it was to her liking.

Alina heard the stories from Alexei over their own late night meal and Ivan, for once, engaged with her when she commiserated. A small shrug of his shoulders a grunt of acknowledge. It was small but it was to be counted as a victory.

As it turned out, Miss Nazyalensky was a cousin to Ruby and Irina. Where the two sisters fell into the category of either plain or vain, Zoya Nazyalensky was sharp and poised.

It could be observed that she was easily bored of conversation with her cousins and would engage the group in lively conversation, dazzle with her sharp wit and demonstrate a grasp on literature and society which left Vasily, his wife and sister-in-law clearly humbled.

Vasily’s brother, Nikolai perked up at every second of it and Kirigan played his part as the dry, straight man to their banter.

From what Alina could observe by listening, shamefully hidden in the hall while the children enjoyed dinner with the whole party, the six adults made for a balanced group, overall.

Alina could be thankful that she did not often have to watch the group interact for she did not think she could bear to witness her lord staring at another woman. Particularly a woman of whom Alina could make no complaint.

She remained fearful of what she could glimpse in his eyes or his smile for a woman who so completely fulfilled that which is desirable in a wife.

So, it was with pain one evening that as she walked the children to the parlor to have them bid goodnight to their father, that Nikolai called after her.

“Miss Starkova!” Alina startled at the address, surprised that the gentleman should know her name.

“Er—Yes, Mr. Lantsov?”

She ignored the piercing look Lord Kirigan was drilling into the side of her head.

“Perhaps you would be willing to rejoin our group after the children are abed to play a game of charades?”

“Oh! Er…” Against her will, her eyes shifted to Lord Kirigan who was already stuffing his surprise behind a mask of indifference.

He turned toward the bar cart in the corner, not waiting for Ivan as he began to mix his own drink.

“It does not make a difference to me, Miss Starkova. You may join us if you wish.” The words were dispassionate and empty as they were called over his shoulder.

Nikolai smiled mischievously, “Well. You can plainly see your employer has no objections which is convenient as Irina is feeling poor and unable to attend this evening and we are in desperate need of a sixth.”

“Oh, I—”

“Miss Starkova, please. I insist you join us. We will be remiss without you.” Nikolai had stepped forward, gathering her hand in his own and bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

The way her face flamed in response made it so that she did not trust another word to come from her lips and she simply nodded to him.

Nikolai clapped and spun back to the room, light on his feet. “You see Zoya, we do have another and I can promise you that on this night you will not come out on top.”

Alina turned to leave, her eyes catching on Lord Kirigan, slowly stirring the ice in his glass. He did not look at her.

Being in the mere vicinity of Nikolai meant Alina must try to match his boundless energy. Being one of his teammates meant that she was required to carry quite a lot of muscle.

Between herself, Nikolai and Vasily, she endeavored to be at the top of her guessing game as either Nikolai or Vasily took their turn acting out a word.

Most fortunately, Alina had plenty of practice at charades during her days as a bedside nurse with her previous employer. Often the only thing which could be done for patients was to keep them entertained, distracted.

To her increasing surprise and delight, she kept Nikolai and the rest on their toes as she had an inventory of words for charades to pick from and plenty of experience acting them out.

Moreover, the urge to be shy had evaporated in the company of her partner who worked to make her feel welcome and valued for her contributions.

“EYE!” Nikolai shouted, bouncing in his seat on the sofa. Zoya glared at him and held her ear in annoyance at her neighbor while Alina jumped up and down nodding her head.

She began to move her arm in a broken downward motion.

“Uh Greetings! No… Swatting! No—” Nikolai was on the edge of the sofa, hands perched on his knees. Vasily looked irreversibly confused and stopped up. Slowly turning red with the consternation of his thoughts.

Alina kept shaking her head at their guesses, more insistent in her slashing motion.

Kirigan lounged in his arm chair, carefully composed with one hand curled in front of his mouth in thought and the other in his waistcoat pocket.

She tried not to look at him. Tried not to feel the weight of his stare.

“Lash—eyelash.” Kirigan said with complete authority, cutting off Nikolai’s next incorrect guess.

Sighing, Alina dropped her hands, meeting the gaze of her employer with a huff. She nodded with a slight reluctance and promptly turned red at the deviant smile on Kirigan’s face.

He looked ready to eat her in one swallow and it was once again painful to be in the room with him.

Nikolai grunted in frustration and gave his brother an ungentlemanly shove. “Look alive, Vasily! That’s the third forfeit to Kirigan—you’re making me and Miss Starkova look very bad!”

Alina blushed and took her seat.

It was true, each time she acted something out, Nikolai was on the edge of guessing and then Lord Kirigan would swoop at the last moment to snatch the win away.

Once Zoya and Ruby pointed out it was his turn to act, however, Alina began to gain them back, forcing them to take on forfeits of their own.

“Mare! OH! Nightmare!” Alina shouted. Lord Kirigan gave her a forced bow of acknowledgment with his tight-lipped smile and Nikolai took the opportunity to kiss her hand again.

“Jolly well done, Miss Starkova! We will sweep those forfeits back in the end.”

She flushed under the attention and then sighed. Nikolai was very kind to her and though Alina was having a slight bit of fun, she longed for the solitude of this parlor before the guests arrived.

Longed for those nights when she and Genya sat before the fire with their tea. Even for the nights when Lord Kirigan himself would join her in silence.

Kirigan was busy at the bar cart once more and she turned to her partners in the game.

Vasily, a distinctly unhelpful charades partner, was also markedly course with her in turn.

In the absence of Lord Kirigan’s censures, Vasily made it his responsibility to ensure Alina remembered she was a working class woman and not a proper member of society, even though this one night she played as one.

As she and Nikolai put their heads together to converge on the points, Vasily would interrupt and request her to fetch him a fresh drink.

Ivan had been dismissed an hour before and the hierarchy of those remaining in the room was evident.

Seemingly following suit, his sister-in-law Ruby would chime in to make her requests as well and Alina was hardly able to decline.

Her hands moved over the bottles and ingredients, unsure how to fill these cocktail orders she had never heard of before.

She was saved only by Lord Kirigan who was busy at the bar cart himself and muttered under his breath, “Don’t, Alina. I will take care of it.” He mixed up the two drinks silently and Alina delivered them.

She was almost at her seat again before Kirigan called to her, offering a drink of her own.

Obediently she returned, meeting his gaze over the bottles and sipping on the glass. It was sweet and tart in one, warming her throat and belly as it went down.

He searched her face, remorse smoldering over his features. “Are you all right? I could send you away, if you like. You look wan.”

Bristling at the observation, Alina straightened up. Wan? Is that what she was now? Not righteously confused and misled and heartsick as he knew she was given the circumstances.

Wan? She had been handling herself quite well before Vasily and Ruby decided to make an example of her.

“I thank you, sir, but I really can manage myself quite well. Perhaps you should retire, I daresay your game is getting worse as the night goes on.”

It was, in a word, insane to have baited him in that way.

She knew she was a subordinate and yet, in that moment, Alina felt the need to make him understand that no one was allowed to put her in her place or make her feel anything she did not wish to feel.

He stared at her, shocked and then—was there a hint of a smile?

No. She must have been mistaken. For he turned away without another word and they each went to their seats.

Alina doubled-down on her game, thinking hard as Kirigan acted his next for the group. He was staring at Zoya and Ruby with large eyes as he mimed the rising of his arms in a circle over his head.

They had already guessed ‘pay’ correctly and Alina sat at the edge of the sofa, willing herself to beat them.

“Er…Sun!” Zoya shouted. Kirigan shook his head, gesturing her to continue the line of thought.

“Rise! Pay rise!” Ruby guessed.

“Day!” Alina said, a confidence in her tone. “Payday.”

Lord Kirigan sighed, lowering his arms and nodded, the smallest smile playing over his lips.

Zoya frowned and made a mark on their page. Her eyes shifted between Alina and Lord Kirigan who were locked in their own silent world for the moment before turning back to their partners.

Alina could bask in her triumph for no more than a minute for in the next she overheard Ruby stage whisper to Zoya, “That’s hardly fair. Of course she knows to think of a payday. Judging by the state of her dress, the woman probably lives from one to the next.”

Zoya didn’t laugh, her expression still distracted and contemplative. She extracted herself from the sofa with little comment and went to stand by the fire.

Inside, Alina wrestled her feelings into a neat box, far from the influence of her features as she brushed invisible dust from her skirts.

No one was allowed to put her in her place or make her feel anything she did not want to and yet, she was very tired.

Ruby had not said anything out loud that the others were likely to be thinking privately. It was exhausting enough to pretend to be part of this group or to engage in this pastime when half the company present did not want to be associated with her.

No, she would play her part. One more round and then announce her retirement and none could call that uncivil.

She made her decision and looked up.

Kirigan had been watching her and, upon seeing her face, seemed to confirm something. “Come back to the group, Zoya,” he said, “I fear you and I are carrying the team as Ruby has yet to score us a single point.”

Shock rippled through Alina.

Next to her, Nikolai snorted, failing to stifle his laughter. Ruby herself turned bright red with indignation, “No need, I am quite done playing this silly little game. I wish for cards instead.”

Kirigan shrugged and crossed his leg in the armchair, returning to his drink.

The timing was convenient and Alina stood, addressing Kirigan, “At your leave, sir, I shall retire.”

He sat forward, “You may, I shall escort you back.” Alina failed to hide the bewilderment from her face but before she could decline, Vasily stood next to her.

“Actually, I should go and tend to Irina, Kirigan. Ensure she is comfortable. I will walk with Miss Starkova.”

Unable to argue her own desire, Alina nodded and curtseyed to the room. “Thank you for the invitation. This was a pleasant evening.”

Zoya watched her curiously from her spot at the fireplace, still thinking. It made Alina almost uneasy to be so pointedly observed.

She gathered her candle and disappeared from the door, missing the look on her lord’s face as she went. Concern and distrust warring over his features.

Vasily did not speak much to her on the journey.

Alina was surprised at the chivalry he demonstrated in even consenting to escort her back. The hall with her room and the children’s came up first and she bid him goodnight quietly.

“Wait right there, Miss Starkova.”

She stilled.

Foreboding washed over her and she shook her head. “I thank you, sir, this is far enough indeed. I would not trouble you to take the last few steps with me.”

When she moved to step away, Vasily’s hand closed over her arm.

“Just a moment,” he chuckled, though the humor was quite depleted from his voice. “I believe you owe me a little more gratitude than that, don’t you agree?”

Tightening his grip on her arm, he drew her in, trapping her between himself and the wall.

Panic rose up her throat, bringing with it a bitter taste to her tongue.

She had few options. If she attacked him, he would be within his rights to beat her senseless. Not that she was well versed in physical combat anyway—how was she supposed to overpower a man twice her size and weight?

“That’s it, my dear, calm yourself, this won’t take but a minute.” He soothed, the sweet smell of brandy filling her nose.

Nausea swept through her stomach. If only she could vomit right now. That would be helpful and perhaps innocuous enough to pass muster and allow her to keep her position in the house.

Vasily’s hands were bunching up her skirts and Alina closed her eyes, stiffening every muscle and calling on Alatyr in a way she had never thought to before.

Safety and serenity growing powerfully inside of her and behind her eyelids, some kind of light was pulsing and pressing against them.

Vasily cursed and stumbled back.

When she opened her eyes, she could not see. Both of their candles had gone out, the source of the light well snuffed, leaving the hall pitch black.

“Wha-what did you—was that—”

“Vasily.” Lord Kirigan’s voice cut off the stammering of her assaulter. Vasily startled again and looked toward the only source of light in the hall, a single flame illuminating the face of her employer.

The way the shadows played over his features made him look menacing and fearsome.

“You left your drink.” He said, a dangerous tilt to his tone. “It was quite fresh so I thought you might be intending it for a nightcap.” He held out the glass.

Alina was sure that Vasily had not left any drink behind. Was sure he had throw back the contents of his glass before they left.

And yet looking at the sheen on sweat on Vasily’s forehead, she could see his confusion and doubt give way to relief as he reached for the proffered drink.

“My gratitude to you, Kirigan,” he mumbled, stumbling in his steps away from them both.

“Not at all, Lantsov, good night to you.” Kirigan did not move, waiting for Vasily to disappear completely down the hall to his own rooms.

Alina was still pressed against the wall as awareness trickled back into her body. Her chest was constricted and it hurt to draw breath.

Save the single flame of the candle in Kirigan’s hand, everything was unreasonably dark. They could hear Vasily stumbling around the corner, running into the walls and cursing.

Kirigan did not move, watching her with a hard expression on his face.

“Did he touch you, Alina?”

Direct, blunt.

Her inhale was still constricted.

“Alina, please…” He did not move toward her, for that she was thankful.

“N-no. He was not able to carry out his full intentions.” Her voice was hollow. Why had Vasily stopped?

“Thank you for stopping him. I…truthfully I did not know what would happen.”

Kirigan looked confused, “I didn’t—he was not near you by the time I arrived. I suspected his design on you from the minute he left the room and when I followed I had every intention of ending his li—“

He swallowed and forced a breath. “That is neither here nor there.” Kirigan took another steading breath. “No, Alina. I did not stop him. I thought you…I saw a light and—did you not burn him or…”

The question was so surprising that Alina started, coming back to herself in one.

“Burn him? How could I? He had the candle…” She looked to the ground where the candlestick sat, unlit and innocent.

She had felt a light. Had seen the way it pressed against her eyelids, turning her vision bright pink and orange. Then everything had stopped.

“I need to be getting to bed,” Alina said, stepping away from the wall and brushing the front of her dress with dignity.

“Of course. I…” Kirigan swallowed and handed her his candle. Darkness pressed close against them, surrounding them. She could not see outside of the little halo between their chests.

“Thank you for following, my lord. It was kind of you—”

Kirigan scoffed, looking suddenly angry and dizzy.

“Kind? Oh yes, my kindness is great.” He said, dry and flustered.

It made her smile. Anytime his composure was knocked off it’s careful axis, it delighted her. “Yes, perhaps that is too generous.” She teased.

He returned her smile, the brightness in her eyes reflected back in his.

“I am not kind. Your accolades on me are completely undue.”

Alina stepped closer, irresistibly draw in to him.

Kirigan looked down at her with want plainly displayed on his face. He clenched his eyes shut in resistance, “I-I did shoot your old pony, Alina. Do not forget.”

To her own surprise, she laughed. “No indeed. I should hardly ever forget it.”

Once she started to laugh, Alina was unable to stop. Anxiety and panic from minutes before smoothing into an escape of mirth and amusement.

“Did I tell you I was sorry for that?” He asked, looking both shy and abashed as he fought his own smile.

“Oh, you did. Though it was perfunctory at best, my lord.” She challenged, a laugh still weaving through her tone.

“I am sorry then…Alina.” Kirigan’s mouth formed her name with care and gentleness and the proximity of him was dizzying.

She reached for the candle, her hand closing around his. The faintest spark of something alighted inside of her and where they touched. The candle went out.

Darkness pressed against her, covering her skin like a blanket.

“Alina?” He whispered. Her hand squeezed his and her other found his shoulder, his neck.

Once she began to touch him, she could not stop, losing her hand in strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

His breath hitched and his forehead fell against hers.

“Yes, my lord?” She asked, breathless, outside of herself.

“Please will you…” He started in a raw voice. “Aleksander…please.”

“Aleksander.” She repeated, mystified at his pull over her.

“Christ…” He breathed the exclamation.

Her palm over his cheek, soothing the skin with a gentle thumb across his cheek bone.

“You have no idea how I have longed to hear—”

“Good Lord! It is dark as pitch in this hall, is it not?” Nikolai’s voice echoed through the dark passage.

Alina jumped and stumbled back away from him.

Aleksander held her hand in his grasp, “Alina, please. Don’t go—” He begged.

“We can’t—you have to leave. I am all right. Good night.” She whispered, feeling along the wall with her hand until she found her door.

She closed it behind her with a soft click.

Sleep hovered around the edges of her thoughts that night.

Aleksander, Alina said it to herself over and over. Stretching it out, quickening it, feeling the weight of it on her tongue.

Dwelling longer than was wise, she mulled it over. His hand on hers, his cheek under her palm, his breath so close.

Aleksander would have kissed her. She would have let him.

Tomorrow, she reasoned, she would take the time to regret it properly.

Tonight she could not bear the burden.

*************

In the days that passed, Alina helped Genya and Marie prepare the rooms. Genya had accepted her excuses of illness without question and they fell back into their easy way quickly.

The children, however, had been quite concerned with her apparent illness. A fact which raked at Alina’s guilty conscious.

George and Lillian were wholly innocent. They had not kept secrets or lied to her. Just innocent children swept up into the sins of adults.

Alina paid off her guilt with a relaxing of her rules for a few days following.

Shortened lessons, sporadic trips to the kitchens for tea cakes and leniency when they whined about their studies.

Selfishly, she wanted to enjoy this time with them before any shift occurred. At night, Alina eyed the portraits in the halls and felt as though she was clinging to the last vestiges of a dying age.

More than ever, Alina was plagued with strange dreams. Dark images and deep chants which were as indecipherable as they were consuming.

At one time, it was impossible for Alina to recall even the slightest detail from her dreams after her morning tea.

These days, the vivid images and harsh sounding words echoed in her brain well into the afternoons. Pestering her, pressing at her memories and confusing her.

The one reprieve was that Lillian no longer seemed to have nightmares so once Alina resigned herself to bed in the evenings, the only thing poised to interrupt her sleep was whatever lay in wait in her own head.

Lord Kirigan had not answered her last letter.

The vulnerability of putting her request into light and immortalizing it on the page, only to be passed over without any reaction—without even a rejection—curdled all feeling her stomach.

It was humiliating.

Before bed as Alina prayed to Alatyr and earnestly tried to block out the dark thoughts plaguing her dreams, she worked on digging out and discarding the pieces of herself that still longed for her absent employer.

What did she need to hear from him anyway? What did she expect him to say?

She did not expect him to have disclosed the unfortunate history of his family for her on the first meeting perhaps.

Though… fter the strange encounter with the dark creature in the woods, Alina felt sure something should have been communicated.

It was clear now that rumor or no, George was not the first victim of this attack, just the first to survive it. Of that, she was certain.

*************

It had been a little over a week since her letter to him. A little over a week and nothing returned.

Settling into bed was becoming more difficult. Alina was sleep deprived as it was and now full of shame for the way she had reached out to him.

It had been wholly inappropriate. A governess addressing her employer with such informality and blatant want.

When she reentered her dreams, the same ones which consumed her night after night, Alina found them more vivid than ever before.

Dark shadows, the splashing of water like small waves breaking over rocks and chanting. Always chanting.

It was the chanting that woke her. Only, when she opened her eyes, it did not stop. The dream was over and yet the words lingered on the air around her.

They were persistent and something tugged at her chest. Alina went to the window, unlatching it and letting the cold air wash down her body.

The voice was calling out in the night.

The black silhouette of the woods were eerie in their stillness and yet the voice radiated from their depths.

It was in a daze that Alina threw on her dressing robe and her overcoat. Her boots left mostly loose and her small lit candle in hand, she left the warmth of her room.

From the safety of the kitchen door, she stared at the woods. The gruff voice and foreign words tripped over the wet grass and once more the tugging in her chest urged at her to…move?

She could not be sure of it’s direction, only it’s persistence.

Though she almost skipped past the garden door, Alina paused, pulling against the magnetic tug. The need to disappear among her plants for a moment overcame her.

As she gathered a bouquet of sage, coriander, mint and mallow, a little warmth was restored to her chest. The little red ribbon was untied from her hair and wrapped several times around the bundle of herbs.

Her fist clutched at the protective collection, squeezing them as she left her little garden sanctuary behind.

Alina chased the voice into the woods, at times quite lost and turned around. She held her arms and rubbed them for warmth as she walked.

It felt as if she awoke in the forest. Though she could recount every step she had taken between her room and here, she still could not wake from her daze.

On the wind a new voice came. Light and soothing and the words were unintelligible, it called her deeper into the woods, pulling her away from the harsh chanting of before.

“Babulya?” The question slipped into the wind and disappeared. Had she said it aloud at all? She followed, deeper into the woods than she had ever before ventured.

Only when she stumbled upon a stream, did the kind voice subside with a gentle sigh.

The water was carved deep into the earth, flowing fast over rocks and closed in by muddy earth a few yards below the ground where she stood.

Alina looked down the little embankment at the water. The slope down to the water was not so great on this side but across the stream, the embankment rose high up above her head.

Something in her memory shuffled forward and Alina was suddenly sure this must be where Misha fell as a boy. Or at least close to it.

She felt a pull again. A friendly urging. Something was guiding her alongside the path of the water.

The trees grew close together the deeper she went and not even moonlight peaked through. A tree root caught the toe of her boot and she fell to the ground.

The gentle pull stopped abruptly and in it’s absence, she heard it again—

That dark voice overlapping and overpowering the soothing one she had heard before. The words were harsh and unintelligible as if they were being shouted into the wind.

More out of fear than anything else, Alina began walking again, her pace brisk and her mind fogging.

She shivered and shook and though she tried, Alina could not remember her own words.

The prayers to Alatyr which had been with her for years, spoken as often as her own name and now they were like wisps in her head. Impossible to grasp.

Her hands clutched for the bouquet of protection and she found it was gone. Dropped somewhere on the forest floor.

She lifted her empty hands for inspection.

Light seeped from them like the steam off a teacup. In her daze she blinked at the mystery.

The light escaped her and was swallowed by the night in an instance. With it, Alina felt herself losing coherence.

What was this dream? Had she ever woken up in her bed? Surely, she was still in it, dreaming. Waiting to wake up.

Her limbs grew heavy. She slouched. The chanting was so loud but Alina could hardly lift her arms to cover her ears.

Light was still curling up from her palms, in any case, so they were of little use to her right now.

The darkness thickened around her and the wind grew stronger and when she felt her knees begin to crumble from the crippling cold, she was falling toward the ground.

Perhaps this would wake her up.

A set of large hands wrapped around her upper arms and pulled her to her feet.

“Christ alive, Alina!” The gruff voice of Lord Kirigan filled her ears and everything stopped.

The harsh words which had filled her head receded at once. In it’s absence, thought and memory came flooding back.

He turned her to face him, his hands rubbing her arms.

“What in God’s name brought you out here?” Kirigan looked around them, squinting into the night.

His eyes widened in alarm at his surroundings and he repeated the question, “What brought you out here?”

She shivered, quietly looking up at him.

Kirigan cursed and removed his dark traveling cloak from around his shoulders, throwing it over her.

“You’re here.” Alina whispered finally.

Her breath fogged the air between them. Concern marred his brow as he looked down at her quivering form.

A moment’s hesitation and then his warm hands cupped her wind-chapped cheeks.

“Of course I am. This my home.”

Alina’s eyes fell shut in a slow blink, soaking in the warmth of him.

“Can you walk? We need to get back toward the house. These woods are not safe.”

Alina nodded even as his hand found hers under the cloak. She almost stopped him—warning him about the light escaping through her skin but it had stopped.

Her hands were quite normal once more. With the exception that one was firmly clasped in his.

Kirigan guided her along a path she had not seen on her way in, one that was clear cut and direct.

As they walked she attempted to collect herself, even as surprise and desire and shame warmed her insides equally.

“H-how did you know where to find me?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You weren’t in your room when I returned.”

Ahead of her, he came to a stop to pull brambles aside and gently pushed her through. Once they passed, he found her hand again.

“I checked in the parlor,” he added, a confession pulled from his mouth against his will. “And then the kitchens…I found your candlestick in the garden and then…”

He did not finish. Perhaps he had followed the strange voices as well.

But no.

Truthfully, Alina knew exactly how he found her, even in the dark woods. Kirigan found her as she would have found him.

Something about him pulled at something in her, urging them to lock together. To tether one to the other without escape.

This was evident because the tugging in her chest, that one she thought was guiding her into the woods, was now content.

It pulsed in his vicinity. Pleasure, satisfaction. Alina lay a hand over her chest to push the invisible tug back inside.

As they neared the edge of the woods, the lanterns from the big house came into view. She could see the glow of the gas lamps beside the kitchen door.

The reality of it all came back to her.

In that home, she was a servant to the master of the house. In that house, he was her employer and her duties were to teach the children and get payment in return.

Alina dropped his hand and stopped short of the tree line.

Lord Kirigan turned back, “What is it? Are you hurt?”

“No…no. Nothing like that, it’s just—”

With the arrival of reality, the events of the past weeks crashed over her once more.

The secrets, the dark creature, the marks on George, the marks on the dead Lady Kirigan—the sheer weight of the death and tragedy wrought on Blyth Fell and it’s residents overcame her. The anxiety and sadness she felt at the changes to the manor house, the preparations for a mistress, flooded through her.

She opened her mouth to speak and, to her great shame, a gasping sob escaped.

And then he was wrapping her in his arms.

He alone was warm and safe and he lay his cheek over the top of her head while she cried. His hand curled around her head and Alina allowed him to press her against his body.

“What happened, Alina?” Kirigan asked after her shaking had subsided somewhat.

His tone was filled with trepidation and she wondered as she brushed her cheek over the wool of his waistcoat whether he actually wanted to know. Whether he was frightened to hear it.

But he had asked and she certainly had questions.

“That day,” Alina started, conveniently unable to look at him from her position. Her breath was hot against the fabric of his chest and he pulled her closer.

“When George was bitten—”

Kirigan stiffened.

“After I-I sucked the poison from his wound. You said something that I did not understand then. You said, ‘you knew exactly what to do and perhaps if I had known’…you did not finish your thought.”

The force of his sharp inhale, his heart racing beneath her ear and then silence.

“Had you seen it before? That creature?”

“Yes.” He breathed.

They stood huddled together for a few long moments until finally Alina felt the strength to peel away.

Lord Kirigan had a cagey look about him. His eyes darted around her face and when he could not bear her gaze, he averted them to the surrounding trees.

Alina waited for him to speak. He simply stared at the ground.

She sighed. “I don’t mean to dig up the past. Especially not when it is painful—”

“Then what do you mean by it.” He asked, sharp enough that she flinched.

Alina reached a tentative hand to his face, stroking over his jaw.

“I am trying to understand. I know—I have known that tragedy and death hang like a pall over the house. That though you are young,” her thumb grazed his cheek and he turned into her palm, “you have seen far too many sad days. You have experienced too much loss.”

She swallowed, her voice breaking a little as she continued, “I do know what that is like…I, too, have lost…I have raged against the injustice of it myself.”

Tears wetted her fingers from his cheeks and she knew they were mirrored on her face.

“I do not want to open up your wounds but…I do wish to help heal them. I cannot do that if I do not understand the depth of them.”

He flinched under her palm and they both were silent once more.

“I didn’t ask for this, Alina.”

“No one asks for tragedy, my lord.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I hate it when you address me that way.”

Kirigan pinched the bridge of his nose in consternation, “And I am not speaking of the tragedy that has plagued me for the entirety of my cursed existence…”

He looked at her, lost for words. Above them the wind pulled at the tree limbs until they creaked.

When he did not continue, Alina sighed.

She lowered her head, voice quiet in the evening air, “It is the only way I may address you. It is proper,” she said, answering his complaint.

With a newfound desperation, his eyes roamed her features, “If I asked you, you would call me by my name, would you not?”

Alina swallowed and stepped back. Already he was moving on from her questions. From the history she was trying to understand. Kirigan had not lied to her but neither would he answer her.

She was uneasy and lonely and being in his arms only made her feel more alone. Once they reentered the house, he would be done holding her—perhaps he would not hold her ever again.

Alina tore herself from him, turning away. “You should return inside. It would not do to be found together in the woods under cover of night and without a chaperon, my lord.”

“Alina—“ his hand weighed warm on her shoulder.

With renewed wretchedness deep in her stomach, she longed to feel both his hands sweep across her back and down her arms. Desired their heavy weight to slide over her waist and encompass her body fully. She ached to be pulled into him.

The thing inside of her was clawing to meet him. She shivered and squeezed more tears from her eyes.

“Don’t. You have made your intentions clear which is all that I could ask. You make it worse now.”

Kirigan’s hand gripped her, pulling her around to face him again, ““You asked me to come back and I returned—”

In his hands, he cradled her face once more. Warmth and calm and desire filled her.

His pleading expression made her heart lurch. Evidence of the want they felt shared between them.

“Yes and why is that?” She asked, pain and hurt seeping into her tone, “Why leave at all when you have another heart to win over?”

He looked at her, utterly bewildered, “I—you wrote and asked for me. Your letter sounded…it was unlike you. It worried me.”

Alina could not hold his penetrating stare.

“I regret it very much…writing to you. I should not have posted the letter at all.” Another shuddering breath, “I-I believe I was feeling quite ill, you know. I had not eaten for a couple of days. I-It was an act born of delirium.”

Kirigan’s hands slipped from her cheeks.

“I see.” The coldness in his tone pinched her heart.

“Well. It so happens Misha wrote the day before. He told me your head was turned by idle gossip in the village.”

Alina scowled at him, frustrated at the way he attempted to rewrite his own narrative. “And that is why you have returned with such haste? To confirm them or deny them?”

He sneered. “I do not know what was said and I certainly would not confirm their ugly misshapen truths blindly.”

“But what if everything they told me is true and you deny it anyway?” She challenged.

“Why? What did they tell you, Alina?” He urged, gripping her by the arms.

Alina blinked at him. Not long ago his face and his presence was all she wanted in the world to have but now he was here, she was not sure what his motives were and it was hard to look at him.

When she still had not answered, when doubt and distrust clouded her continence, he loosened his grip on her arms.

His hands slid up to the bare skin of her neck and he sighed.

“I… I should not have implied differently. I did not rush here on Misha’s account.” His thumbs stroked over the soft skin of her neck.

“I came on your request. I am here right now because I wish—rather wrongly—to soothe your fears and your troubles and to assure you I am doing everything in my power to protect you from harm while you are at Blyth Fell.”

He smirked, “Although if I have learned anything from that encounter in the woods, I can reasonably wonder if perhaps it is you who has come to Blyth fell to save us all.”

Even as he said it, Alina felt the jest in his voice. The disbelief. The black humor which told her that he did not consider himself worth saving.

“It comes to the same then.” She breathed. “You wish wrongly. I am not yours to soothe. I am a governess to your children and I should not have written. It was out of line—I ask your pardon, sir.” Alina stepped out of his reach as she said it.

“Alina—”

“Nothing has changed, my lord,” she said firmly. “I am here to teach the children until you see fit to send them to boarding school. It is but three years and…and until then i-it will be best if we do not meet like this…I think.”

The alarm that broke over his face surprised her. Had he not thought this through? Did he not understand the way of things?

With all the anger of a man grasping at straws, he spoke again, “George may go to school as is proper for him to do but what of Lillian? You would abandon her?”

He leveled the words harshly and Alina knew the intent of their sting clearly.

He did not just ask if she would leave Lillian. He asked if she would leave them all.

If she would leave him.

Alina swallowed again, her throat was constricted and it hurt to speak—hurt to do anything in the moment. Warmth had left her and the sadness was frigid.

“Lillian is bright and accomplished and promises only to grow in her accomplishments. I would be a poor teacher to try to hold her as my charge forever when we both know there are finishing schools in the city where she could flourish properly into a young woman. Somewhere befitting someone of her station.”

Kirigan continued to glare at her and it made her angry all over again. Why should she carry the burden of his ire when it was he who rejected her?

Tears fell down her cheeks and Alina swiped at them furiously as she continued, “I w-would not be so selfish as to keep her longer than I am allowed. Not when I have nothing more to offer her.”

This statement rang between them. Kirigan raised his chin in defiance at the accusation.

The weight of it’s meaning landed hard between them and he looked at her with hatred for it.

His jaw clenched and he turned his head from her. “Very well. Three years then. I shall endeavor to make them as…painless as possible for you.”

They did not speak as they entered the kitchen. Nor as they ascended the stairs.

Lord Kirigan walked her to her door without comment. He waited as she relit her candle. He waited as she unlatched his traveling cloak from her shoulders.

He waited as she held the heavy, dark cloth out to him. The dark fathomless eyes bore into hers and it felt distinctly like a goodbye. A shutting away of something.

“I am…relieved you are home, my lord.” Alina whispered.

Kirigan gave her a short bow and closed the door behind him. Her chest ached with a breath-stealing throb.

*************

In his study, Kirigan’s hand closed over the bundle in his pocket.

The little bouquet of herbs wound tightly by Alina’s red ribbon. Plucked from the earth in the woods. The smallest measure of comfort he would allow himself for what was next.

In a few days time, his party would descend upon Blyth Fell. The very thing he had dreaded since that night years ago when he became the Lord of Blyth Fell.

Entertaining, guests, parties. It was the very thing that could unravel their lives.

The time had come to move forward, however. They could not live in secret and seclusion forever. Alina’s encounter in the village was proof of the work of idle tongues.

In the absence of normality, gossip would always swing to sensationalism.

If Lillian and George were to carry on properly in society after this, it was up to him as their father to play his part in society. Set the example and reclaim the Kirigan name for good society.

And yet, as he fell asleep in his armchair by the fire, the little bouquet clutched in his hands, he could not shake the aching in his chest. The persistent longing to hear Alina call him by his true name.

Letter from: Miss Lillian Luda Kirigan

Addressed to: The Lord of Blyth Fell at Leighton Hall

My Honored Father,

I would not write this letter to you except that Miss Starkova has assigned us the task of five letters of correspondence and I do not have many people I might otherwise write.

Further, Miss Starkova advised me that it is appropriate when writing a letter to express well wishes to the recipient.

Therefore, I wish you well, wherever you may be in the countryside. I am doing quite fine here at Blyth Fell while you are away.

My drawing and painting skills have improved under the teachings of Miss Starkova. I have included my most recent rendering as proof of my improvement since last you saw my work. I can only hope it is to your liking.

If it is not, you may take it up with my governess whom directed me to choose whatever I wished to paint.

Perhaps we will see each other again soon. No one here can tell me when you will make your return so I assume it is something you will share when the time comes.

Sincerely,

Lillian L. Kirigan

*****************

Letter from: H. A. Kirigan

Addressed to: Miss Alina Starkova, Governess in residence at Blyth Fell

DearTo Miss Starkova,

I have received George and Lillian’s letters. I wonder what you mean by instructing them to write me and incite some sort of paternal guilt over my prolonged absence.

I will have you know children often go away to boarding school away from their parents and do not wield such spite.

In particular, I wonder what you mean by allowing my daughter to paint a portrait of her mother’s grave and enclose it for my special viewing and collection?

I understand if I have upset you I demand answers for this behaviour. It will not stand. I require order at Blyth Fell and expect my children to adhere to the expectations assigned by the nobility of their birth. Already we have discussed my doubt in your teachings, this is further evidence of your failings.

Is this how you will take up your warfare against me? Punish and torment me through my children in addition to yourself even as I try to seek refuge from

I expect a response within a fortnight of the receipt of this letter.

Yours, H. A. Kirigan

*****************

Letter from: Miss Alina Starkova

Addressed to: Lord Kirigan of Blyth Fell currently residing at Leighton Hall (for an undisclosed amount of time)

Dear Sir,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your time away from Blyth Fell as been fruitful for your particular social endeavors.

I pen this note in direct response to the demands placed over me in your previous correspondence.

Once again, it has fallen to me to impress upon you that the children struggle to know how to interact with you, much less what to write to you.

George especially is concerned his father does not appreciate the musings of a seven-year-old boy—even if it is his own son. If you felt any guilt regarding the poem or memory he wrote of, I would expect you simply to respond in kind by sharing with George a memory of him that you treasure.

I assure you the most mundane hour spent with you means everything the world to him so it should not be difficult to drum up something for him in return. If still you find yourself searching for a meaningful response, I would encourage you to read ‘Anecdote for Fathers’ by William Wordsworth and see if that does not help shake you from your stubbornly cold disposition.

Additionally, your son has a keen mind for mechanics—I gather this is a trait of his father and grandfather before him. If, upon your return to Blyth Fell, you found the time to include him in your research with Mr. Kostyk, I venture to guess George would flourish further.

It is my job to teach your children to read, to write and to perform basic arithmetic. French lessons, piano and drawing instruction are further skills I can share with Lillian to ensure all will recognize the superiority of her birth.

As I am sure you have gleaned from your daughter’s letter, she is certain you will slight her with your ambivalence and so continues her quest to rile you into a reaction instead. Any reaction will do.

I did not guide her away from her choice of subject because that would provide an opening for outburst. I wished for her to put that emotion into her work and not into a verbal sparing match with me.

Good artistry is technical. Great artistry is infused with feeling. Look again her work and tell me you do not see the emotion your seven-year-old has poured into that little scene. Even if it is a morbid depiction.

It was inferred when last we met that my teachings of your children were not to your satisfaction. Again, you lay that charge at my feet now. Given how little you interact with the children or see their progress, I am hopeful these letters from them both will demonstrate the improvement I have seen in their studies and accomplishments.

I would ask again that if you are dissatisfied with my work, you may return to Blyth Fell and conduct a formal review.

Until that time I remain ever in your service, Alina Starkova

*****************

Folded piece of parchment, tucked into the waistcoat of the Lord of Blyth Fell.

Dearest, my darling, my Alina, I hate you and your superior address of me. I hate you for the way you would suppose to tell me about my own children. I hate you even more for your reprimands on my role as their father. I hate you for occupying my thoughts even when I am miles away and in the company of a woman whom has every merit and trait and fortune which would be desired by a gentleman in search of a good wife such as myself. I hate you for the way I wonder about the hours that pass in my home and how you fill them. I hate you for the dirt under your fingernails and the fragrance of herbs surrounds you and tells me precisely how you spent your time in the garden and what plants you favored. I hate you for the feelings you inspire in me. I hate you that I cannot make them go away any longer—that I am forced to find another to numb myself in misery so that I will not have to sacrifice you from my household. Most of all I hate that I would rather keep you under my roof to torment me into an early grave than to release you back into the world where you could be safe and far, far away from me. Where I should let you go.

Aleksander stared at the incriminating black letters.

It felt good to see the glaring truth revealed to him from the page. At last, catharsis.

He brushed his thumb over her name.

Someone called for him outside the door. He folded the parchment until it was very small and put it into his pocket, never to be sent.

*****************

Letter to: Miss Genya Safin, Head of Housekeeping

Addressed from: Lord H. A. Kirigan of Blyth Fell

Dear Miss Safin,

In three weeks time I will return to Blyth Fell with a party of five, two men and three women.

Please ready rooms in the west wing for my group. They will stay through the winter months. I understand that, come December, a sixth person will join our group though I do not know him.

Additionally, we will need to unearth some of the portraits that have been in storage. I trust you to make your selections wisely and without error. It is important that we look the part.

I am counting on you.

Sincerely, Kirigan

*****************

Note to Alina from Genya, slipped under Alina’s door.

Dearest Alina,

I am terribly sorry to beg off just now but it seems as if some sort of cold is sweeping through all of us at the moment and I worried about passing it on to you or the children.

Marie felt it first two nights ago when she began coughing and sneezing something awful. Between you and me, I was sure it was an act to get out of opening the flues in the guest beds and making the fireplaces ready for our coming guests.

Although now that she, Nadia, Tamar and myself have been bed ridden for the better part of two days, I am forced to reconcile this illness is real.

I hate to ask this of you, I know you are devoted to the children day and night, but we must finish stocking the larder before Lord Kirigan and his guests arrive and the order from town is ready for pick up today.

If you would not mind, Alexi has offered to take you into town while Maxim watches the children so we will not miss the goods they are holding for us at the grocer.

Yours, Genya

*****************

Letter to: H. A. Kirigan at Leighton Hall - Urgent

Addressed from:

Mr. Misha Morozov, Caretaker in Charge at Blyth Fell

Aleks,

Pardon the haste of this letter. Each moment of silence I have, I seize my pen to write to you so that you will understand the strange situation we have been put in at Blyth Fell.

Firstly, please do not be angry with Genya, she could not have foreseen this. She along with several others have been held up in bed for days with a terrible cold while Alexei, Maxim, Sergei and myself struggle to maintain the rest of the household.

My charge in particular has been riotous. You know how volatile she becomes when you are away. She senses the loss of control and not even Laudanum will subdue the terror she inflicts upon us with her shrieking and thrashing.

It is all we can do to keep Alina and the children outside her range in the west wing and still she sits up half the night casting her little curses with her foreign tongue. Was this the woman who raised me once? Who loved me?

I am convinced this bout of illnesses is her doing. Perhaps I would be carted away to a mad house for suggesting it but the way it has made all of us at the estate vulnerable I would be foolish to rule out the possibility.

She asked about Alina. I do not know how she knows of her. She has not heard any mention of a governess and I do not allow her to leave her rooms—I swear it!

And yet the other morning, after a night of her whispered demonic mutterings, I opened the door to bring her breakfast and she looked at me, lucid as a memory, and asked, “When will you let me meet the little light in the west wing, my boy?”

It chilled me to the bone, Sasha.

I say all of that to remind you, once again, how much of things have gone off the rails in your absence. To remind you that it is not Genya’s fault for what happened. Again, I wish for you to hear it from me first.

Once half the staff were sick, Alina and Lillian—her little volunteer apprentice, as it were—set to work concocting restorative soups and teas for everyone with the ingredients from the garden. You would have been impressed with your daughter, I daresay. Alina had her practicing her arithmetic as they worked, multiplying the recipes. It was quite covert on the part of the governess to slip her teaching in.

Then the two ventured into town to pick up the supplies for the larder. I know this is not what we discussed.

Genya was to make the trip as usual but with her illness and your impending return, we had no choice but to send Alina into the village to complete the task. The least we could do was send Alexei with her to keep an ear out for things and move everyone along.

By all means everything was going well until Alexei got sidetracked when Lillian wandered away. She was to stay home, of course, but Alina insisted Lillian could come with her if the girl wished and your daughter does not like to be parted from her governess these days…

When Alexei returned to the shop, the attendants had already turned Alina’s head with several stories and rumors and were probing her for fresh gossip from the estate.

Alexei did everything he could to intervene and get them out of the shop quickly but I am afraid the damage has been done. I do not know what was said, what they could possibly have told her. Alina dismissed Alexei when he inquired and she has not spoken about it since.

That was a couple days ago.

I should mention that after her soup and her tea made the rounds, everyone had something of a miraculous recovery within the course of a few hours.

Since that time, it is my understanding that everyone, even Genya, has gone to call on the governess but she has declined all of them entry to her room saying she has come down with the illness herself.

As I said, please do not blame Genya nor Alexei. We knew when we brought in an outsider to teach the children it would lead to questions and a few of our secrets were bound to trickle out eventually.

In the meantime, we are watching her posts and it seems she has written to no one since the letter she posted you a week ago. Indeed, we are assured she has no family and no friends left outside of her doctor in the city. Though I am fairly certain he is deceased now.

Should she have any questions, I am resting my hopes on her sensible and kind nature. I firmly believe Alina will come to one of us sooner or later to seek clarity.

I stand by what I said in your study a few weeks ago, Alina Starkova would not be separated from your children for anything, rumors or no. She is not at risk of running.

I only hope you see that for the gift that it is and do not attempt to make another foolish gaff by sending her away. Few in the house would forgive you for it. Your children and myself included.

Our plan is a good one. We will give her a good home and when the time is right, we will share with her what she needs to hear. Until then, I believe we should be patient and allow her to come when she is ready.

I hope you are failing miserably at your task. It is reckless and foolish and I wholeheartedly believe you will regret it.

I do, however, love you and hope you are in good health.

Yours, Misha

*****************

Letter addressed to my departed grandmother, my former guide in life, copied into her journal.

Dearest Babulya,

Oh, how much it hurts to miss you today! Though I miss you most days, it is usually a quiet hurt. One that is as small and fleeting as a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Something quickly soothed with a prayer to Alatyr. Then sweet memories of you and your voice and your wisdom trickle back to me and I am smiling again.

The last couple of days it has been much worse. I feel ill and on the verge of tears at all turns. I wish so desperately for your comfort and your words and it feels as thought I have a gaping wound in my chest that aches.

I know you are gone from me but I do not who else to write. You are gone and none are in my confidence any longer. Genya is lovely and as close as friend as I could wish to have anymore but she will not be pleased when she learns of this and I do not have the heart to see her lie to me.

Always when you were alive, I felt that when I told you my troubles, it made me feel better somehow. It helped me to make sense of everything. I am hoping for the same experience now.

I have always suspected the residents and staff of Blyth Fell were keeping secrets from me. Truthfully, I did not mind it so much. We each know how hard it is to let anyone in and I did not expect them to warm to me so quickly.

With that said, I also never imagined any of their secrets to be so…dark.

I am getting ahead of myself now and must start from the beginning.

When Genya and the others fell ill a few days ago, I was tasked with entering the village to pick up our orders from the grocer and bring them home. Until now, I have never visited the village.

It seems as if the people in the village were very interested to meet me. For years, they told me, have only ever seen Genya or Nadia and when they heard I was employed at Blyth Fell, it felt as though they swarmed.

At first they wanted me to tell them about my time at the estate but when I would not share much detail—there were three very insistent ladies pressing in around me—they began to tell me about everything they had ever heard about the big estate.

Here I will try to be as fact driven as possible, explaining only the bare minimum of what they said with any editorializing or commentary—though they showered me with plenty. The history of the estate, per the village gossips, is as follows:

As I understand it, the tragic story started some thirty years ago when the late Lord Kirigan was made a widower by his first wife who died in childbirth. He hired a widowed wet-nurse to help feed his son. She was, apparently, a witch.

As they tell the story, they know she was a witch because she put the late Lord under a spell in order to remain on the estate long after she and her offspring should have been dismissed.

They also claim to know she was a witch because whoever heard of a wet-nurse who dined with a lord? Whoever heard of the son of a wet-nurse who was raised alongside the son of a lord as an equal? The equivalent of a servant’s son who is afforded the same rights and education of a child who is of noble birth and breeding?

Their guess, one that was developed with the help of the servants of Blyth Fell some thirty years ago, was that the witch had him under a spell which kept her quite comfy for a good decade of employment.

The servants who visited the village were the only sources of information at the time because, most mysteriously, Lord Kirigan himself did not leave the estate during the first ten years following the death of his wife and he stopped corresponding with people altogether.

The footman told them about letters from friends gone unanswered, invitations to balls and parties that went unattended even though Lord Kirigan was well out of the mourning period and should have been in search of a wife for his estate—not to mention a new mother for his son.

Instead, all was quiet for some ten years until one day, new rumors reached the village from the big house.

The witch was exiled.

Forced out of the manor at last and as punishment for her wicked crimes, her child was assigned to stay on as a servant of the house. Meanwhile, the late Lord Kirigan sent his only son on to boarding school and reentered society, leaving the estate for months at a time to visit friends with whom he had long fallen out of touch.

Blyth Fell was quite well abandoned during that time. No one lorded over it and the whole village was convinced he might well sell it off. The servants who visited town during that time were random and unrecognized by everyone.

All was quiet until finally, some some years later, Lord Kirigan returned with news that he would take on a bride. Almost twenty years after the death of his first.

Here, the ladies spared no detail in describing her.

A foreign beauty with little English and a gorgeous face. For weeks after their wedding, the village was well fed with conversation about the beautiful young bride she made to the debonaire Lord Kirigan.

Although, they only caught a glimpse of her given the wedding was little more than an elopement. Lord Kirigan’s son did not even return from the city to attend it!

All was well for another three month’s time until more tragic news matriculated from the big house. A death.

Lord Kirigan was made a widower twice over and his beautiful, young bride who had seemed so vivacious and hardy was taken ill and found dead in her bed one morning.

Here, it seems, all reason abandoned the villagers. They grew hushed and contemplated telling me the rest.

Naturally, I tried to pull myself away from the excess of tragedy but that only incited their hunger further and then they continued to tell me the worst part:

The town coroner, a notoriously tight-lipped fellow, was in the village pub just a couple days after his examination of the late Lady Kirigan and he shared the most baffling information. He was forced, he says, to record her death as an unknown illness but on her person he found the strangest black marks. Inside her veins, her blood had turned black.

The ladies at the grocer took to themselves to make remarks then, “Oh it was a witch’s mark, I’ve no doubt!” and, “Did you ever hear of such an illness before or since!?”

But all I could think of, grandmother, was that creature in the woods on the twin’s birthday. The marks it left behind and the black liquid that began to freeze George’s body as he lay in my arms.

I had no words. Nothing that I could share with them for I was afraid that I might encourage their horrible gossip by even a twitch of my mouth!

They turned to me anyway, coming to the end of their terrible tale, to inform me that Lord Kirigan himself was found dead not long after.

At last, his son returned to Blyth Fell—or at least, they believe he did because they saw the grand carriage and could not guess who else would be pulled in it.

But by then, they resigned, all their sources of gossip had run dry. The servants who came to town did not speak to anyone. They did not dither at the market stalls or show a friendly smile.

Since then, they said, only ‘the red head’ comes to town. They speak of Genya, of course. She is polite and beautiful to look at and she smiles appropriately but otherwise she is as tight-lipped as a corpse in their opinion.

For almost a decade they have suffered without any real news to grasp onto—Genya clearly uncaring about their efforts—and when I introduced myself and declared my intentions to pick up the order for Blyth Fell, they pounced.

It was all I could do to keep quiet even as they ambushed me with their inquiries.

Alexei and Lillian arrived to save me then and I left in a haze of information and confusion and fear.

I am ashamed to say I have not been able to face the children. Instead they spend their days with whomever can entertain them while I fret uselessly in my room and refuse meals.

I do not wish to have my head turned by such carelessness but I cannot help but to try and put the pieces together for myself in my solitude.

When they speak of the son of the wet-nurse, do they talk about Misha? Naturally, they would not know for sure.

On the one hand, he seems too young and yet I know he grew up on this estate and that he is close the current Lord Kirigan. I do not know another who could fit this description.

Clearly they have learned nothing of Luda nor the children—indeed they were quite surprised to see Lillian in their store once they saw her dress and learned she was my charge.

What more do the people at Blyth Fell know of this shadowed creature that spreads death to it’s victims as surely as a plague?

My stomach is all tied up in knots and I feel as though the darkness and tragedy of this place hovers over me like a fog over the moor and I cannot shake it from my vision. I wish most dearly to speak to Lord Kirigan himself. Genya I cannot ask to lie and I feel certain in my very bones that Lord Kirigan, if asked directly by me, will have no choice but to speak truthfully.

For all that he has confused and hurt me in his own ways, I am comforted and confident that he would not lie to me outright.

It is shameful of me to miss him as I do. I know that it is not my place and that he does not invite me into his confidence…

And yet right now I feel as though I cannot keep moving if I am to continue to be deprived of his presence.

What is happening to me? What is this aching sensation I feel all the time in my gut?

I wish so dearly that you were here. That you could tell me what to do.

I miss you, babulya. I pray to Alatyr in your honor every evening and wake to the shine of it’s light in the morning. I know you will both guide me through this.

Love always, Alina

*****************

Within the span of a couple hours, the governess descended upon the footman of the estate and insisted he return to town to post a letter for her at once.

*****************

Letter to: Lord Kirigan at Leighton Hall Urgent

Addressed from: Miss Alina Starkova

My lord,

I could not even tell you why it is I am writing to you. What it is that gives me the right… I know only that I need to see your face. To hear your voice

I wish I could put into words what it is I am fearful of in this moment.

I imagine your face as you read this…angered and agitated—scrunched up in that way that you get when Marie has you cornered and you are forced to listen to her extrapolate on the new methods she uses when washing the linens and it hurts for me to picture it because I want to see you in the flesh. I want to see you haughty and thoroughly annoyed and here.

I am sorry for the insubordination of this hastily written letter but I need to ask you to please return home. Come with your party and your bride, I do not care, only—return to me I simply ask that you come home soon.

Yours, Alina

*****************

His hands were trembling.

Alina’s letter was clutched in his fist. It arrived just one day after Misha’s letter sent him into a tailspin of fear and doubt.

He could not explain what is was that pulled him. For the first time at Leighton Hall, his room filled with dark mist as he stared at the words Alina had scribbled to him. His eyes squinted at the page to decipher the lines she had scratched out. The words she kept from him.

He could not control the dark mist around him any more than he could control the racing of his heart when he saw her handwriting on the envelope.

All he could do—all that was left for him to do—was to return.

It did not change his plans for betrothal. Zoya and her friends would soon fall upon Blyth Fell like the snow in the winter but he could, at least, answer this call from Alina.

His letters to the children had just been posted and now, she asked for something for herself.

This one request she made from him on her behalf—not on the behalf of his children—but on her own urging. Aleksander would answer.

*****************

Now Alina and the children lounged in the garden and in a lapse of judgement, Alina revealed to the children the effects of catmint on felines. They promptly requested to test it on their little orange kitten.

Alina picked off a spring of catmint to feed to Harry and they all entertained the spritely thing and waited for the effects to wear in.

“Keep in mind, it is possible for nothing to happen,” Alina hedged. “I have never tried it on a kitten, only a full grown cat.”

“What happened to the cat?” George asked, crouching down to inspect Harry.

“It was a cantankerous, old thing but fed a little catmint and he began to leap about and sing in his little cat voice as if he had joined an opera.”

George giggled and Lillian was fascinated, “Are you being very serious, Alina? I should love to see that happen!” Eagerly, she turned back to the kitten who still very appropriately rambunctious for a kitten at the moment.

“Well, I am exaggerating a little but it did make lots of mewling sounds that were high and long so it sounded as though he was singing,” she laughed.

“Let us feed some to Georgie and see what happens!” Lillian shouted, pulling another sprig and poising for a pounce. He giggled and backed away.

“I won’t turn into a cat, will I, Alina?” George asked.

“Well, as it was Lillian’s idea, I think it is only appropriate to be sure by testing it on her!” Alina grasped the little girl around the arms and held her still while she giggled and screamed in laughter.

“Fine! In the name of discovery, I will try it.” She opened her mouth and George’s look of thrill was marred by a singular moment of concern.

Alina winked at him behind Lillian’s back and he smiled again, giving his sister a leaf to chew.

*****************

Lord Kirigan stared out the window, watching the three figures in the garden laugh and scream in delight. Lillian had dropped to her hands and knees and was crawling around the garden with the kitten.

A building ache in his chest signaled the need to look away but he could not make himself stop.

“I like her, sir.” Misha said behind him.

The lord sneered and whipped his head away from the window.

Perhaps it was the brightness of the daylight streaming in and casting strange shadows but the room was curiously dark around them.

“Indeed. And what is there to like?” He asked, reaching for his tumbler.

“Well,” Misha said, “she smiles.”

Lord Kirigan looked at the young man, noting that Misha seemed to be suppressing a smile of his own.

“Marie smiles and yet you do not attach yourself to her.”

“Well no. That is different.” The young man looked lost in thought, leaning against the window frame for support as he watched the three people playing.

Finally Misha looked up, “To speak plainly, my Lord. When Alina smiles, she looks as though she has a secret. But…not in a taunting way.”

He rubbed at his brow in consternation, searching for the words. “It’s as if she knows a secret, one she wishes to share with you.”

Lord Kirigan glared out the window. It was a fight to keep his hand from clutching at the ache in his chest.

The assessment hit too close to truth for him to stomach.

“Alina draws you into her confidence,” Misha continued. “She makes you feel at home and safe, I think. Everyone agrees—”

“You’re in love with her.” Lord Kirigan stated, the aching in his chest twisting into something darker.

“What? N-no, sir. I—” The anxiety on Misha’s face intensified and he emitted a nervous laugh.

“It is fine, Misha. She is a fine woman.” He said in a clipped tone, “More over, you are a worthy man.”

Lord Kirigan continued to stare down at her, the room around them darkening with each passing second. He really should look away but his eyes were taking in every movement of her sun-drenched person. Watched her pretending to pet George on the head who, evidently, had also become a cat now.

“You should marry her.” Lord Kirigan said in a flat tone, “I will give you money. You can both get far away from here, lead a good life and have a decent living. It—Nothing would make me happier.”

Was the air getting thinner? He pulled at the ascot around his neck.

Misha could give her a good life. Two unburdened people such as they, they could give each other a good life.

Isn’t that what he had wanted when he began this all those years ago? When he had looked down at Misha’s broken little body, limp in his arms in the woods? When he had—

“That is not a possibility, my Lord. I am not in love with her.” Misha said, cutting through his thoughts. A resolute, firm quality to his words.

“Aren’t you?” Lord Kirigan said, absently, lifting his glass for another long sip.

“No, Sasha.”

The lord stilled. He had not heard that name in years. Not even Luda had known it.

“Humph.” He said, disbelieving.

“I am not in love with her, you fool.” Misha said, petulance saturating his tone as his anger mounted. “And I will not be sent away from here like a lad shipped off to boarding school.”

Lord Kirigan did not acknowledge him, taking a long draw from his tumbler.

Misha banged at the window with his fist, rattling the glass in the panes, “Aleksander!”

Once he had the other man’s attention, Misha gestured down at the woman in question, “If you think she would be sent away from those kids just because you threw some money at her, you are an even bigger fool than I thought.”

“You forget yourself, servant.” Lord Kirigan snarled.

Misha glanced around the room at the darkness pooled around them. He scoffed.

“Well. It’s best I return to my duties then, my lord.” He spat, grabbing his cane and crossing to the door.

“Look at this, Misha!” The lord shouted behind him.

The young man stopped, turning to stare at Lord Kirigan’s outstretched hands.

Darkness leaked from his palms like wisps of smoke curled from blown out candle. The lord himself looked both wild and fearful in equal measure.

“It is worse now, worse than it has ever been!” Kirigan pointed at the window. “It is her, I know it is. I-I cannot explain but I know that if she would just—”

His hands tugged at his hair in distress, “Everything was fine before and when she is around I just feel—” he smashed the tumbler into the bookshelf. Darkness was billowing out around him in curtains.

“That’s just it—it’s too much, I can’t let it go on. If I do the same thing will happen again and I—” His breaths were coming in short and quick as he surveyed the growing shadows in the room and the next moment Misha had hobbled back to him and grasped the man on the shoulders.

“All right. It will be all right.” Misha said.

“I don’t want—I cannot let it happen again.” Kirigan said.

“I know,” Misha said, pulling Kirigan into his chest. “It won’t.”

“I have to do something about it, I cannot keep on this way. You know I cannot.”

Misha sighed, a sidelong glance out the window, “I know. Take a seat and calm yourself. We will figure this out.”

*****************

That evening he came to her. She sat before the fire in the parlor, reading her book and sipping a cup of tea left for her by Genya.

His steps were silent enough that she did not recognize his presence until he stood in front of the fire, the warm glow blocked by his looming silhouette.

With his shadowed face, Alina felt more than saw that he was looking down at her. Against the orange glow of the fire, she could see his hands outlined clearly.

The way they twitched when he was nervous. Clenching and unclenching.

She set down her cup, wondering if, when she stood, she would find herself in his arms.

It seemed the natural progression. Something holy had been building between them and it was only a matter of time before—

“I intend to take a wife soon.” He said. “The estate is in need of a mistress and the children in need of a mother.”

Alina’s eyes roamed his shadowed features, doggedly searching for the emotion on his darkened face.

Lord Kirigan leaned away from her, pulling himself back.

“My hunt begins in a fortnight. I will attend a gathering at our neighboring estate and begin my search for a suitable wife.”

Alina had no words. The air seemingly lifted out of her body and hollowed out her gut.

She was thankful her face was doused in his shadow. He could not see the tears which had inexplicably formed in her eyes.

“I will tell the children myself when the time is right.” He said, softly.

Alina looked up at him again, searching his face for anything that would make his decisions make sense. Her breaths were sharp and he stiffened.

When he spoke again, Lord Kirigan was brusque, “In the interim I expect you to enforce proper manners befitting the high society of which they are members. I want my wife to have no doubts of the good breeding of my line.”

Alina bristled at the implication, the cruelty of the words sliced through her chest. She could not stop the retort, hot on her tongue, “Are you hinting that I am lacking in proper manners or in etiquette? I implore you submit your critiques to me if you find me to be wanting.”

This was a prime example, speaking out of turn to her employer, though she did not acknowledge it.

“You cannot help the inferiority of your birth, Miss Starkova.” His aim was to wound her. It landed hard in her gut. Alina stood from her seat.

“Indeed.” Hot, angry tears fell fast from her eyes. Her voice sounded wet and she loathed him for pulling this out of her, “Will that be all, sir?”

The room was darkening, it was like the moon had hidden itself behind a cloud but Alina could bring herself to check through the window. Could not tear her eyes away from him.

He stepped toward her, his hands raised as if to seize her, “No, one more thing. Stay away from Misha—stay away from the east wing entirely.”

Alina flinched away, shaking her head in frustration but he grasped her wrist, “Promise me. Tell me you will obey me.”

Desperation tinged his plea and she was confused and tearful and she still could not see his face.

“Hate me if you must but promise you will obey me, Alina.” He demanded, gripping her wrist.

“Why do you do this?” She asked. “The words you use with me are…powerful. T-they wound me.” Her voice broke and he turned his face away, unable to look at her.

In the sharp relief of the firelight on his profile, Alina witnessed the unshed tears pooling in his eyes.

Something inside of her shattered. “Why are you doing this? Why do you make me feel this way?”

The light from the fire in the grate was muted. The dim halo illuminated them, drawing closer in the encroaching darkness.

“Why do you hide away?” Alina reached for his face.

“No.” Lord Kirigan startled, dropping her wrist as if it burned him. He swallowed stared around the dark room.

“I will leave in a fortnight. Sooner if I get word that I am welcome. I would not see—” He took a sharp inhale, “You will not be turned out of the house to become a beggar and you will not have to worry about me…wounding you any longer.”

Tears were flowing down her face and the pain and confusion this wrought was too much to put into words. She could hardly form a question adequate to help to her approach understanding.

Did he not feel what was there, plainly between them? He must—it could not be one-sided. Not when it felt like some other-worldly pull. An irrefutable magnetism which existed between they two.

For a moment—one single breath of a moment—Lord Kirigan’s eyes met hers and in that look, it confirmed everything she knew to be true. Everything she felt mirrored in him for her.

And so why now—

“Goodnight, Miss Starkova.” He bowed in her direction without another look and exited the room.

Alina stood on the spot for several long minutes.

Long enough for the moon to become uncovered outside the window and the room to gradually receive the soft white glow again.

The loss of her lord was exchanged for a much desired gain: Lillian had come around to her at last, it seemed.

She was attentive in lessons, respectful and even jovial at times. Though that was fragile.

An occasional burst of laughter at her brother was followed with blushing surprise from herself and a renewed focus on her work.

The true turning point was marked when Alina woke one night to a timid tapping at her door. George stood shivering the hall and Alina lit a candle and followed him into the nursery. Lillian lay, trembling in her bed.

Alina stepped closer and paused, waiting for Lillian’s invitation but it was George who spoke. “She was trashing around in her sleep.”

Alina set the candle down on the nightstand, briefly illuminating the tears on Lillian’s cheeks.

“It is nothing.” Lillian said quietly, turning over. “George should not have woken you. I am fine.”

“She has nightmares a lot,” George offered, insistent and glaring at his sister. “They are worse when we are here. In London she hardly ever had any but since we came home she is having them many nights a week.”

Alina sat on the bed and put a light hand on Lillian’s shoulder. “You do not have to tell me about them if you don’t want, but may I stay for a while until you both fall back asleep?”

She nodded.

George clambered back into his bed and Alina tucked them both in.

When she raised the covers back over Lillian’s shoulder, the girl gripped her wrist, her large eyes still shining with tears, “Don’t tell father. Please.” She begged.

Alina frowned but nodded, stroking the dark curls back from her face as Lillian turned away once more.

************

Lord Kirigan was not exactly available to speak with in any case. Autumn was slipping into winter and now Alina was certain he was avoiding her.

Though she did not catch sight of him, he found little ways to insert himself in her life over the following weeks.

He relayed messages through Genya, orders for how she should go about lessons with the children. Areas of French that needed improving and added commentary on the poetry and literature Alina taught to them.

It was infuriating—embarrassing and humiliating to have such frequent critiques and no opportunity to rebuff them.

Genya grew embarrassed anytime she stopped Alina, well aware that it would be an unwelcome conversation.

Eventually, Genya must have refused to be the messenger anymore because she told Alina over supper one day, “Lord Kirigan and I have a new understanding. He will relay any instructions through his own correspondence from now on.”

Both women were able to relax around each other again, the barrier well-enough removed.

To her surprise and sincere gratitude, Alina began spending evenings in the parlor with the red headed housekeeper where, if it was early in the evening, they spoke of literature and education and their knowledge of the news in London.

Alina told her about the opium dens and the people who were brought in to the home of her previous employer, a well-respected physician, who were well beyond rescuing and thick into their addictions.

Genya had nodded soberly, “I have seen it myself, the way opium will waste a man into nothingness. Steal his humanity from his body and leave nothing but illness until his next dose is given.”

Alina nodded, saddened as she envisioned the withdrawal pains she had witness several times over the years, “They are like living ghosts.”

“Demons, more like.” Genya said, darkly. She took a sip from her tea cup and stared into the flames in the hearth.

Unsure what to make of it, Alina left the comment alone.

If it was later in the evening, they allowed their conversation to dip into something a little less sophisticated and cultured, gleefully exchanging gossip from around the estate.

The safest topic was of course Marie and Sergei. They were the most obvious—and most volatile—of the possible relationships among the staff of Blyth Fell.

Alina knew or at least suspected something between Alexei and Misha given the intimate exchange she had witnessed between them but she did not dare hint of it with Genya.

Men were still being charged and tried for homosexuality or even charges in the realm of homosexuality and Alina could never be sure of the loyalty of anyone.

Her knowledge of other possible romances was extremely limited and, above all, Alina most dearly wanted to ask after Lord Kirigan.

More to the point, she wanted to know if Genya had been present for his courtship and marriage to the woman now buried in the woods of Blyth Fell.

To know what he had been like with her might help her understand more about his relationship with his children now. Had they been in love? Had he given her tokens of affection and written letters to her when he was away? Had she been kind? Truly kind to him and to the staff of Blyth Fell?

Only, Alina could not bring herself to ask any of it. It felt deceitful somehow to pry facts from anyone except her lord.

This man who captured her attention and seemed to captivate her very soul. Her soul had given every indication of a willingness to go should he decide to stake a claim over it.

She felt constantly like she was on the edge of a cliff and he would either hold her in the safety of his grasp or push her off the edge.

Alina could not be sure which act would be more loving.

So instead she offered up a truth she could give to Genya, hopeful it would be friendly and not threatening.

“Mr. Kostyk mentioned your name,” Alina said, pointedly staring into the fire and allowing Genya privacy to react.

Alina watched the flames as she recounted the whole encounter with him the night of the birthday party. The way he had exclaimed over her image in the little picture. That he had mentioned no one else by name.

Genya was quiet. However, the heat emanating off of her blushing face indicated this was a welcome anecdote.

************

Though her relationship with Lord Kirigan was strained, her friendships with the other staff were flourishing at last.

Between spending evenings in the parlor with Genya, attending to the occasional cup of tea with Nadia and Tamar between meals and tending to the garden with Sergei, Alina herself felt brighter and happier than she had been since the loss of her babulya as a child.

Over meals she began to seat herself beside Misha, drawn to his quiet nature and sense of humor.

After one evening in which he mentioned knowing that rain was coming once more given the pains in his leg, Alina asked what she had been nervous to ask before now.

“I could help take a look at your leg if you like, Mr. Morozov?” He began to wave her off and she continued, “I cannot fix it but I have helped tend to many similar ailments in London. Please let me try.”

“I really do not want to be a bother, Miss Starkova. Please—”

“It is no bother. I will come to you and I can show you a few pain relieving techniques which have worked wonders for some of the former patients in my charge.”

Perhaps it was the pleading look on her face or that she had caught him in a moment of weakness or maybe, hopefully, he believed she might be able to help but ultimately, Misha accepted.

Alina glowed in response.

“I will find you after I put the kids to bed.” Alina left without giving him the opportunity to change his mind.

True to her word, she found him in the servant’s quarters that night.

As she entered the men’s hall, she passed the rooms where Alexei, Maxim, Sergei and Ivan all slept and then stared curiously into several empty rooms after, turning the corner and continuing down another set of empty rooms.

Misha’s quarters were at the farthest end of the vacant hall, close to the door and stairwell that led to the East wing. She wondered at the isolation but did not feel comfortable voicing it as the her friendship with the man was tenuous.

Misha was welcoming enough as he blushed and gestured at the single chair in his living quarters.

“Good evening, Mr. Morozov.” Alina smiled at him and pulled the chair close to his bed.

“‘Evening, Miss Starkova. Let’s get this over with then.” She set to work explaining her experiences and what she planned to do, implementing the professional, bedside manner she had honed in London.

“Although you are unable to use the knee joint to bend, we have seen success in relieving pain if one is able to regularly massage around the joint.”

Misha looked at her curiously.

“We may not be able to get the movement back but Dr. Liston, my former employer, always saw improvement in the pain level of the patient after I was through with them.” Alina glowed a little to herself.

Misha chuckled, “Hmm. I believe you are that good, Miss. Though, Marie reckons you are probably a witch.” The good nature of his tone told her he merely found the remark amusing.

Alina allowed him a small smile and pointed to his leg, “May I?” He nodded and she pulled his ankle straight, pushing the cuff of his trousers up his calf.

“Would that scare you, Mr. Morozov? If I were a witch?”

He laughed loud. The kind of laugh that forced his head back and made him look like a true twenty-three year old for once as opposed to a weathered middle aged man.

As he calmed, he wiped at a tear beneath his eye, “Pardon me, Miss. It would not.” He sighed another chuckle, “Even if you were a witch, I dare say your magic would not be enough to set my leg right.”

She smiled again, pausing their conversation to instruct his relaxing of the muscles around his ankle as she rotated his foot in place. “How can you be so sure? In London I’ve seen and assisted in such extreme medical cases that country folk like yourself would likely cry ‘miracle’ if you were to witness them.”

His answering chuckle was less joyful now, darker. “Miracles. Those are quite subjective, are they not?”

“I suppose…” She tried to bend his leg at the knee very gently and he hissed. Alina backed off and began to massage the muscles just below the area.

“Can I ask you, Mr. Morozov, how you came to have this injury? You seem too young for a war wound such as this one.”

A rueful smile crossed his face. “I’ve never seen war, myself. Never will with this,” he nodded to the leg. “I was just a boy when it happened. No more than ten.”

He glanced at the cracked door behind her and then back to Alina, lowering his voice. Unconsciously she leaned in as she continued to work at the stiff knee joint, glad of his distraction.

“It happened out in the woods actually, where all the bad things seem to happen of late…”

Alina looked startled, “The woods of Blyth fell? You grew up here?”

He nodded, “The very same. My mother raised me in a little cabin out there.” He looked far away.

Alina continued her ministrations and Misha continued. “It wasn’t a bad life, really. I was a stable boy on the estate by seven years old which is…young, I guess. Looking at George now it seems unbelievable that I was that young but I know it was better than if I were in the city.”

Alina agreed, a somber expression on her face as she thought of the tiny little children lining up outside the factories in the morning and filing out at the end of the day.

"And well one day I was walking back to my cabin from the stables and…I fell down an embankment.”

He scratched his ear and looked down at his knee, “Or at least I think that is what happened. It is hard to remember because I blacked out for a bit. When I awoke again, my leg was like this—broken several times over and so painful—I’ve never felt so bad before or since. My arm too.”

Misha loosened the cuff of his sleeve and bunched up the fabric to show her several scars on his arm, “Luckily this healed better. It still pangs something terrible when there is rain coming but I am just fortunate to be able to use it…unlike this stump of a thing.” He plucked at the fabric of his trousers.

“That sounds awful. Was Lord Kirigan able to get you treated by a doctor then?” Misha frowned and shook his head.

“No, actually. The late Lord Kirigan,” he corrected, fidgeting with his hands, “h-he was not well himself at the time. Had to send for his son to come home around then too.”

Misha busied himself lowering his sleeve again, “It was a dark time, Miss Starkova…Not one we like to think on very often in his house.”

Alina had to hold her breath to keep the onslaught of questions from pouring out of her mouth.

“Lord Kirigan, the current Lord Kirigan, is good enough to employ me. No other house would.” He said, distantly.

“Yes and what is it exactly that you do here?” Alina asked before she could stop herself or adjust the keen sound of her tone.

He scratched behind his ear and shrugged, reddening slowly, “A little of this and little of that. It is helpful for Lord Kirigan to have someone knowledgeable of the history of the estate on staff.” Misha smiled bitterly, his eyes twinkling with an untold truth and Alina wanted desperately to inquire after it.

Before she could open her mouth to say anything though, Misha grunted at the pressure of her fingers, “I’ll be damned.”

He laughed. “I think this is helping.” Gingerly he lifted his leg and rotated it. She beamed at him.

“I will hate to call on you each time it hurts though,” he began, suddenly concerned at the prospect.

“I thought,” Alina said softly, careful to keep her focus on his calf muscles, “I could teach you the basic techniques and perhaps you could show…whoever is available…to help you in future.” She allowed her gaze to travel to his face and saw raw panic in his features.

Both of them were thinking of Alexei, both of them had very different concerns at the moment.

Laying a gentle hand on his arm she said, “It is quite reasonable to receive help from people who care about you. Who can…meet you in your circumstances and be…supportive.” She said carefully.

Slowly, Misha’s panic receded and lay a hand over hers on his arm, squeezing it. “You deserve a normal life, Mr. Morozov. One that is free of pain a-and full of love. I wish both things for you.”

Misha cocked his head at her curiously, a small smile on his face as she took her hand back and finished kneading the muscles of his calf.

“He likes you, you know.” Misha said suddenly, “Lord Kirigan.” His eyes probed her face for a reaction and the traitorous heating of her cheeks gave away the game at once.

The young man lay a gentle hand to her shoulder until she met his eyes, “I have seen how he behaves now you are here and it is…well it’s refreshing to see him a little off kilter for a change.”

To her bewilderment and shame, tears sprang into her eyes and she bent over her work once more, waiting for them to clear. The abrupt shift in conversation, the exposure of her own crush at the hands of Misha on the heels of her exposure of his crush was unexpected.

It did not feel as though Lord Kirigan liked her any more. It did not feel as though he could ever have felt anything for her beyond a strained tolerance.

She had not seen him in weeks and—come to think of it—when would Misha have even seen them exchange any sort of interaction? He had hardly been around himself during their sparse meetings.

Alina looked up to just ask this when the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.

Suddenly, the door was opening and Lord Kirigan himself stood in the frame, a large box in his arms.

He froze, studying the scene before him with rapt attention, eyes flicking to Misha sitting up on his bed with one trouser leg bunched up and Alina’s hands on his exposed skin, sitting in the chair beside him.

It must have looked quite intimate.

The lord’s nostrils flared as he looked at them and then, just as quickly he was dropping the box by the door and turning away, “I had more brought in from town for you. Goodnight.”

He was gone.

Alina was trembling as she stared at the empty doorway. The anger that had radiated off of him during his short visit was palpable in the air and Alina could not shake the feeling. She turned to look at Misha and—

He was laughing.

A silent, body-shaking laugh that made him look as if he was convulsing on the spot.

“Stop it!” Alina reprimanded, smacking him on the arm.

As if that smack had lifted the lid off his mirth, his laugh was audible at last and filled the silent room, echoing down the hall and probably reaching the ears of a certain irate lord.

Alina did not stay long after that, Misha could barely calm himself enough to carry on a conversation further and Alina decided it was best to call it an evening.

She stood, reaching down only to pick up her shawl. Quite accidentally, she glimpsed into the box Lord Kirigan had hand-delivered to Misha.

It was full of bottles. Nine in total.

The shape of them was quite familiar to her both from the medical cabinet at her previous employer’s home and from the study of her current employer.

Laudanum. Nine bottles of Laudanum. Unopened and delivered to the room of a young man whose only ailment appeared to be a bum leg. Laudanum was no use for that kind of condition.

Not wishing to be lied to by Misha, Alina gathered her shawl and gave her farewell without asking another question.

************

Genya was not in the parlor when Alina arrived.

Guessing that she had already turned in for the evening, Alina contemplated doing the same and then decided her mind was too full of thoughts.

Stealing away to the kitchens, she put on the kettle for herself and made a cup of tea, returning to the parlor to tuck herself into the corner of the sofa. The fire crackled in the hearth and her mind turned over information in a carousel of unconnected facts.

Although she did feel accepted among the staff now, the closer she became to Genya and now Misha, the more she noticed the obscurities surrounding their conversations at times. The way questions hit abrupt dead ends and the mood shift of someone when Alina tip-toed too close to a subject and had to be ushered away.

It was upsetting and frustrating to desire to be engrained in the happenings of the estate and simultaneously know some truth was being withheld.

She was just working up the questions she would ask directly, the things she would bring to Genya’s attention to prove her loyalty and discretion when she heard the sound of footsteps through the hall for the second time that evening.

Quick, familiar steps.

“You are not in your room,” Lord Kirigan said behind her. The anger he brought with him into the room caught on Alina like a match to a dry log. She refused to turn to him.

“Quite observant, my lord. Indeed, I am not.” She sipped her tea, pretending he was not there.

He had not been there for weeks in her view, why should he be now?

“You’re quite at your leisure, aren’t you?” He sneered, coming around the sofa, “Enjoying an evening off, Miss Starkova? And if the children should need something, they will just need to wait, I suppose?” He queried.

Alina did not respond, her lips latched to the rim of her cup to keep from screaming.

He chuckled, “Not a very hard worker are you, Miss?”

“And you are not very gentlemanly, are you Mr. Kirigan?” Alina snapped, breaking her composure with a scathing glare.

“What would you know of manners and breeding?”

Alina got to her feet, waiting for him to move from her path to the door. When he stood his ground, daring her to walk past him, the barely restrained fury she held inside of her threatened to break her into pieces.

Her hands shook as she set the empty tea cup on the saucer, picked up her candle and turned her back on him, clearing the other side of the sofa to make her retreat.

Lord Kirigan did not come after her. She slammed the parlor door behind herself and took her empty cup with her all the way to her room.

In the morning she would return it to the kitchen.

In the morning she would face him.

In the morning she would find him in his study and demand he—

What? Go back to keeping his distance? Speak to her kindly? Treat her like she is nothing more than a competent governess?

She did not sleep that night.

************

True to her promise to herself, she did find him the next day.

Her sleep addled brain had strung together some professional-sounding demands which she was sure would not be unreasonable.

Lord Kirigan was standing at his window when she arrived to their unplanned meeting.

“Ali—Miss Starkova.” He greeted, confused—befuddled, almost. His dark hair was tousled and that, coupled with the dark circles beneath his eyes, indicated he, too, had not slept well.

“My lord, I am here to make a request of you going forward,” She began.

He swallowed and stepped back from the window, unable to look at her for long but always returning his gaze to her face in earnest.

It was unnerving. Alina pushed past the feeling.

“First, I would request that you recognize my training as a governess for the high quality education that it was—in practice, that means you will no longer interfere with my curriculum for the children. If you should like to discuss anything I am teaching them, you may do so during a civilized meeting one time per month. Any additional requests made between meetings will be tabled until we can meet again during the following month.”

He was blinking at her, unseeing, perhaps he had not even heard a word she said.

Alina opened her mouth to continue but he cut her off.

“My turn now.” His hand was running through his hair, further mussing it as he started pacing. “I would request that you stay far, far away from me.”

“My lord—” Her voice was quavering at the unstable territory they slipped into so quickly. He held up a hand to stop her.

“No. See, in practice, I simply make a decision and then I act. I do not dither nor do I regret nor do I question something which has already come to pass. Once my decision is made, it is done.” Her glared at her, accusing.

“What is your purpose in telling me this?” Alina asked, struggling to keep her temper even as she promised she would.

“You—Y-you infuriate me!” He shouted, startling her, “Do you not think I have already made the decision to fire you countless times? Whole nights have passed from the dusk to the sunrise where I have agonized over what to do with you!”

Alina took a step back from him.

“Ah. Yes, and now you retreat from me.” He waved at her and then returned to his pacing, working himself up again.

“And what do I mind?!” He shouted again with a violent yank to the waistcoat over his heart. He searched her face, that wildness which had become most familiar to her broken over his visage.

That wildness which pricked and poked at her own calm nature, stirring her insides and whipping her up into something less controlled. Alina endeavored to stay stock still, to not to play into this episode. Could not bear to draw close again only to be rejected.

“What does it matter to me the opinion of a penniless, orphaned governess with no name and no title?” With the Lord’s savage attentions fixed upon her she felt both the sting of his insult and simultaneously a small thrill at his madness. She should curse him.

Still, Alina did not provide an outward response.

This only made him more upset, “Well? Tell me, woman! What are you doing to me? Is it witchcraft of some sort?”

He looked away from her, hand flying through his locks again and murmuring to himself. “Yes, your name is quite unusual. It would not be wholly unreasonable to assume you’ve some sort of gypsy blood magic about you.”

Lord Kirigan cast a wayward look at her and then continued his murmuring, “It would not be out of the realm of possibility that you are casting some sort of spell upon me. Something that keeps you endeared to me.”

Heat was pooling in her gut, her body betraying her in the way it purred under the influence of his words.

He continued his muttering, “Perhaps it is a spell then. God knows far darker acts have been committed by me in the name of survival.”

Her lord paced as he muttered.

Alina determined to remain poised throughout the ridiculous tirade. An impassive face and a dignified posture and few words spoken during this episode.

All the while fighting the pleasure she felt unfurling throughout her body at his words.

His talk of ‘firing’ did not scare her. Lord Kirigan may indeed have gone mad, however the problem at hand—shelter and employment—was not actually up for debate, despite his threats otherwise.

Alina was resolute that she would give him no firm reason to dismiss her. She would also not subject herself to another episode which drew them close together only to be ripped apart again at his whim.

However, her lungs were constricted. The air pulled from them as she fought the urge to cease Lord Kirigan, to fit her mouth against his and put an end to his crazed ramblings. She needed to escape.

“If you will pardon me, sir, as you do not currently require my assistance, it is nearly time to retrieve the children from the stables." She was breathless.

Without waiting for a proper dismissal from her employer, Alina left.

He stood mid-step in the center of the room, eyes fixed to her retreating back, solidly unhinged from who he felt he used to be just a few weeks ago.

A few weeks before Alina Starkova walked into his home and upended his life.

“Witchcraft.” He decided to himself. “It is always witchcraft, is it not?”

As they drew nearer the house, Alina directed him toward the kitchen entrance, running ahead with Lillian to begin clearing the prep table.

Only Tamar was in the kitchen, scrubbing pots ahead of dinner. She looked up in alarm when they descended upon her.

“George has been hurt,” Alina told her, gathering the cleaned pots from the table and hanging them as quickly as she could.

Lord Kirigan entered then and lay the boy on the table.

“George!” Tamar exclaimed, moving toward him. Alina held up a hand, “We need hot water. Can you put some on to boil?” Tamar filled the kettle to the brim and set it on the heat, moving to fill a larger pot in case more would be required.

Genya entered the kitchen in a rush, “I saw you coming through the parlor window. What happened to him?” She grasped a hand around the boy’s ankle.

“He was bitten by something, we need to staunch the bleeding and to clean the wound,” Alina was getting frustrated at the interruptions and the fact that no one was moving fast enough, “Please Genya, we need vinegar, clean towels and possibly a sewing kit.”

Genya nodded and went to the pantry.

“Lillian. Go upstairs at once. We will take care of this,” Lord Kirigan said in his harsh tone.

Lillian looked hurt only for a fraction of a second before her temper arrived, reddening her cheeks.

Alina glared at the imperious Lord, wanting to cut down everyone who was only making things more difficult in this moment.

“No.” Alina said, cutting off Lillian’s retort at the root, “Lillian, I need your help, just a moment.”

Alina leaned over George, looking into his pale face.

She stroked his cheek and waited until he looked in her eyes, “You will be fine, Georgie. Mark my words, this time next week you will be using your new skipping rope in the yard.”

His lip quivered but he bit it to keep from crying. George nodded.

“Lillian, come with me,” Alina grabbed the girl by the hand and dragged her toward the door.

“Put pressure on the wound if you can and do not unwrap it from the apron until the water is boiling.” Alina ordered the others.

Lord Kirigan stared dumbfounded as she exited, his dark-haired daughter in tow.

*************

In the garden, Alina spoke quickly, her desire to instruct at odds with the urgency of the situation.

“This is Lamb’s Ear.” She said, rubbing her thumb over the downy white hairs on the leaf, “Feel how soft it is? We will use some of it to cover the wound and we will need more to crush up for a paste. I need you to pick several. Pick them from the base so the leaf remains in tact. Understand?” Lillian responded with a serious nod and knelt down at once to begin.

With Lillian at work, Alina moved through the garden, picking quickly and running through her mental list.

She could see the words in her mind’s eye as if she could read it from the journals sitting up in her room at that moment.

Yarrow, garlic, sage and rosemary. Thrown into the bowl and mashed to bits. Lamb’s Ear for thickening to a poultice. Boiling water to bind.

They returned to the kitchen to the sound of the kettle squealing and several additional people gathered around the perimeter of the room.

Alina glanced at them and went forward with her preparations. She threw the herbs into the largest mortar, mashing them with force.

Alina looked around the room for Lillian who came to her side at once with the Lamb’s Ear leaves, “Tear it into small bits. Yes, that’s perfect,” Alina pressed them with the pestle.

She set it down and added the hot water slowly, still speaking to Lillian. “You want it to be thick enough that it will not slide off the wound but you also need for it to be quite hot.” She told the girl, adding a little more boiling water.

When she was done she ran her hands under water to remove the dirt and looked to Genya.

“It is time.” Alina turned back to George and set the poultice by his legs. “Genya, you have the vinegar?”

Genya held up the jug. “Hand it hear for a moment,” Alina reached for it. The bitter coldness still coated her mouth and she swished with the vinegar and spit in the sink. It alleviated the taste a little.

She handed the jug back to Genya, “Pour a little onto a towel and reserve the rest. I’m going to unwrap his arm and you need to begin cleaning it at once.”

Lord Kirigan stood across the table from her and their eyes met.

They were so dark, full of fear and confusion and even anger.

She did not have time to dissect his emotions.

“My Lord, you need to comfort your son.”

Lord Kirigan stared down at the boy, his hands seemingly stuck to the table. He looked back at her, panic exposed on his face.

“Stroke his head, man.” She hissed, glaring as she reached across to grasp his hand.

It was cold but she felt that same jolt of energy passing over their skin as she had every time they touched. Swallowing, she set his hand in George’s hair where the Lord’s instincts finally took over and he began to stroke the thick locks back in long soothing sweeps.

“Tamar hold his arm steady. Lillian roll out the lambs ear.” Alina said, pointing to the rolling pin she had taken out.

Lillian laid out a few leaves and picked up the pin, setting herself to work. She looked completely composed and incredibly mature in that instance.

With the apron pulled back, George flinched as Genya began cleansing it, splashing the vinegar over the exposed punctures while Alina threaded a needle in case. George yelled.

Alina bent over the wound, noting one smallish hole and a larger one which tore into the skin. She glanced at Genya and then Tamar, communicating wordlessly and they both tightened their hold on George.

“It won’t take much George, you will be all right in no time.”

Alina dug the needle into his skin and pulled the black thread through.

George cried profusely, unused to so much pain.

Nimble fingers threaded quickly and after no more than three cross-stitches, he was done.

“A little more vinegar, Genya.” Genya cleaned the area again.

Alina wasted no time, slathering the hot-greenish poultice over the wound without warning and he cried out again. Tamar winced but held his arm still.

“Lillian give me a wrap.” The girl handed her a rolled leaf.

It was moist and slightly sticky. The little leaf’s cells burst like capillaries from the rolling pin so the whole of it was wet with green juice.

Alina wrapped the first one over the wound. Then the second. She let Lillian help placing the third and then took a clean dry sack cloth and wrapped it all tightly in place.

George was calming down and Alina smoothed a hand over the bandage and stepped back.

Lord Kirigan was silent and wide-eyed. Staring at the bandage on his son’s arm and continuing his absent strokes through the boy’s hair.

George sat up tentatively and looked at his father, reaching out his good arm toward him.

The father grabbed his son’s head and pulled him into his chest, relief and disbelief and horror all fighting for dominance over his features.

Lillian slipped her hand into Alina’s again.

“Let’s take him upstairs. He needs rest,” she said.

They filed past the other servants without a word, following Lord Kirigan who held George tight to his chest.

*************

In the nursery, Lord Kirigan put his son in his bed and stepped away, almost unsure how to behave.

Alina tucked him in, bringing him a couple of his favorite books and Genya brought in tea to calm him down.

Alina sat beside George, first helping him to finish his tea and then to sing to him.

Her little songs of healing, the simple tune of prayer.

Alina thought of the little songs as invitations and whether superstition or magic or some other unknown power, she did what she had done for every patient whom had come under her care over the years.

She thought of her babulya and she would brush a gentle finger to the forehead, the heart, the gut and the palms of her hands and in that way she would invite the Light of Alatyr, the source of all healing in the world. She respected it’s power and invited it in to make a broken thing well again.

George drifted off to sleep as Alina read to him, Genya beside her, holding Lillian in her lap.

Lord Kirigan had long since slipped away.

*************

It was quite dark outside when Alina woke up to Genya lightly shaking her shoulder. Alina had fallen asleep in the armchair in the nursery, her eyes shifted toward the two sleeping children at once.

“They are all right,” Genya said, frowning. “Lord Kirigan has requested your presence. He is in his study.”

The troubled look on Genya’s face only exacerbated the the anxiety welling in her stomach.

*************

Alina walked alone through the corridor, candle in hand, and straightened her posture before she knocked.

“Enter.”

He stood by the window, looking out over the grounds.

Alina did not know whether to take a seat or stay standing and prepare for a battle.

Her eyes landed on a bottle of laudanum sitting upright and uncapped on his desk.

She remained standing.

“You asked to see me, my lord?” Alina prompted.

He would not look at her. She craned her head to see out the window but all she could see was the blackness of the night and his face reflected in the glass.

“How did you know?” He asked, quietly.

“You knew what to do…” He trailed away.

With a hesitant step closer, Alina leaned her head to the side, trying to catch his eye. “How did I know what to do?”

He did not respond.

Her unease was rising and she began to speak and hope that she was answering what he needed to know and that she could then leave as quickly as possible lest the rising tension in the air came to head.

“I told you sir, I have experience. In London, I worked as a maid in a doctor’s household. He was a friend of my late grandmother and took me in as a girl.”

The mounting pressure in the room seemed oppressive as she spoke, as if the whole place were growing darker with it. She kept talking, feigning a natural ease.

“He allowed me to assist him when he treated patients. He was a doctor mainly but he always took an interest in herbal medicines so when I explained to him some of my—“

“I’m not referring to your little plants, Miss Starkova.”

The bite of his tone was palpable.

Alina clenched her teeth against it.

“I am speaking about your actions in the woods. About how you knew to suck the-the whatever it was out of the wound as you did?”

The Lord was furious. The energy of it radiated off of him in waves and Alina took a step back toward the door.

“I-I don’t know, sir.” She was mouse-like now.

Nervous to attempt an answer to something she, herself could not explain.

“You do not know? You had all the airs of confidence when you latched your little mouth around it. That wound which you should have found utterly grotesque—” he spat. “And yet you drank it over and over again. And then everything was well again.”

His maddened eyes latched to her, searching her for lies.

Alina was shaking her head, tears springing into her eyes and she was frustrated at the outward evidence of her anxiety.

“I was not—I do not know why I…”

Babulya would say the great stone Alatyr compelled her. Instinct imparted from the Navel of the World. Blessing her, filling her with Light. Guiding her to heal.

Could that be true?

Alina looked at her hands. Quite forgetting where she was and the foreboding presence of Lord Kirigan before her.

“Look at me!” He shouted, his eyes dark and blazing with fury.

Alina gaped.

“Did you do this?” He accused.

“I-I beg your pardon, my Lord?”

“Did you cause it? Was it you who caused the injury to my son? You said it was a snake but I saw no such creature.”

Alina had not really either. Not what she would call a snake anyway.

But to suggest she might have had something to do with it—

Lord Kirigan was stalking toward her now.

Perhaps it was the influence of laudanum or the stress of the events of the day but he was bordering on unhinged and Alina stopped retreating lest it look like an admission of guilt.

Lest he think he needed to stamp his paw on her little tail and watch her squirm.

Her eyes flashed in warning at him, “Of course I did not cause the injury. That is a ridiculous suggestion.”

He was standing quite close to her now and Alina met his gaze, unflinching.

“You arrive on the heels of a storm, new to my home from somewhere only God Himself can know of, and you are planting herbs and concocting potions and when some form of darkness is compelled to strike my son—you are at the scene, ready to play hero?”

Alina shook her head.

“It reeks of witchcraft, does it not, Miss Starkova?” He shouted.

His wild eyes were roaming her face vigorously and Alina could not help the hand she lifted to touch his cheek.

The urge to calm his storm.

Could not help but notice the rage in his eyes falter instantly, giving way to something much more sorrowful, something tortured. Her insides sang with words and she watched him grow hushed with each passing second.

It was absurd that she should look at him and feel such familiarity.

Absurd that she should look at his anger and know to quell it.

That she should feel such ownership over his being.

And yet—

The way his hands slid over her waist at that moment told her he felt it too.

Her thumb stroked the ridge of his cheek bone and he pressed closer to her, a lingering woe clinging stubbornly to his dark irises.

“How did you know?” He asked, his voice breaking over his words. “You knew exactly what to do and…perhaps if only I had known then…”

Alina was shaking her head slowly and her other hand covered his heart and she was not surprised to find it was racing.

She knew hers must match his pace as surely as she knew that the moon followed the sun into the sky at night.

The room had grown so dark around them but Alina looked only on the red tinge of his lips, the wet shine of his eyes, transfixed on her mouth.

“Please…” He said.

She did not know what he was asking and her eyes shifted back to his to see a question in them.

It was, however, curious that he should even need to ask.

Curious that they had not already melded together into one being as she felt they might, if given the chance.

Alina shifted forward, nudging his face closer to hers.

The room swelled with his breath and a surging darkness cocooned around them and then—

a heavy banging on the door.

Alina startled and her lord stumbled away from her, falling briefly to the edge of his desk.

Her mind resurfaced from it’s bleary haze.

She blinked through the darkness.

“Has the lantern gone out?” She asked.

Her question was lost to the urgent nighttime caller banging on the door, “Kirigan! Open up, I have the product of today’s test!”

Alina had turned to the noise but now searched for her lord, hoping to meet his eyes one more time.

Hoping to solidify the very abstract moments they had just shared into something substantial. Something to savor.

Lord Kirigan was sweeping past his desk to turn the lantern flame higher and calling out, “Come in, Kostyk.”

The gruffness of his voice made her ache with a rampant want and she pressed her palm to her forehead to quell the inner tumult.

Mr. Kostyk entered, barely taking in her presence as he held a little piece of paper aloft. “There. Take a look for yourself. This will be but one of many, Kirigan. We are making headway—some tweaking will be needed of course but this!—”

He held the picture out for inspection but Kirigan was busy with the lamp still and David frowned, turning to Alina and handing it to her.

Alina was a little dumbfounded at the gesture although, given Mr. Kostyk did not so much as allude to the events of this afternoon regarding George, she had an inkling that some things slipped past his notice quite easily sometimes.

“Er—thank you, Mr. Kostyk,” Alina looked down at the little image, holding it in the lantern light.

She squinted for a full moment before she realized it was the picture of the garden party from earlier that day.

Gasping in unexpected delight, Alina shared her excitement with Mr. Kostyk. “Incredible!”

He beamed, looking for all the world as if he were a stranger in a foreign land and someone had just spoken to him in his native tongue.

He surged toward her, pointing at various markers for inspection, “Here you can see this is where I let the edge of the paper out too long and it became over exposed, but it is just a little in the corner.

“And look here, how sharp Genya appears! I would like to see a painter capture her essence in triple the amount of time it took to get the photo. They could not.” He whispered to himself, his finger brushing over her little person.

Alina looked next to Genya where she knew she had stood that day, “Is that another over exposure, Mr. Kostyk?”

He leaned closer and saw the bright spot in the image which obscured her image from view, “Ah, yes. A sun spot, perhaps?” He queried.

Alina inspected the rest of the subjects, pausing at the other end of the line of people where Lord Kirigan had stood. “And here, what is this mark?”

It looked as though his person was smudged in the photo and Mr. Kostyk sighed, glancing up at Lord Kirigan who had come around the desk at last and peered over their shoulders.

“You were moving too much, Kirigan. That is the only solution I can guess for the dark spots because the overcast conditions should have been perfect otherwise for capturing all the details.”

Lord Kirigan had snatched the photo from their hands and stepped away again, consternation and alarm overwhelming his features as he inspected it.

“Next time I shall do single portraits, Kirigan,” Mr. Kostyk posited to his business partner who was not listening. “Then we will know whether it is the device, the development process or the subject causing any defects—”

“You are dismissed, Miss Starkova.”

Lord Kirigan was turned to the bookshelves beside his desk, thumbing through a volume. The little portrait was barely visible, safely tucked into his chest pocket.

Mr. Kostyk was now looking at the book Lord Kirigan had pulled for review and neither man paid her another glance as she stared.

Her chest was tight and stiff. She fumbled the match trying to relight her candle. The wave of sadness which overcame her permeated the air. She found she was dimmer, weak.

“Goodnight, then.” She said.

Lord Kirigan showed no sign of having heard her save a small clench of his grip on the book, white knuckles on display.

As she completed the lonely walk back to the nursery, she was thankful to have her candle, at least.

For on this night she heard the ghostly echos of a distant shrieking.

Perhaps no more than a strange shift of wind through the trees, carrying the sounds of a wild creature to her ears.

It did, however, set her teeth on edge and caused her to quicken her steps.

When she was inside the nursery, she threw the lock and nestled herself back in the armchair.

Sitting there with her blanket pulled tight over her shoulders, Alina did not allow herself to dwell on Kirigan, or his dark eyes or his infuriating pendulum of care and distain for her.

She thought, briefly, of the strange circumstance that had not occurred to her earlier. The strange truth that somehow, Lord Kirigan had come to be in the woods after the attack.

How had he known? Had he been there already?

Her head was pounding with lack of sleep and too many emotions. She resolved again to put him from her thoughts.

Instead her mind held the shrieking sound in it’s grasp, cycling the horrible noise over again like it was playing from a phonograph and she did not sleep for the way she whispered and sang to herself, unable to stop until the sun crested the trees over the woods outside.

********

Genya and Marie were finished setting the garden together, ready to receive the guests while Nadia and Tamar ran the food from the kitchen.

Alina exited the garden to go take a rest in the house before the party when she caught sight of a little white blur at the edge of the woods.

Lillian.

The little girl looked at her and then ran into the woods and out of sight.

Alina gathered her skirts in her hands and gave chase, “Lillian! Please slow down!”

Though she had not explored the woods much in her time at Blyth Fell, having been preoccupied with the garden in the first couple weeks and then quite busy with the children since, Alina was certain it would not be a completely safe place for a seven-year-old to venture into alone.

The white pinafore dress stood out against the shadowed woods and Alina just barely kept the girl in her line of sight even though she was losing her speed.

By the time she caught up, she found Lillian stopped in a small clearing, looking over her shoulder at Alina.

The governess approached slowly, hands aloft to say, ‘I come in peace’. Lillian turned away.

She was standing in front of a little stone block. Grass seed grew up close to it and Alina looked at Lillian and then sank to her knees, guessing what this was in an instance.

She brushed the weeds down, snapping them and breaking them away so the writing on the stone was legible.

LUDA ZENIK KIRIGAN

BELOVED WIFE & MOTHER

CHERISHED SISTER & FRIEND

The birthdate was some twenty years prior to the death date which was…today’s date, just seven years ago.

Alina stared at the words, moving slowly out of the way so Lillian could sit in front of the cleared space.

They sat in silence for a very long time.

So long that Alina wondered how close they were to the start of the party. Still, she waited for Lillian to say something first.

“My Aunt Nina said I look like her…that I have her eyes,” Lillian said eventually.

“Uncle Fedyor says she was very sweet so…” Lillian trailed away, wiping her nose on her sleeve and then sitting up straight again, “So I think Georgie must have gotten that part of her.”

Alina would have laughed if she did not feel so sorrowful in this moment.

The idea that the traits of your parents were doled out to the children like pieces of pie—that the total is finite—it was so child-like to believe that broke her heart to hear it.

“I am not so sweet,” Lillian said finally, scrunching her face and pulling up a blade of grass. “I am not like her really so I must be like him,” she said with disdain, “and that is why mother died. I am bad like him.”

Alina was careful not to refute the child outright, it would not be helpful. She was careful to make sure she understood. Instead she asked, “Why do you think she died?”

Lillian turned her gaze upon the governess, wide blue eyes shining and wet, “Georgie was born first and then me. She died because I was all tangled up in her belly.”

“And you think because you were born second, you caused her to die?” Alina asked.

Lillian nodded.

It was easy to forget sometimes that children had a higher threshold for morbidity. Much higher than adults. The way they could simplify life and death and boil it down into ‘if and then’ statements was shocking each time.

“I understand why you might think that, Lillian. I was not there when you were born but I do know now I am older that it is not babies who kill their mother’s in childbirth. It is just something that happens sometimes. It is not anyone’s fault.”

Lillian scrunched her face further and Alina continued, “You do not have to believe me right now but I do hope you will listen when I say, I know what it feels like to be without a mother. It is lonely and scary.” Alina stared at the headstone. “I wished to be held all the time when I was your age.”

Lillian glared at the ground, tears falling silent into the grass. A shuddering breath extracted from her mouth every few moments.

“You are not alone.” She finished.

Lillian wiped her nose on her sleeve again. Alina did not feel invited to touch the girl and so she waited.

Neither of them spoke for a few more minutes and then the little girl got to her feet.

“I-I am ready to go to the party now.” She left without a backward glance but Alina felt that something in their relationship had been resolved at last. Alina followed close behind her.

********

Despite the interlude in the woods and the tearful admissions, Lillian and George thoroughly enjoyed the festivities planned.

The joy and excitement from each of the attendees was contagious and each person had planned a special game or activity for the group.

Nadia and Tamar had made several special cakes with surprises inside. Something stuffed and hidden in each one as a little game.

Maxim coaxed Ivan into a race wherein the children were lifted onto their respective shoulders as each man raced across the yard.

Ivan won with a mad-cackling Lillian gripping his ears and spurring him forward like a tyrant. He looked more thrilled than she had ever seen him.

Alexei, Marie and Sergei had put their heads together to come up with the best parlor games and refused out right to play anything which had previously been deemed ‘boring’ by either of the twins.

This, Alina gathered, alluded to a game of charades played last winter which contained several references that went promptly over the children’s heads but which had the adults roaring in laughter. The twins had spent the hour bored and unamused and declared they would never play the game again.

Genya and Alina had gone into town and picked up a special gift for each child.

A skipping rope with wooden handles carved in delicate patterns and a kaleidoscope with colored glass beads inside. Alina had not yet been paid but Genya assured her this money was directly from the Lord himself since, to their knowledge at the time, he would not be in attendance.

It was unusual, to be sure, to see servants show such happiness and care for the children of the household but then, looking around, Alina realized that of all the people gathered here, one glaring fact seemed to be shared—none of them had homes or families to go back to anymore.

At least, not to her knowledge. A great many of them had confirmed their status in the world noting that either war or the cholera outbreak or simply poor living standards had left each of them quite alone in the world before coming to Blyth Fell.

It was a grim truth but one which seemed to bind them all here now.

Alina wondered idly how it was that they all happened to find employment here. It pressed on the definition of coincidental.

The only person conspicuously absent, aside from the Lord himself, was Misha.

Alina asked Alexei about this while the others were tasting cakes and he wrinkled his brow and looked away from her. “He had a rather, er…difficult evening. His duties sometimes are more challenging than…well he will be around for dinner tonight, I expect.”

Alexei patted her arm and walked away, inviting no further discussion on the matter.

********

As the hour passed and Lord Kirigan had not made his appearance, Alina contemplated the very real possibility that she would have to corner him in his study and frog march him into the garden.

She wondered briefly to feel bad about accosting the Lord last night now she knew today marked the anniversary of his wife’s death.

But then, the memory of Lillian’s tearful face as she stared at her mothers headstone and George’s pained tone when he inquired for weeks whether his father would return for his birthday, reinvigorated her.

And so, just as they slipped a blindfold over Lillian’s eyes for her turn in Blindman’s Bluff, Alina resigned herself to her duty and slipped away to collect their father.

She made it halfway across the yard when she saw him.

Lord Kirigan appeared around the broadside corner of the house, walking toward the garden and fumbling with an oddly shaped box in his arms.

Alina warmed at the sight of him and promptly blamed it on the sun which was currently hidden in the overcast sky.

She was, however, pleased to see that he looked very nervous. At least this indicated some amount of care and concern for the children.

“Where are you going?” The Lord asked, sharply. “Is the party no longer in the garden?”

Alina straightened her posture, “Of course it is. I was simply heading inside to…fetch a few extra napkins—”

The box in hands emitted a strange noise and she thought for a moment she saw it tipping in his hand.

He grabbed a strong hold on it and called back, “Come along then, Miss Starkova. Some gifts do not keep well and we do not want this day to spoiled by another ill omen.”

His words relieved her lingering tension. He meant to act as if last night had not happened at all and Alina was content with this decision.

She turned in the opposite direction and led the way into the garden, her excuse with the napkins well forgotten until she was already back inside the walls.

The shock at the sudden appearance of Lord Kirigan was written on the faces of everyone in the garden caused a laugh to bubble up her throat.

The Lord glared at her and then turned back to the children.

George was beside himself at his father’s presence, hugging him then standing on the table to press the kaleidoscope over his father’s eye and twist it for him.

Lillian looked neither pleased nor dismayed. The vulnerability she had displayed this morning lingered around her and she simply accepted his presence without many words or interaction to follow. Reserving her judgement for later.

As the children opened the box from their father and exclaimed over the little orange kitten inside, Alina wondered later if the ‘ill omen’ to which Lord Kirigan had referred was an allusion to the anniversary of his wife’s passing or if it was a reference to that dead pet of hers, the pony in the bog.

Alas she would not be able to ask him with the excitement and horror of what would follow later that day.

********

The party itself was very successful and though Lord Kirigan did not participate in any of the games but rather took a seat next to Ivan, he did help himself to a few cakes left near his reach.

Alina watched him with covert eyes and relished the image of icing on the corner of his surly mouth. An image which she could save up for some inevitable moment in the future when he would try to intimidate her again.

The break in the games was welcome as the kitten was passed around to be cuddled.

Maxim disappeared to the stables and reappeared with a long piece of leather and brutally removed an aster bloom to attach to the end. He handed it to Lillian who dragged it around for the kitten, urging it to pounce.

Alina lingered near Genya as they watched when a shouting occurred from the door to the garden.

“It’s ready now and today is the perfect day to try and so if you could all gather in a line, we can put it to the test!”

Alina turned toward the newest party attendee.

A young man with dark hair holding a large box and setting up what looked like a three legged stool.

Looking around, Alina was not the only one confused but the others, at least, recognized the man and began to laugh. Genya was flushed as she pulled on Alina’s arm and directed her to stand near the end of the group.

“Genya, what is going on?” Genya looked distracted and did not seem to hear Alina. It was Nadia who answered.

“That is our Mr. Kostyk. He is a business partner of Lord Kirigan’s. He does actually live under this roof with us but I suppose this might be the first time you have seen him in person.”

Something clicked into place and Alina nodded. The man in the workroom who received his meals hand-delivered by the grace of Genya.

“And what is happening now?” Alina asked. Genya moved along the line, arranging people into view and pulling the children to stand in front of their father.

The kitten did not seem to want to still in their hands so it was shoved into Ivan’s arms who accepted it with a grunt.

Nadia smiled at the sight of Ivan and answered, “It seems Mr. Kostyk has engineered yet another device to try to get a portrait taken.”

“A portrait?” Alina asked as Mr. Kostyk was setting his box on top of the three-legged stand and hiding beneath a heavy black curtain behind the box.

“It’s something of a family business for Lord Kirigan,” Nadia explained. “The late Lord Kirigan and his business partner also worked on the inventions and would also have the people in the house to test out his progress. Or so I hear.”

She arranged the hair around her shoulders, “Although Genya says some of those models required sitting for thirty minutes at a time so I can only hope Mr. Kostyk does not expect that right now.”

“Look this way,” Mr. Kostyk pointed at the black circle in the middle of his box, “and do not move, if you please!”

They stood still for a few minutes, long enough that the children began to shift their feet in boredom.

Ivan held the cat in place and Alina, on the other end let her mind wander as she contemplated this inventor from the workroom and his patron, Lord Kirigan. She had seen examples of these paint-less portraits in London, of course, but never imagined she would be the subject of one.

When Mr. Kostyk was done, he stood and smiled at them all, not really seeing them and said goodbye with a short wave. Then he was gone as quickly as he had come. Alina giggled and wondered if he had been there at all.

Lord Kirigan watched Mr. Kostyk’s retreating back and then followed the man out of the garden, effectively leaving the party as well.

Alina frowned and glanced at the children. Lillian took the blow stoically and went back to her cake. George looked distressed once more but Ivan plopped the kitten in front of him in the next moment and he was well distracted.

********

When the party was over, Alina gathered the children to go inside for a rest. As they passed the edge of the woods again, however, Lillian spoke.

“I want to go back to my mother.” She said.

George hesitated and Alina surveyed him. “All right, let us take George inside and then you and I can go back out.”

“No.”

Lillian looked at George and took his hand, “Let us go, Georgie, please. I want to go with you.” George looked fearful but nodded.

It was hard to explain the distinct feeling of foreboding Alina felt upon entering the woods now.

It was still as dark and shadowed as it had been in the morning but now there was something in the air which was disquieting. Alina wrapped her hands on either of the children’s shoulders as they walked the same path toward that small clearing.

They had been walking for a few minutes when George stopped again, shaking his head and looking at his sister. “Lillian, I don’t want to go.”

Lillian scowled at him, tugging on his arm, “You have to, you have to come see mother, with me. Please, Georgie. Just once.”

George was shaking his head and staring past the thinning trees, fear widening his eyes.

They were in sight of the little clearing now and even through the trees, Alina looked to where she knew the gravestone sat.

Only the place where she knew the stone sat, the place where she herself sat just this morning, was covered in dark shadow.

Alina squinted, trying to discern what she was seeing and she stared, the black mass thickened.

It grew and spread like a dense, black smoke, covering half the clearing like a slow-moving predator.

A frisson of fear shot through her body and inexplicably she thought of the chanting from her dreams and more words bubbled into her throat and she prayed to Alatyr with a fierce concentration.

While she was distracted George took off on the path back toward the house.

“George, wait!” Alina called, pausing only to take Lillian’s hand in hers as they ran after the little dark-haired boy.

“George, wait for us!” Lillian shouted, sounding fearful herself.

He turned a corner and slipped from their sight and Alina panicked at the realization that he was taking a different path. One that did not lead them back to the house.

“George, stop! You are going the wrong way!”

They followed, turning the corner and he came into sight yards ahead. He stood stock-still.

“Georgie?”

His hands were up in front of him and as they drew closer, Alina saw a thick black mass rising before the boy’s body like a snake from a basket.

Was it a snake?

The woods were so dark, it was difficult to see for sure but Alina thought it’s shape was distinctly snake-like.

“Stay still, George.” Alina cautioned. She held Lillian in place with a sharp look and began to slowly approach the quivering little boy.

She was not sure what to do. Did not understand what she was seeing. Not exactly.

The snake rose up to eye level with George.

It reared back.

The boy threw his arm over his face and the snake struck with a whip-like movement.

“George!” Alina yelled, running forward to grab his shoulders as he screamed out.

It echoed around the forest and bounced off the trees and Alina held him in her lap as he continued to scream and cradle his arm.

Frantic, Alina looked around for the creature and saw nothing but dead leaves crushed on the forest floor. Everything was still and silent save the screaming from the boy in her lap.

“Let me see, Georgie,” she soothed, trying to move his hand to get a look at his arm.

George whimpered and cried and Alina gaped at the mark.

Two little puncture wounds on his pale little forearm, seeping black liquid like ink running down a page.

*******

Alina stood at the end of the line of servants to receive the children as the carriage pulled down the long drive.

She aimed to keep her gaze forward but found it was impossible to keep from observing Lord Kirigan as he stood in wait.

Though his posture and expression echoed his rigid authority as head of the estate, she could not help noticing the twitching of his hands. Clenching and unclenching. The occasional tug to his dress sleeves to ensure everything was in place.

To be privy to such little signals of unease in his otherwise unshakeable demeanor was very nearly endearing to her.

His fingers picked anxiously at the skin of his thumb and then with a whip-like turn, Lord Kirigan directed his forbidding gaze on her. Accusation colored his features and she quickly looked back up the drive.

The carriage came to a halt and Alexei stepped forward to open the door and help the passengers down.

Alina watched with rapt attention as the little dark haired children stepped down onto the gravel. Both six years old and both as dark-haired as the Lord himself.

“Father!” The boy said, running and wrapping his little arms snug around the waist of Lord Kirigan.

“George,” His father said placidly, patting the boy on the back of the head.

Alina cringed at the blatant lack of reciprocated joy on his part. Then her eyes landed on the girl.

Trepidation was building inside of her gut as she knew already the little six-year-old beauty was a force of nature. Marie had thoroughly explained the personality traits of each child the week before as they hung the washing together.

“Lillian,” Lord Kirigan held out his arm, inviting the child to receive, Alina could only assume, a pat of her very own.

Lillian merely crossed her arms where she stood, “Hello, father.”

A large blond fellow followed behind her from the carriage and he removed his hat, one hand landing on the shoulder of Lillian.

“Hello again, Lord Kirigan.” The man called.

The Lord raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Helvar. Good of you to accompany the children back to Blyth Fell. It is appreciated.”

Lillian looked fondly up at the man and then with a quick hug to waist, she ran toward Genya.

The Housekeeper spared no more than a nervous glance at her employer before sinking to her knees and taking the girl into a hug.

“I did miss you, Genya.” The girl said, emphasizing the subject and throwing a glare toward her father.

“I missed you too, darling girl. Come along now, Nadia baked your favorite orange tea cakes. You can tell us everything we’ve missed during your adventures in London.”

And then the Housekeeper and Lillian were gone without a backward glance or any last minute directives to Alina. Without an introduction, even.

The servants dispersed and Alina found it horribly comical that she wasn’t sure what to do.

Genya had cleared away one child for company and now it was simply Alina watching over George while he collected rocks from the ground for throwing and climbed around the carriage bench.

Not knowing what else to do, Alina moved closer toward the boy in some symbolic act of giving privacy to the two men still facing off in the drive way.

Symbolic because they were still quite easy to overhear.

“And is my sister-in-law well, Matthias?” She heard Lord Kirigan ask.

“She is, sir. She sends her regards.”

Lord Kirigan dipped his head but did not respond. The two men watched George patting the horse.

Alina still stood off to the side, unsure if she should have followed Lillian or if they would notice her monitoring of George now and take their conversation behind closed doors.

Both men looked quite stiff. With some hesitancy, Matthias spoke, “Miss Zenik also asked me to say that she would like to see the children more. Sir. If you are amenable.”

He played with the hat in his hands and did not look at the Lord. “Around the holidays even, in London—Miss Zenik would be happy to host them.”

Alina was surprised to see anger darkening the countenance of her Lord once more.

“You may tell her that she is most welcome to visit them here at Blyth Fell anytime she wishes.”

The blond man lowered his head and sighed. “Very well, sir. I will pass along the…invitation.”

Matthias turned to leave but stopped and pulled a letter from his coat. “I almost forgot, sir. From your brother-in-law.”

Kirigan briefly glanced at the note and then nodded to Matthias, storing it in his coat.

Mr. Helvar placed his hat back on his head, tipped it in Lord Kirigan’s direction, and turned to leave.

“Goodbye George,” He called. George came down from the carriage and hugged him goodbye. Alina stepped forward to stand with him and the Lord as the carriage pulled away. Alina turned back to Lord Kirigan, hoping someone would stick around to introduce her properly to the child.

However, Lord Kirigan was already disappearing into the house.

*******

Alina spent the afternoon with George, playing games together, walking the grounds and tentatively learning how to interact.

Fortunately, young boys were relatively easy to contend with for the most part.

George had brought a pocket game into the nursery, a beautiful little wooden top which they spun on the floor while Alina asked him questions.

His likes and dislikes, his studies with the previous governess and how he spent his time in London with his aunt and uncle. His mother’s sister and brother, she learned.

He was a sweet boy, a little shy but well distracted thanks to his preoccupation with the toy on the floor.

They whiled away the hours until supper and then went downstairs to meet Genya and Lillian in the dining room.

Lillian cast an appraising look over her new governess and Alina knew better than to try to win her over in that short moment. She stayed silent but held the girl’s eye contact as if to say, ‘you are welcome to look and make your judgements, I will not stop you’.

Lord Kirigan arrived to sit with the children for dinner and Lillian finally looked away, focusing her ire toward her father instead. Alina and Genya were dismissed to the kitchens.

*******

Over dinner, Alina sat quietly absorbing the conversations at the table. Genya and Nadia carried on a lively discussion observing the ways Lillian had grown in the short couple of months away as the others asked them questions about her stay.

Most unusually, Ivan did not join them at the table. Instead he sat himself at the large kitchen hearth, pouring over several pages of a letter.

His face was mostly inscrutable in the firelight save occasional flashes of emotion which would cross his features as he read.

She watched his face scrunch in concentration, his thumb nail firmly between his teeth—it was odd to see him so focused that his scowl was not in place.

Then the next moment he was smiling. It was a small and fragile thing but it changed everything about him.

As if sensing he had publicly embarrassed himself, Ivan cast a furtive glance at the table and turned his body completely toward the fire, hiding his face from view.

Alina stared back down at her half-eaten meal.

“How did you find the young master of the house, Miss Starkova?”

It was Misha speaking next to her—she was startled to hear his voice. It was deep but still soft in the way he spoke. She could not remember hearing him string so many words together in front her before now.

“George is very sweet, isn’t he?” She said. Misha nodded and smiled to himself.

“Once he became a little more comfortable with me, he began to talk and would not stop, telling me everything he had learned in London about…well everything,” she laughed.

Alina leaned forward and put her fork down, getting excited as she continued, “He told me about something called a ‘submarine’ which is a water vessel that does not use sails or wind to move but rather navigates itself deep in the ocean.”

Misha smiled at her and shook his head and Alina realized she was becoming as boisterous as George had been.

She laughed at herself, “It was endearing really because when he began to talk about something he really liked, he quite forgot to be shy with me at all and it was wonderful to witness.”

Alina herself grew shy, unexpectedly realizing how lonely she was that a few short hours spent in the company of a talkative six-year-old had filled her cup more than anything else had done in her time at Blyth Fell.

“Lillian on the other hand…well…” Alina trailed away, picking up her fork again to absently push her food around the plate.

“Do not worry too much about Lily, Miss Starkova.” Misha gave her a brotherly pat on the shoulder and shifted his stiff leg which was outstretched on the chair beside him as usual.

He emitted a faint groan and then continued, “She has seen many women come and go from this house. All of whom were supposed to nurture her in some way. All of whom left with little more than ‘farewell’ to the child. It may take her some time but she will come around. Eventually she will see you are different.”

Alina huffed a mirthless little laugh and blushed at his observation, “I hope you are right. Though I do not blame her being skittish if so many have failed her before. I-I can understand preserving yourself to avoid a future hurt.”

Misha furrowed his brow as he looked at her. “You will not fail her, I can tell.” He gave her another gentle pat to the hand and began to get to stand, clutching his cane in his left hand.

The chair beneath his bum leg shifted and he almost fell to the floor if not for Alexei who was suddenly at his feet, catching Misha around the waist. The two young men chuckled together.

“What did you go and do that for, Mish?” The footman jested. Misha smiled broadly and allowed Alexei to pull him up by his arm and string it around his neck for support.

“To test your reflexes, obviously.” Alexei flushed and Alina smiled down at her plate, acutely aware of the private moment the two men were sharing.

“Come on then, Morozov, someone had better ensure you make it to your room without breaking your neck.”

*******

The morning after the children returned, Lord Kirigan left on a business trip. At least that is what Genya told her breakfast.

“His children just got home, could it not have waited?”

Genya did not respond, her face stubbornly neutral as she prepared a plate to take to Mr. Kostyk. “He informed the children last night over dinner. I am making you aware as they might be a little emotional today.”

She was correct in one sense. George did seem to struggle on their first day. Unable to pay attention in the lesson for asking questions about his father’s travel plans.

“Did he not tell you when he would return?” He asked.

“I did not know he would be gone until Miss Safin told me over breakfast. I’m afraid I’ve no more answers than either of you.”

“Do you know if he will be back for our birthday at the end of the month?” Hysteria was edging the boy’s tone.

Alina shook her head and tried not to match his sadness, “I’m sorry, George I do not.” She looked down at her notes. “The best thing we can do is carry on as normal as possible. Fill our days with activities so we can leave our worries to the side.”

George took a shaky breath and picked up his pencil.

Lillian said nothing.

She scowled at her papers and interrupted the lesson often. Sometimes to tell Alina that they had already learned what she was teaching. Others to correct her French pronunciation.

Or then to otherwise point out that arithmetic would be useless for her to learn as she was a girl who grow into a woman who would marry very rich and so would not need to worry about that skill in the future.

Alina regarded this as a test. That was the only reason she did not refute the issue. Choosing instead to save the lesson for a later date when she could make her point more effectively.

For however hardened Lillian appeared to be on this first day together, Alina could sense the hurt beneath her anger the same way she could sense when a rose bush was about to lose it’s blooms for the season. Instinct. Babulya would say.

Alina uttered her little healing words over both of the children that night as she put them to bed in the nursery.

Lillian had refused the proffered comfort and tucked herself in.

Despite her cold affirmation that she did not need a lullaby, Alina sang to them in the language of her babulya. The gentle song of healing from Alatyr drifting across the room.

She watched as the moonlight from the window glinted off the tears on Lillian’s little cheeks and her own chest ached at the familiar feeling.

*******

For weeks Alina carried on with lessons. Lillian fought her more and more as each day passed but Alina refused to succumb to her own emotions about it.

The worse Lillian became in her tantrums and behavior, the more impassive and gentle Alina responded, reserving her own debilitating breakdowns for when the children were well asleep and she was alone in her room with only the moonlight as witness.

It was these nights alone and crying, these nights when she had missed dinner in the servant’s dining room in order to continue caring for the children, that her loneliness threatened to overtake her.

A sort of hopelessness hung in the air around her like fog on the moor and Alina kept her head above water by singing her little songs and rereading the journals of her babulya like they were letters of comfort written to her directly.

Lord Kirigan remained stubbornly absent. Conspicuously quiet. No letters were written to the children. No word sent about his return date.

Alina fumed inside.

Around the third week of lessons, Lily’s tantrums ebbed away and the girl adopted a new tactic of simply pretending Alina did not exist.

She did not respond to direct addresses from the governess and though she read the assignments and completed her work to perfection, Lillian looked right through Alina when she spoke as if she were nothing but vapor in the air.

In an added degree of lobbed cruelty, Lillian became overly sweet to her brother to demonstrate she was entirely capable of kindness but that Alina would not be receiving any.

This was the mind game which took the most mental exercise to overcome.

Inexplicably, Alina felt that this behavior was completely reminiscent of the currently absent Lord of Blyth Fell and it made her head spin. She did not know with certainty but it simply tasted like his brand of cruelty.

She thought of Lord Kirigan often. More often than she wished to admit.

His dark hair and black eyes appeared to her each night and Alina found herself desperately grasping for anything else to hold onto that would divert her sleepless thoughts.

It was impossible to explain or even rationalize to herself outside of the obvious fact that he was completely intriguing to her.

A foul, dark man who had made a terrible, if not merciful, first impression by putting down her pony in the bog and then taunted her with her orphaned existence and then threatened the removal of her very innocent and lovely garden.

She should never think of him again. He was not worthy of it. Not for the way he had treated her and certainly not worthy given the way he neglected his children.

Why then would he not leave her thoughts alone?

Alina kicked at the covers and huffed her frustration into the darkness.

Trouble sleeping, dear?

She stilled in her bed.

The chill of the room blanketed her skin and left gooseflesh down her arms, her legs, her neck. Even the hairs in her ears turned upright, poised to catch any errant sound in the room.

She did not scream.

Of course, panic hit her differently than it did most women. It ripped the sound straight from her throat and left only her gaping mouth. A dark, silent scream frozen over her tongue.

Alina looked around the room.

Nothing was there.

The fire under the mantle had long turned to smoldering embers. Wind gusted down the chimney blew over them, fanning their faint glow into a bright orange for moments at a time.

A trick of the imagination. She decided, her breathing quick and short.

The softly feminine voice had been generated from her mind in her desire for comfort.

Born out of remembrance of a time when Alina had felt loved and cared for herself. She must have ached for it so much that she simply conjured a facsimile of the real thing.

The hour was very late after all. Nights of restless sleep were taking a toll.

She was strong, however. Alina sang her song and recited her comforts and forced her eyes to close and did not let her mind dwell on any disembodied voice or any absent Lord until finally, she fell asleep.

*******

Lord Kirigan returned late in the night on the eve of the twin’s seventh birthday.

Alina had conspired with the other servants to plan a modest picnic celebration in the newly restored garden, complete with food and sweets on the following day.

When the black carriage trundled down the drive well after the children were put to bed, Alina donned her robe and grabbed her candle.

It pained her pride to put herself in a position of asking Lord Kirigan for anything and yet Alina marched to his study and knocked on the door to insist he make an appearance at the event.

Truthfully, Alina was quite vexed before she knocked, having spent the day consoling an increasingly emotional little boy with empty assurances that even if his father missed his birthday, it did not mean he was not loved.

Lillian had required nothing of her and most unusually sat in silence in her chair, rolling her pencil between her fingers, seemingly without the energy even to continue her mind games on Alina.

The empty, quiet persona she had adopted was worse somehow. She knocked again. Harder.

Lord Kirigan appeared, bleary eyed in the doorway. “Ali—Miss Starkova?”

Alina glared at him. The single flame of her candle light illuminating both of their faces and casting strange shadows.

“We are having a birthday celebration for George and Lillian tomorrow,” she began.

He opened his mouth to interrupt but she flashed her eyes and in his surprise, he clamped his jaw shut again.

“You are expected to be there promptly at the start of the meal and stay for the duration. Should you happen to bring a gift for each child, that would be wonderful but will be considered optional given the short notice.”

“Miss Starkova—” he warned, his surprise dissolving into fury and straining his voice.

Alina did not let him get a foothold.

What right did this man have to be furious? This man who disappeared without a word for weeks and could not spare more than a few moments to simply write to his children while away.

“Gifts,” she stressed, “are optional but make no mistake, my Lord, your attendance is compulsory. Are we clear?”

Her chest was heaving with pent up rage.

Weeks of suppressing her anxieties, her sadness and her pain so she could put forward a good face for the children was all about to implode inside of her.

The seams of her very existence were becoming ripped and unraveled by this careless man who slipped in and out of being around her like a shadow.

He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her into his study, slamming the door shut and pressing her against the hard wood.

His chest pressed flush with hers and Alina could scarcely breathe for the pressure or the thickness of the air or maybe because of the sudden lightheaded feeling which came over her body.

The candle had dropped to the ground and only the light from the lantern on the desk behind him gave her any relief.

It illuminated his outline and he was nothing more than a dark mass before her, breathing hot damp breaths against the exposed skin of her neck and chest.

A large calloused hand covered her cheek and Alina darted her eyes to where she knew his lips were, the sounds of his breaths guiding her more than her vision in the low light.

The pull toward him was unnatural. Beyond anything she had felt before.

It terrified her. He terrified her.

He rattled her soul till it shook and quaked in the shell of her body.

She thought this and yet she did not fight his touch, her hands betraying her as they fisted into the lapels of his coat, urging him closer.

His hands fell to the door on either side of her head, caging her in as he closed the distance and paused just shy of her lips.

Their breaths swirled together. The full thrall of their pull over the other person perfectly evident to her in that moment.

Unstoppable. Inescapable. Was he doing this to her? Or was it she doing this to him?

Alina heard a tiny whimper. It had come from her throat.

The sound caused the tiniest blink of his eyes. He came to himself. He stopped.

The mood shift was as palpable to her as if she had watched him undress and redress.

Lord Kirigan dropped his hands from the door.

He looked fearful of her. Then suspicious.

Alina opened her mouth to say something but he was already opening the door behind her, his hand gripping her waist as he shoved her back into the hall and slammed the study door shut without another word.

The sound of the lock echoed down the dark corridor and the thud of his hands hitting the wood on the other side made her jump.

With dread she realized the humiliating urge to cry was upon her and she pressed her fingers to her mouth to stifle the sob that was wrenched from her lungs.

*******

The Lord scowled out the window as he sipped from the crystal tumbler.

Alina Starkova.

“Miss Safin. Ensure Miss Starkova is allotted three square meals a day and that she eats them in full. Her visage is…wan, to say the least.” He squinted down at the grounds. “It is highly displeasing.”

Catching the expression on the face of his Housekeeper, he scowled, “The children will hardly be attentive to a governess who looks as though she dithers constantly on the edge of death.”

The young Housekeeper bowed her head, “Indeed, sir. I will see to it at once.”

“Have you found out yet how she has come to be educated?”

“Sir?” The Housekeeper asked.

“To be educated. Someone must have sponsored her scholarship. At the very least she would have required a recommendation to be educated in Weymouth.” The Lord turned to look at his subordinate.

She shook her head, “No, my Lord. I gave her a tour and went over the expectations of her position in the house and then she…”

“She what?” He asked, sounding far too interested in the minutiae of the lives of servants for a man of his position.

“Miss Starkova expressed an interest in gardening, sir. She left our meeting to take up the task of weeding.” His Housekeeper sounded on the verge of laughter.

“Weeding?” Bewilderment muddled his features and he looked again out the window, locating her at last in the stone-walled garden off the kitchen.

Even from the distance he could see the plain blue sleeves of her dress were drawn up to her elbows and the dark earth had stained her hands and apron.

Lord Kirigan watched her face, unsure at what he was seeing.

Was she…talking? To whom?

Why should it be his concern?

The Lord bit off his command, “Find out who took an interest in her, what patron endorsed her education. And why. Then report back to me.” He said, unable to tear his eyes away from the strange woman taking up residence in his garden.

*******

It would take two weeks for the children to return home from their stay in London and so Alina filled her time as Genya instructed. Lending a hand with the housekeeping. Readying the nursery for the children. Dusting in the library and putting away stray books.

The staff was quite short of what would typically be required for a manor of this size and yet, everything was maintained well enough.

It helped that, according to Nadia and Marie, the cook and head housemaid, Lord Kirigan had never so much as thrown a dinner party.

No extra rooms to be done up and then striped down. No extra mouths to feed. No one to impress. The Lord himself had a modest pallet, much to the chagrin of Nadia who longed to show off more skill and flare than was ever requested by a Lord who took his dinner alone in his study.

Mr. Kostyk too, whom Alina learned was an associate and business partner to the Lord of the manor. A man who lived and worked at the estate but who did not attend to normal mealtimes.

He opted instead to let whole days pass by while he worked if not for the attentive nurturing of Miss Safin who left a tin covered plate at the door of his workroom morning, noon and night. Alina had yet to see his face.

That Lord Kirigan entertained no one in a house of this size was unusual but Alina did not mind. The fewer the strangers around, the better.

The East wing was largely untouched and Alina found that several of the rooms were turned down with white sheets draped across the furniture like spirits or otherwise locked altogether.

Explorations of the grounds yielded far more interesting discoveries. Sergei was the general groundskeeper for the estate in addition to his duties at the stable and, at times, driving the coach.

Without the help of a few others to handle the work of the orchard and surrounding lands, most everything was overgrown save a small portion of the garden which was regularly tended and held Nadia’s selection of kitchen herbs and vegetables.

It would have been correct for Alina to ask Ivan, the Butler and Valet, whether she could fix up a portion of the garden for her own seeds and herbs.

However, his countenance was quite foreboding and she did not want to be denied. She pulled Miss Safin aside on the second morning to inquire the possibilities. “I’ve already begun the weeding and could finish the work before the children arrive. It will not cut into my regular duties.”

“I suppose that will not be a problem so long as you do not expect Sergei or Nadia to maintain it.”

“Of course not, Miss Safin. They are my plants and I would prefer to tend to them myself, in any case.”

The Housekeeper nodded and then put a hand on Alina’s arm to stop her hasty retreat, “What is the purpose of these herbs, exactly?”

Alina flushed, “Medicinal purposes mainly…”

The Housekeeper stared, wondering if the governess intended to expound.

Alina decidedly pressed her lips together and then blushed again.

“Very well, Alina. Carry on.”

Seeds were some of the few possessions which Alina had carried across the country on the back of her poor, departed pony. Upon her initial foray into the garden, she found that Nadia kept rosemary and thyme in plenty, which was quite pleasing.

After weeding on the first day, Alina had cleared enough of a plot to plant sage, lavender and chamomile, bee balm and catmint.

The catmint she ensured would be contained within a small stone outcrop of it’s own lest it thrive and creep over the other plants as it was wont to do.

Scouring the grounds and surrounding wilds she found elderberry bushes, wild onions and nettle. Near the wall at the back of the garden she uncovered lamb’s ear alongside some withering dill and fennel plants. She dug around in the dirt and planted a handful of garlic cloves.

It was the wrong season to start most of them but Alina sang as she planted.

Songs taught to her by her loving babulya who knew all the correct words to say to plants—and to people—to make them well. To make them thrive.

Songs and words which were foreign in this country but which were inscribed into her brain from a young age and would not be unwritten. She sang to her garlic and to her little seeds and then to the withering dill too.

When she was done she turned to the house, her eyes falling on an upper window where the afternoon sun glinted and gleamed off the panes in a merry light blur. She looked up in awe and more words fell from her lips though she did not know their purpose.

Babulya taught her to trust her instincts and so Alina spoke the healing words to the little glass window reflecting the sunlight back to her and she smiled.

A short bar of reverence was sung to Alatyr, as babulya taught her to close always with a prayer to the source of all healing in the world, and then she was done.

*******

Inside the manor, a certain Lord who kept vigil at the window of his study remained tucked in shadow, cursing the shattered crystal and spilled laudanum which littered the floor where he stood a moment ago. Where he had been looking down at the tiny, strange woman he had invited into his home.

The one who smiled up at him as if she sensed his gaze. Did she know she smiled up into the face of a monster?

Perhaps he should have had her stand alongside him while he shot her pony. That would have been a more effective message if she did not.

He would need to ask Genya if his new governess kept any other pets.

*******

The first couple weeks Alina spent nearly every afternoon and free moment nurturing and cultivating in the garden. Cataloguing the collection already growing. Pinching back buds where appropriate.

She sang to them all and despite the onset of autumn, they thrived under her attentions.

Time in the garden was a well-loved though grueling ritual. So much so that keeping her eyes open past the end of the dinner bell was a hardship.

Although, she strived to be engaging at the table for at dinner she was in the company of the other servants and after many lonely years in Weymouth, she ached for companionship.

Marie and Sergei were easy and amiable with her. Nadia was direct in her commands but enjoyable to work for when Alina assisted her and Tamar in the kitchens. Tamar herself was standoffish but gave the occasional sound of approval when Alina did something correctly.

Alexei and Maxim were sweet and boisterous, respectively. Alexei, the only real footman in the house and Maxim, appropriately assigned to tend the horses. His wild nature a natural match for the beasts in the stables. Both gentlemen spent their mealtimes keeping Alina entertained and awake over her food.

It was Misha, the shy, quiet young man, who intrigued Alina most. He ate his meals seated at the far end of the table. His one very stiff leg propped always on the chair to his left.

His responsibilities around the house were quite a mystery to her and something was present in his countenance that, while at once familiar, simultaneously kept her from feeling at ease enough to ask directly how he served the Kirigan estate.

Though Misha was silent, Alina often felt his attention peaked and was certain he was absorbing everything that was said around the table.

Ivan and Genya (for the Housekeeper granted Alina permission to call her Genya after the third day) were the most reserved. Ivan sat at the head of the table each meal, one imperious brow raised as he took in the conversations around him.

Genya smiled indulgently here and there. Occasionally offering a smooth comment which poked fun at Maxim and had the whole table smiling. Mostly she was quiet and watchful.

One eye on the calling bells in case someone was needed. Alina sensed that though she was in a position of authority, she had not found or perhaps had not desired friendship.

She whispered quietly to herself a few words for the redhead.

*******

It was a good thing for Alina that she found sleep so well at night those first couple weeks. She was not up to hear the shrieks which would undoubtedly have vexed her.

Would not recognize the distinct footsteps of someone who stopped just outside her door. Someone who pressed an ear to the wood and listened for movement inside.

These noises which would have made her question the merits of staying.

For, once she met the children, Alina knew whether they were little cherubs or miniature demons, she would be unable to part from them unless forced from the house by entities beyond her control.

Call her an orphan but abandonment just was not something she would be able to stomach.

*******

The strangest part—well no. The most troubling part then of these two weeks…

Alina absently picked at her fingers while she thought. Her face twisted with consternation as she stared into the fire in the small parlor. It was late in the evening. The first night on the estate that she had been unable to sleep.

The children would arrive tomorrow. Her little charges. Alina was excited to begin, excited to see her education put to work and make herself useful. Curious to know whether they would like her right away or whether it might take time to earn their trust. Their respect.

Their affection, perhaps.

That was not something she should care about—years spent alone in the world had hardened her against openly desiring such a gift. And yet, she could not help but feel nervous to meet their judgement all the same.

Then again, perhaps they would be like their father?

There it was at last. The circling thought which had started her on her path and seemed to loop back into her every train of thought like some inevitable cross rail. The Lord himself.

Alina had not seen the Lord of Blyth Fell directly since the carriage ride.

Glimpses of him disappearing behind a door or rounding the end of a hall could be caught—his black tails flying behind him until he was out of her sight.

She had not seen his face directly. Had not had another opportunity to inspect the dark eyes which had so plainly scrutinized her upon her arrival.

Alina had tried not to think of him. Tried not to remember him in his haughty disposition and presumption. Tried not to linger overlong on the way he had looked at her in the carriage. Frustrated, distrusting, mocking. Curious, too. Perhaps just as curious as she was now about him.

As if just dwelling on his being for too long had conjured him up, the clock struck midnight and the door behind her was open and he was there.

Alina jumped at the quiet greeting.

Lord Kirigan walked around the sofa and set his candle on the little trestle table beside the armchair. The governess moved to get to her feet, not waiting to be dismissed.

“Please, Miss Starkova, do not leave on my account.” Lord Kirigan pulled a pipe from the trestle drawer and began to fill it.

“It is not on your account.” Alina said. Her tone had an edge to it—something she could not seem to soften now he was here. Now he was bandying about with a looming authority. His very presence rattled her and she could not explain why.

“I am fatigued and wish to retire.” She cleared her throat, “Sir.”

He smirked at his pipe, glancing up at her briefly while he resumed his tamping. The infinitesimal second where his eyes caught on hers sent a tingle down her arms.

“Indulge me, please, before you go, Miss Starkova. I fear I have been derelict in my duties as your employer these last few days and I should like to know how you are getting along here at Blyth Fell.” He finished his pipe at last but did not light it.

“Very well, my Lord. Everyone has been quite gracious while I settle in. Alexei in particular has been helpful and available to explain the proper manner of things to me when Genya is not accessible.”

Lord Kirigan narrowed his eyes. “Indeed.”

The pipe popped into the crook of his mouth and he looked every bit the dark, menacing Lord from the carriage ride as he brought a flame close enough to light it. “Well then. I’m chuffed to bits to hear it.”

His tone was distinctly snide and Alina glared in response. Why must he rile her otherwise good, sensible nature?

“At your leave, my Lord. I should like to retire now, it is a big day tomorrow, after all.” Alina brushed her hands down her skirt and curtsied.

“Another moment, if you please, Miss Starkova.” Lord Kirigan puffed and blew a ring of smoke from his mouth.

Alina grew anxious, she swallowed and her voice was raw, “Yes, my Lord?”

His gaze hovered on her face. He looked curious again. Then frustrated.

“Just what is it you are up to in my gardens?” Alina jumped at the sudden harshness of his tone.

“I-I am simply planting a few things, sir.”

“What ‘things’?”

“Just..well, herbs mostly, Lord Kirigan. I spent some time in my youth learning about the medicinal properties of some herbs and flowers. I thought since…well it is something I have to offer—to contribute. And the seeds were my own, I did not use anything I should not have and Miss Safin agreed it would be fine for me to do so but if it is displeasing to you then I will—”

“You will what? Rip them all back out of the ground?” He cut off her runaway thoughts.

She was almost breathless. Beneath her own trepidation, anger was lurking and she clenched her teeth.

Would he be so cruel? A chuckle as she mourned the loss of her pony and now a demand that she un-sow the seeds to which she was so diligently tending? Rip them from the earth before they had a chance to see daylight even?

The Lord eyed her, waiting for her to response.

Alina closed her mouth, her head held high.

“With respect, my Lord, that would be a waste.”

Shock splashed across his face and the next second he was obscured by another puff of smoke.

The smoke cleared and he was smiling, his eyes bright even as he parried her statement, “Would it? Herbal medicine—sounds like little more than witchcraft to me, Miss Starkova. Witches are not well received in these parts. Particularly under this roof—or haven’t you heard the rumors?”

His gaze was sharp on her, searching her features for any sign of understanding but Alina only felt confused.

“Rumors, my Lord? No.” She shook her head and redirected her appeal, “What I would do is not witchcraft at all. Please, sir. My learning and experience has taught me quite a lot about using herbs to heal. Minor ailments mostly. Small things…”

Alina began to pick at her fingers, losing her thread, “possibly insignificant to some b-but I would like to be of service and this is a skill I have to offer.”

Kirigan watched her fingers, his own tightened over the arm of his chair as he did.

“Very well then, Miss Starkova. You may keep your little sprouts.”

Her face brightened with relief and the Lord devoured the image of her before forcing himself to return to the fire.

“To bed with you, then. The children will require tending to for the length of the day and I will expect you to put your best foot forward with them.”

“Of course, my Lord. Goodnight.” Alina said, flushing as she hurried from the little parlor.

She paused as she went to close the door behind her.

It could be called greedy, the way she raked her eyes over the esteemed Lord Kirigan. However, she could not look away as he, unaware of her stare, allowed his shoulders to loosen. Alina watched him as he pinched the bridge of his nose and then swept a broad hand down his face.

Her words from the garden bubbled up to her throat and she mouthed them to herself.

Trust the instinct, Babulya had always said, it finds and blesses only a few. Perhaps it will chose you and you will be a vessel for it’s light, Alinushka. Perhaps...

A song of reverence for Alatyr uttered under her breath as she turned away, departing for her room.

It was lucky that she had spent the better part of the evening in the little parlor, deep in the west wing of the big house.

For on this night, the shrieking from the east wing rang through the corridors of servants quarters, saturating the chilly air and Genya resolved that Alina would have to be moved into the bedroom beside the nursery.

Otherwise, she would surely leave. Someone as bright, as hopeful as she could not hope to withstand the dark secrets of Blyth Fell.

A great, black carriage stood at the top of the slope, door ajar and horses nudging at the road in impatience.

“Inside.” He commanded, setting her down with haste. Alina stepped into the shelter obediently and watched as the man worked his way back to the front of the coach.

The driver already had one of the horses unhitched and together the two men trailed the steed back down the hill toward her distressed pony, stopping just short of the bog land.

Alina tried to watch their progress through the carriage window, eyes squinting through the bleary haze.

After a few minutes she thought she saw her that her pony had drifted further away even as the black stallion veered back.

The window fogged. She wiped it away with her wet sleeve and pressed closer. Her sweet, dear little pony was now very deep in mud. The base of its hauches no longer visible.

The carriage door swung open and she shrieked.

The dark haired man cast her a haughty look and then shifted into the carriage, moving across from her while he rummaged in his belongings beneath the bench.

“Ah, there.” He was holding a long musket aloft with one hand and stuffing the muzzle with another.

“Should be quite fine.” He leveled the rifle and, as if remembering her existence, looked up again, “Ah, yes. I’m afraid the beast will need to be put down. Look away, if it please you.”

It did not seem to make a difference for him.

His eyes skipped right over the horrified look on Alina’s face and he swept out of the coach again, door rattling in his wake.

The black tails of his coat billowed behind him in the wind and she swore he adjusted his hat into a perfect tilt as he balanced the firearm and aimed.

Bang.

Even the tragic sound of mercy was muffled by the rain.

Alina was too shocked to make any noise. Mouth agape, she watched the blurry figures through the window as they slogged back up the hill to reattach the black horse to his harness.

She was too shocked to do more than shuffle away from the door in a daze when the man stepped inside again.

Saddle bags dropped at her feet and he reached into the bench seat to remove a rag.

He tapped the front window once seated and the carriage took off again.

The pause in their journey suddenly felt as natural as if they had made a stop-off to pick wildflowers.

The man eyed her warily as he cleaned his gun.

Alina opened her mouth to speak and closed it several times, the carriage jostling her as she floundered for words.

“I never intended to…that is, I meant to...It seemed prudent to get the pony some water. We do not—that is to say…I never fathomed such terrain…” her hand covered her mouth in shame before she could continue.

“Hmm.” He smirked and returned to his task. “Well in your desire to care for the poor beast, you quite ensured it’s doom.”

Though tears sprang to her eyes at the condemnation, she found her anger at last and glared.

He chuckled in surprise. His face crinkled with mirth. Even in cruelty, he was beautiful.

“You are most welcome, by the way. For coming to your rescue.”

Great thanks indeed. The man was more monster than gentleman in her view.

Manners won out eventually and she mustered a gracious nod. Her words were still heavy in her chest.

The dark eyes remained on her, studying her features even as she forced her gaze back to the window.

“Pardon me, sir. My wits fled me for a few moments and now I am unsure. Could you deliver me to Blyth Fell? I should like to have walked from the road so as not to be an inconvenience. Or if your coachman would be so kind as to stop here, I can find my own way.”

Alina shifted to pick up the saddle bags which contained all her belongings. Everything left to her in the world.

“You are an orphan, are you not?” He was smirking at her again.

“How did you…” the cruelty of his smile cut through her question.

“I told my staff I wished for an orphaned governess this time.” He said, simply. “Our last one was far too home sick. All her free time spent holed up in her room writing letters to her sister or someone similar. I did not heed the particulars closely, you see.”

He examined the shine of his gun as he buffed. “Only her misery. That which she spread about the hall like a plague. It was a relief when she resigned her post.”

The way he looked at her was as a predator to cornered prey. Alina gulped.

Did he just kick his lips? A trick of the mind, surely.

Her words bubbled up from the tangle of her insides, “Then you are Lord Kirigan.”

He blinked and then smiled again, “Indeed. And your name, miss?”

“You know I am an orphan in your employ and you have yet to learn my name? I am hired to be governess to your children, am I not?” The venom with which the words whipped out of her mouth astonished them both.

Apparently, the little pony was not as forgotten to her as it was to her companion just now.

Alina reddened in her cheeks and ears while Lord Kirigan stared dumbfounded for a moment.

“I apologize, sir. It has been a long journey on my own and I have quite forgotten myself.”

He adjusted his collar and seemed to right himself at her admission. “Quite right. As if I am allotted the time to learn every detail of someone whom may or may not withstand the trial period in my employ.”

Alina’s heart raced under the threat. Enduring the long journey back south as a disgraced ex-governess was not comforting in the least.

She collected herself, straightened her posture and introduced herself.

“Miss Starkova.” The Lord held her name in his mouth a moment longer than usual and she was struck again by his dark eyes, watchful as they collected the details of her across from him.

“Unusual name for this part of the world. Am I to assume your credentials are adequate?”

A retort rose to her mind and she bit it back, nodding and listing off the education and training she accomplished in Weymouth. Alina would need to tamp this urge to defy him if she intended to keep her employ beyond the carriage ride.

As if she had manifested the ending with the thought, the carriage came to a stop.

Her head tilted as she looked up at the manor through the window. Lord Kirigan made no move to leave, watching her first with open curiosity and then a scowl.

The coachman opened the carriage door and Kirigan exited.

The rain had morphed into a light drizzle. The Lord straightened his coat before turning back to the carriage and offered his hand to the new governess.

Hesitating for only a moment, Alina’s fingers slid over his warm palm.

Once more, her eyes met his. A heartbeat of energy or perhaps merely her pulse could be felt in the space where they touched. He narrowed his gaze at her and then wrenched his eyes away, dropping her hand after she descended the carriage.

“Ivan will see to your bags.” Lord Kirigan called over his shoulder as he entered the house. “Welcome to Blyth Fell, Miss Starkova.”

Alina watched him recede into the dark entry before her, unable to look away even as the drizzling rain collected at her brow and ran down her face.

His touch was reserved for when they were in session.

A guiding palm to adjust her form. A stroke of his fingers to her hair. That was all.

It was not strictly professional.

No other artist lay a palm to her body while she posed but she would never put a stop to that minuscule brush of his skin to hers.

It fed her better than any meal. Inebriated her more than any liquor. Nourished her body on a level nothing else could touch. Filled her up with a deep-set heat that never seemed to cool until hours after.

It occurred to her on more than one occasion to ask whether he requested any other models to sit for him.

Alina continued to show up to their standing appointments which occurred multiple times a week at his home. Between these and the classes he taught on campus—ones where she was once again, at his disposal and that of his drawing students—it was easy enough to pretend to herself that he had no other model.

How much time could a man spend at an easel in any given week?

Touches aside, Aleksander (a name she never called him out loud) would keep the session mostly professional. Formal in his greetings, a stickler on the time and always handing her a neatly written check at the end of each session.

The checks were placed in a thick black envelope completely devoid of markings, except the initials across the flap.

A simple ‘A M’ embossed in a clean font. Something she could trace with her finger over and over.

Alina kept every one of them.

*******

When she felt extra strange, she would lay the envelopes across her sheets and drop her naked body onto the black canvas.

Absurd to explain, impossible to stop.

No therapist would ever pry this ritual from her soul. Not that it would help to examine it, in any case.

Not that it could make her stop.

*******

More than anything she longed to catch him behind the ball. Stumble upon him as he wrote out her check at the last moment.

Then maybe she could see the balance sheet.

Then maybe she would know if there was any other model who regularly posed for him.

Know if anyone else had the privilege of being copied to the page under his capable hands.

If she was bolder, she would have asked directly if she was a muse for him.

Someone who inspired him to waste away with his artists materials for fear of losing his grip on her image.

Driven to insanity trying to capture her elusive essence on paper.

Maybe he would even starve a little from missing meals or lose sleep staying up until 3am, perfecting the shading of her breast from memory.

A girl could dream.

But if she set aside her pride to ask, she was sure she would get only a cruel smile in response. A condescending word or two.

Then she would pout and his thumb would run across her lower lip as he chuckled his amusement at her.

It was a regular exchange for them.

“What would you know of muses, Miss Starkova?” He had asked when she briefly referenced Edie Sedgwick.

Her mouth had opened.

Nothing had come out. She was flustered.

He had laughed, thumbing at her pout.

“Déjeuner sur L’herbe, if you please, Miss Starkova.”

Ever pliable, Alina would move into position.

Thoughts of powerful men who would rip through the talent of a woman until she was shredded inside—until they stole all her beauty for themselves—circled her brain even as she sat still as a statue.

She ruminated on them until she was dismissed.

A black envelope in her hand. A finger tracing the raised initials.

*******

To add insult to obsession, Alina had never once seen the work she inspired.

The walls of his apartment were littered with his talent—she had studied the pieces on her breaks.

His studio was a blank white box but the little she had seen of his home, the hall and the bathroom, was evidence enough that he did think some of his work worth putting on display.

None were of her.

Alina watched him at the end of each session as he packed away his materials and she gathered her clothes.

Never once had he offered to show her his sketches.

Never once did she ask.

It would not be professional for a model to ask the artist to see the work.

And so she combed the galleries downtown, scoured the internet for his work.

She came up short.

Aleksander Morozov had not submitted anything new to any gallery, publication or auction since he took the post as the Head of the Art Department at the local university some six months ago.

Since he swept onto campus like a the newborn shadow of a burgeoning sunrise.

Since he met Alina.

At first, he did not trust her to imagine and execute interesting poses for him.

Instead, he submitted several figure suggestions derived from various paintings, sculptures and photographs and advised her to learn them for him.

Early on he would call them out to her and expected her to recall it with perfect accuracy, mirror it with her body.

He always managed to find one thing that needed adjusting, but he did not scold her.

The Professor simply took matters into his own hands and helped them both find satisfaction.

*******

It was several months into their professional relationship that he changed course. The first pose of their session was up and, after a proper break and stretching, Alina returned to a neutral position to wait for Mr. Morozov (for they were not in the classroom today) to call out her next pose.

“Surprise me, Miss Starkova.” He said.

Alina’s eyes widened, turning to look in his direction. His face remained resolutely obscured behind the easel even as his hands were busy readying a fresh sheet of paper.

She had a minute or two at most to get in position while he set the ground on his new sheet. Her mind turned over ideas.

Alina stood from the chaise, draping the white sheet artfully so it cascaded down to the floor. She turned her back to him, an angle he rarely received from his repertoire of poses, and kneeled on the chaise.

One arm twisted sinuously behind her, her palm facing out at the top of her bum. The other crossed it, creating a graceful ‘x’ at her lower back.

She bowed her arms out from her back, heating inside as though the pose itself was an invitation for him to clutch her arms like handles. To fulfill her fantasy and take her into submission.

She cheated her chest to one side, the profile of her breast visible to him and kept her expression serene even as she wanted dearly to watch him from the corner of her eye.

The studio went silent as he paused his movements.

An unexpected frisson of excitement charged through her.

The scraping of the stool as he stood. The gentle sound of his bare feet as they crossed to her.

Then his body heat again. Always so warm when he came near.

His hands hovered over her hips. She felt their charged energy so close. Alina pushed out a breath.

“My hands are a bit messy, Miss Starkova.” He said.

He retracted them from their spot over her hips and then his hands were brushing hers where they rested over her bum.

“This is good.” He said in his slow cadence, nudging a couple of her fingers into a relaxed curl.

To her disappointment, he stepped away again.

For thirty minutes she drifted away, letting her mind carry her back into a fantasy place.

Now he was standing over her, one leg slung over his arm while he rocked into her wet heat again and again, watching her breasts bounce with every thrust. He would pause above her, curl a lock of her hair around his finger and then resume.

His hand would find hers and he would place it over her breast, encouraging her to play.

“Do you have any other poses for me, Miss Starkova?” Mr. Morozov asked as she stretched. He sounded amused.

Alina frowned, wondering if he was being condescending again.

Returning to the image in her fantasy, Alina draped herself in a recline against the couch.

One leg folded, casually propped with a knee pointing at the ceiling while the other leg fell to the side and created a long curving line ending with her foot on the floor.

Legs splayed open, her folds were on display for him, another angle he had never received. Not so flagrantly.

She curled a hand around her breast, cupping it. Her thumb and index finger framed her pebbled nipple.

To round out her brazen tableau, her other hand fell to her folds, delicately spreading them apart with a finger just set on her clit.

Her eyes closed in brief delight.

Alina finished the pose by turning her head in his direction.

Mr. Morozov adjusted himself on his stool.

He did not cross the room to her.

A warmth of smugness permeated her chest as she watched him take her in.

His eyes, usually so controlled, turned wild in his concentration as he lingered over her curves, his hand skating over the page.

For the first time in months, Alina was unable to retreat into her mind during a pose. Instead soaking in every minute expression on the face of her artist.

The next thirty minutes were punctuated with small huffs of breath, an occasional clearing of his throat or shuffle of the stool as her artist wavered between sitting close or far away from his work.

Then too, the thin swishing sound of paper falling to the floor.

Sheet after sheet used and then ripped from the easel and dropped while a new one was taped in its place.

Alina watched for his face as it appeared around the side of the easel to study her. His blackened fingers absently sent on a run through his hair which became increasingly disheveled.

Halfway through, he appeared from behind the easel and from across the room she could see dark charcoal marked his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

His eyes lingered on her breasts while his hand flitted across the page crafting an image she could not see. Alina could not stop her chest moving as her breaths inflated with an increasing depth, skin prickling with rampant heat.

When time was up, the Professor stopped moving.

She saw through the gap at the base of his easel how his careful fingers set the little nub of charcoal on the tray with finality.

He did not move. Alina could not see his face.

Mr. Morozov had not officially given her permission to break pose. She waited.

The papers which littered the floor were too far from her to see properly. Light too dim outside of the spotlit-halo he kept her in on the dais.

An arm appeared to the other side of the easel as he picked up his damp rag and presumably worked on clearing the charcoal from his hands.

“Hold your pose.” He called in a casual tone from behind the equipment. He stood.

Disappeared into the shadows outside the purview of the spotlight.

The sound of water running in the sink filled the space. Soap squelching into a lather over palms.

Silence.

When he made his way toward her, he dropped a drying rag over his easel on the way. His hands were fresh, his wrists glimmered with a lingering wet.

Charcoal smudged his face still and she smiled to herself that it was something only she was aware of for the moment.

Alina watched him from her perch, curious and excited.

Aleksander stood over her on the dais. His dark eyes flicked to hers, locked in her gaze while his fingers grasped hers over her clit.

A soft oh joined her exhale as his fingers trailed down to edge the rim of her center, collecting the slick and returning to circle her pearl.

She whimpered. His eyes were cool as they watched her push closer to his hand.

“Bereft little thing, aren’t you?” His dipped a finger into her center and she arched.

He smirked at her and joined his free hand to her breast, pinching so the jolt of pleasure from her nipple struck down to her core.

She whimpered again and his responding gaze looked wild again.

“You’re quite distracting today, Miss Starkova.”

Was he a little breathless?

His finger sunk deeper into her cunt, he followed with a second. The action wrenched a moan from her mouth and she arched again.

“That’s it, little pet. Show me where you feel it.”

When his hand stroked over the arch of her ribs and stomach, his gaze drinking in her every movement with rapid breaths, she moaned again. A tough squeeze to her hip and then a grasp to the cheek of her bum.

A grunt expelled from his throat and she thought he was going to spank her.

His palm met her breast again, sweeping her hand away, fingers pinching her nipple, rolling it so she arched again. She keened.

And then he smacked it, reddening the already blushing nipple.

The sound of the slap echoed off the blank walls.

Their eyes snapped to each other and Alina nodded eagerly, finding a deep moan for him.

Aleksander bent over her, soothing the red skin with his tongue. Inside her his fingers curled.

Her hands grasped his hair and tugged. He snarled and sucked at her until she cried out again.

Dangerous in his gaze, his eyes landed in hers, “Usually so good at following directions. Don’t forget who is in charge of this time, pet.”

The words caused a new wave of moisture to flow around his fingers and he bared his teeth. The added slick sounded out loud as he rubbed inside her with a demanding pace.

“You like being told what to do, don’t you, Miss Starkova?”

Her eyes narrowed at him but she grasped his hand from her breast and smoothed it up the skin of her sternum. Curling his palm around her throat, she arched into it, silently begging him.

“You are exquisite.” Aleksander whispered and she wasn’t sure he meant to say it aloud but he gave her throat an experimental squeeze and curled his fingers inside her again and she was convulsing as her body lit up beneath his ministrations.

“Yes. Again.” He demanded, fingers in the same rhythm and her throat clutched as his lips found her nipple again and she found he had no mercy at all.

She was flame and he was breathing oxygen into it’s center, fanning her higher and farther than could be contained.

“Should photograph you. Just like this.” He spoke into her stomach where he grazed his teeth over her soft belly.

“Should take my little pet in my hands and paint her as I see fit. Paint her as she cums around my fingers.”

Alina was whimpering again.

Did he not know how much she needed that? Did he not understand how desperate her entire body was for it?

“Yes. Please." She panted. "I need it."

He growled, biting her other breast and squeezing her throat in reproach. He slapped the breast and smiled at her gasp, wrapping her throat in his hand again.

“You pose for me, Miss Starkova.” His thumb stroked her pulse.

“Hush now. I am conceptualizing.”

The hard edge of his cock poking into her thigh told her just how much he had liked her opinion. She nodded, pressing up against his hand in another silent plea.

Eyes raking her form as though she was not there, he was wild and turning savage as he continued, “I should sink my tongue in your little pussy and capture your ecstasy on film while you finish against my mouth. Should take your sweet juices and rub them over your nipples and your lips. Should shine a light on them. Capture your portrait with the sheen of my markings—capture you while it is wet. Maybe I won't let it dry. Just keep rubbing it over you as long as I please.”

Alina could not fight the scream that came from her throat when he was curling his fingers and pressing her clit with his thumb and controlling her throat as he spoke these words over her body like a tender soliloquy.

The edges of her vision were blurred, blacking out and it was probably just smoke from the flames inside of her extending out and igniting the furniture.

Again she screamed and Aleksander snarled against her thigh, mouth suddenly at her cunt and sucking on her clit.

With a final arching, throaty scream, Alina came. Her artist’s fingers stroked her again and again as she came, his tongue licking at her abused clit in supplication.

Aftershocks shivered down her body. Her eyes were sticky and would not open.

She was dizzy and groggy and all she could think about was Aleksander. All she could ever think about was Aleksander.

She heard him shushing and did not realize she was whispering his name until it was too late. He had heard. Heard everything she had to say.

Obsession and desire and delusion wept out of her body like the juices now leaking from her cunt and it was too late to conceal them from him.

A final whimper as he removed his fingers. She felt the weight of him leave the end of the chaise. Heard his feet retreat across the floor.

Slowly, she sat up. Peeled her eyes open. Blinking at the brightness of the spotlight still overhead and unable to see him, she squinted into the darkness.

“That will be all for today, Miss Starkova.”

Her limbs were weak. Confusion marred her features.

“But the session is not over, Professor. We still have—”

“You will be paid in full for the time booked.” She heard him slowly peeling his last sheet from the easel. She still could not see his face. “But I have no more need of you today.”

His voice was cold.

A moment ago her entire body was made flames under his direction. Now he hid away and it was as if the sun refused to give relief to a morning frost.

She stood and shivered.

Would he not come and dress her in her robe?

The sounds of him methodically gathering the discarded sketches from the floor told her that she was on her own.

The black envelope was left on the chaise.

She saw it after she returned from the bathroom, dressed in her street clothes and looking for her artist. He was gone.

The next week Mr. Morozov cancelled their appointments.

She read the two line email he sent her over and over. No alternate meaning emerged.

Behind her, she cast a glance to the stack of black envelopes on her nightstand.

She thought they looked a little bereaved. Deprived of adding a sister to their number.

In bed that night, her fingers absently traced the texture of the letters.

The shrieking cries of the volcra overhead melted into the drumming of hooves across the earth.

All of it, loud and incessant and completely cancelled out by the pulse of blood pounding in his head. The circling thoughts that spurred him forward.

He is going to kill me in the morning. She had said.

Aleksander had never seen her look frail. Not in his memory.

The Grisha slaver bar that kept her powerless, kept the wrath of her Sun at bay, flashed through his mind again.

Fucking cowards. The Darkling pushed his horse harder. Faster.

The Shadows of the Fold reached for him as he passed just as worshippers extended hands of blessing for their Saint.

Behind him, Ivan and Fedyor urged their horses forward, almost falling out of the dome of Light he held overhead.

It had been easy this time—effortless really, to call the Light up from within himself. As if Alina herself had searched through his cupboards and produced it for him with a gentle smile.

Alina. His Alina. His person.

Held captive by a megalomaniac. A fucking degenerate otkazat’sya scum who would sacrifice every Grisha life in Ravka to gain a fraction of power.

Zlatan would soon learn true power. Would see and know it intimately as the force of his Darkness crushed Zlatan’s bones from the inside.

The horses were huffing but none of them faltered their gait. Aleksander was grateful. Fedyor had chosen well.

His Heartrenders had not questioned him when they learned Alina was in trouble and he would be going across the Fold to get her. Feydor left immediately to prepare the horses and Ivan, after a long look at his General, proceeded to delegate duties to the next in command.

It had not slipped Aleksander’s notice that Ivan would elect to follow his General into the Fold deferring his right to become the acting General of the Second Army. As was his rightful succession.

Ivan had scowled for the duration of the preparations which effectively relieved Aleksander of the urge to thank him.

The Darkling lowered his brow, narrowing his eyes as they neared what must be the middle of the Fold. A white stone building was crumbling on his right and the mirroring of events was painful to recognize—the way history often did repeat itself.

He had lived long enough to see that the adage was true.

A woman he loved, killed for fear of what she was, for fear of Aleksander himself, by a power-hungry individual trying to stamp out any threats to his reign.

Only now it felt like a chance to do it all again. To change it all; to rescue and to fix instead of fail and destroy.

It would be different this time. This was Alina. She, a Sun Summoner, an immortal like him and a woman who was stronger and more powerful than anyone could imagine.

A woman whom he had crushed mercilessly just a few weeks before.

Not for the first time since he had met Alina did Aleksander curse his own pride.

This might not have happened had he been able to come to terms with everything she had done and just forgiven her in that fucking cell. Forgiven her on the journey through the Fold.

Not left her alone in a field. Not buried her under the weight of his disappointment.

Had he not learned this lesson from years of experiencing the same treatment from Baghra? Another immortal who would use her years and her influence to leverage pain and guilt over him—shame him into doing as she wished? Into feeling the weight of her expectations with an unyielding rigidity?

Could he not have at least given her something to hold onto—something that said, I am angry and I am hurt but I am yours all the same?

No, instead he had crushed Alina and sent her back into the arms of a Grisha-loathing Secessionist to play spy. Fucked with her head and her heart and expected her to recover fine.

Expected her to be stoic in her duties and not slip up. As if he had been able to keep his head after their every encounter. He was a fucking fool.

They were so alike, he and Alina. In hindsight, her reasoning and her motives and decisions all seemed remarkably easy to understand.

He had been bitter at her for shutting him out. Hurt at her apparent lack of trust that she would not confide in him. It was fair that he should feel that way and yet, would he not have done the same?

Had their years been reversed, had it been Aleksander who was so fresh and new to the world, would he not have hungered and grasped for his own independence?

Alina did not want to need him anymore than he wanted to need her. He could not fault her for her actions—not for long anyway.

When he removed himself from the torturous back and forth they had both endured and inflicted on each other the last several years, Aleksander could not deny the plain truth before him: Alina was his match in every sense of the word.

Alina was and would always be the only one who could meet the depth of his power and counter it. Descend into the cavernous pain he carried and draw him out of it. Climb to the heights of his passion and somehow drive him higher.

It might be cosmic or ancient or fated by the Saints but even outside of all that, Aleksander simply wanted her. Alina. His Alina. Just as she was.

Aleksander wanted her very soul for himself and he would tie their Light and Dark together more completely than any paltry tether if given the chance again.

He is going to kill me in the morning.

He pushed his horse forward.

The city was eery in it’s quiet.

Aleksander shrouded their party of three in shadow as they trotted through the streets. His eyes were sharp but half of his focus was on the pull of the tether, guiding them closer to Alina.

He had zero intention of visiting her friends, despite her requests. Getting to her himself was far more important. Still, he slowed as they were nearing the place he knew they had held him weeks before.

“I fucking knew it! You will pay, Darkling.” A voice shouted from his left and he raised a fine blade of darkness only to feel that clenching in his chest once more. That blood thickening, heart seizing clutch of a Heartrender.

Aleksander growled at the spasm and the screaming Heartrender emerged from an alley. Ivan immediately used the same technique against her and Aleksander was free from the thrall once more. Fedyor sat on his own horse, working to restore his General.

“Stupid girl! He did not do this.” Baghra said, joining the fray from her hiding spot. “Stop. All of you!” She demanded, grabbing the Heartrender from the ground where she had crumpled under Ivan’s will.

The Darkling snarled at them both as he darkened the street with his irritation and shadows sloughed off of him in billowing sheets.

“Good. You’re making this quite easy then.” He said through clenched teeth.

He gripped his reins and cricked his neck to keep from killing both of them and barked out Alina’s message, “Alina is being held captive by Zlatan. She said he knows she is the Sun Summoner and asked me to warn you.”

Aleksander turned his gaze on his mother, growling the words at her, “Your Sun Summoner held captive by the man you traded her to in the first place.”

He glared at her. His thoughts screaming at her. Was this a better life for her, mother? Do you believe I would have done worse to her—worse to the world than terror Zlatan intends to unleash now?

He wanted to ask it. To make her hurt. To make her regret. There wasn’t time.

The reins were tight in his hands and he could not help the added insult he bit off as he left. “Do what you will with that news, you glorified Grisha slavers.”

Picking up his reins, he kicked his horse back into motion and continued through the streets.

“Darkling! Stop!” They called after him. Aleksander did not heed them. Alina called to him in the night and he would not give them another second of wasted time.

“Follow him then, you fools! He knows where she is!” Baghra’s voice echoed up the street. The sound of hooves followed and he knew they would not be far behind.

Aleksander tracked Alina all the way to a mansion on the wealthy end of the capital.

Ivan and Fedyor flanked him on either side as they dismounted. His gaze flicked to the people they now had in tow.

The dark haired woman he recognized as the Heartrender who tried to knock him out again. Next to her was large man and behind them stood four others, unknown to him and irksome merely in their culpability of Alina’s engagement and enslavement.

“I assume you are here because you are loyal to Alina.” He said with a clipped edge.

The woman’s eyes narrowed at him but she nodded.

“Very well. Seeing as I don’t know how many people we can expect inside, it would be foolish not to work together.”

They looked uneasy and the Darkling growled at them, his barely controlled rage spewing from his hands as his shadows blanketed around their ankles, “In case you are missing something, Alina is to be executed in the morning by Zlatan. I’m certain she is inside that home at this very moment and I will not waste time fighting the Grisha who put her there.”

He twitched his fingers and his shadows tightened around their calves. The Darkling watched with a sick grin on his face as they lurched in place.

“We are not following you, Darkling. We will get her out ourselves.” The woman said, pulling her leg free.

“I don’t think you will.” His voice was quiet and dangerous now. Ivan and Fedyor stood to behind him, preparing for a fight. “It was you who gave her to Zlatan in the first place. You’re the reason she is in there now.”

A few of the members shifted guiltily and the Darkling barked at them again, “How long since she lost contact with you?”

A few of them jumped but the Heartrender simply glared at him.

“A little over a week.” The man beside her said.

Aleksander growled at them, condemning them once more. “Reckless. Sloppy pieces of shit.”

“We will fight alongside you, Darkling. Tonight we will.” The man said. The woman glared at the ground but nodded.

Aleksander scrutinized them, loosening his shadows and forcing himself to turn away from them. “Alina is being held underground. Kill anyone who gets in your way but hear this—Zlatan is mine.”

Zlatan was not home.

Or, at least, those were the last words the guard could squeeze out of his throat before the Darkling snapped his neck.

It felt different to kill with his hands. Different wrap his fingers around a throat and twist. Different to physically touch the skin of someone as their life force abandoned their body. Still, it was the only thing that satisfied on this night.

The place had been crawling with First Army soldiers. West Ravkan soldiers, as they preferred to be called. He and his Heartrenders and his borrowed Grisha army had swarmed the home like a plague and he winded his way toward the back of the house, looking for access to the basement.

Underground. He knew she was underground.

“General!” Ivan called from the next room over. Aleksander entered the small parlor where Ivan was unceremoniously shifting a corpse across the floor and lifting the rug from the edge of the room.

A hatch.

The Darkling lifted it and grasped a lantern from the wall.

“Find Fedyor.” He said to Ivan as he began to descend the stairs into the floor, “I will get Alina and we will set out for the Fold again.”

Ivan hesitated by the door.

“Fedyor, Ivan. Find him first. Then we will go together.” Ivan nodded and left.

When he found her, she was asleep.

Beautiful, even with dark circles under her eyes and a pallor to her skin. Both of which had little to do with captivity or starvation and everything to do with the fact that she was an extremely powerful Grisha forced to suppress her power.

Aleksander gingerly lifted the slaver bar, extending her arms out in front of her and laying the bar on the ground.

He conjured the Cut and sliced through one end, as close as he dared cut near her wrist. He took a breath and severed the other side.

Aleksander tucked his arms beneath hers and pulled her into his lap, her head lolling back against his shoulder as his hands met around her stomach.

“Alina.” He said in her ear. A kiss to her cheek. Another to her hair.

“Wake up, solnyshka. You are freed.” Alina stirred in his arms and, with little ceremony, he brought her hands together, forcing her to conjure the tiniest amount of Light. Hoping to feed her a little before they had to move again.

The chamber around them was forced into relief, putting the little gas lantern to shame.

Her eyes fluttered and Alina sighed, sinking into him. Her back pressed into his chest. “You’re here.”

Her forehead fell against his jaw and he could not help the way he held her face there, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude to the Saints for this moment. For her voice and her Light and her life. That she was not gone from him.

When his prayer was done he whispered more words to her. “I’m sorry, Alina. I am so sorry, my love, my Star.”

Her hand caressed his jaw and he nuzzled her in return. Her silence now assuredly attributed to her fatigue as opposed to malice for him. “Come along, we will help get you out.”

And then, to his added relief, “General!” Ivan and Fedyor emerged. Fedyor, clutching his side but otherwise smiling at the sight of Alina and her Light and the way she was sitting up in the arms of the General.

“If the Sun Summoner is able, we must move. They are calling in others now. We cannot face many more soldiers tonight.” Ivan advised.

Aleksander nodded, pushing from his legs into standing and bringing Alina with him.

Her thin, white shift snagged against the buckles of his kefta and with a sharp pang he remembered how she had clasped them together herself in the dacha.

How she had dressed him in his black kefta and his traveling cloak and her hands had smoothed the core cloth and then she had begged him to run away with her.

“Ivan. Come hold her up for a moment.”

Aleksander removed his kefta and threaded her arms through the sleeves. His fingers worked quickly on the clasps and when she was covered in the warm black shield, the only protection he could give to her right now, he lifted her into his arms.

The other Grisha, her ‘friends’ were waiting by the exit. At the sight of her, it looked as if they would reach for her. Expect him to turn her over to them.

The Darkling practically hissed at them, holding her away from them, but it was Ivan who was done with it all.

“Out. Everyone. More are coming. Get to the horses and disperse. They cannot chase us all.”

Everyone dispersed, the woman with a lingering glance at Alina. The three men hurried to their horses and the other Grisha to theirs, quick and silent in their movements.

They had just mounted, the General adjusting his posture in the saddle as Ivan lifted Alina into his arms, when the unmistakeable sound of a dozen horses echoed through the streets.

The General looked at Fedyor, hunched on his horse and waiting for Ivan to join him—he would need assistance on horseback with his injury. Ivan and the General locked eyes.

“Go. Get a head start. We can handle them.” Ivan said.

Aleksander almost protested and then Ivan had slapped his horse on the haunches with a firm hit and Alina jolted in his arms as his horse took off down the city streets.

The pursuit was something of a blur.

The West Ravkan soldiers followed them through the streets, tracking them until they reached the edges of town. Aleksander and Alina were saved more than once by the help of a Tidemaker or Squaller who was hidden in plain sight and ready to impede the pursuing enemy.

He was glad for it as he felt helpless to do much else at the moment. Alina seemed so precarious in his arms and he wondered if they had not done more to her in captivity than prevent her from using her Light.

Wondered if they had performed experiments on her. Bled her and drained her. She should not be so frail from a week of captivity. Not his Sun.

Still, they were nearing the Fold now and Aleksander would need his hands to gather Light if they were going to cross.

“Alina, please. If you can, sit up and lean against me. I need your help to get through the Fold.” Alina stirred, her eyes flickering again.

“‘M sorry.” Feebly, she brushed her hands against each other and sighed as she illuminated everything around them. Like the burst of a dawning Light she lit up their location and Aleksander panicked.

“No! Alina! Stop!”

She did not know. Could not know what she had done. Horses gathering in force sounded behind them, locked on their location now and Aleksander pushed his own horse hard toward the safety of his creation.

The blight he left on the earth. The thing which he meant to protect him and all Grisha would now have to protect him and his Sun.

History would not repeat itself. He would not let her die tonight.

“The Sun Summoner!” He heard the shouting echo across the field even as they neared the black curtain. True dawn was breaking on the horizon. The reddish glow mixing with her bright white.

Aleksander tucked Alina further into his chest, holding her with the frame of his arms and she was finally waking up.

“Sasha. Where are we going?” Her eyes opened, the black Shadow Fold billowing across their vision.

“Oh good. I do like it in there.” She said, absently, “It’s like being covered in you. So familiar. Always so familiar. Even before I ever met you, going into it was like being home.”

Alina sounded delirious now and Aleksander wanted to cry. He swallowed it down and answered her.

“Yes. We are going into the Fold now. I might need your help to Light it—I don’t have my hands free.”

Alina nodded, squeezing his thigh in response and Aleksander heard another set of hooves drawing closer.

“Now Alina!”

Alina conjured her Light and the dome put his to shame. It was broad and beautiful and white, splitting the curtain of the Fold as they entered.

The Light was too big. Too bright. Others had joined them under the dome.

Aleksander urged the horse faster but he knew it was long tired from their long evening.

“Alina, please, pull your Light in just a little.” He urged.

It was useless. Alina’s hands were no longer touching and her Light shone from her anyway. Persistent. Bright.

Her consciousness was wavering and the Light brightened and he could not tell if he was adding to it or not.

“Sun Summoner! Halt!”

Gunfire. His horse faltered. Aleksander looked around frantically but realized it was only a graze to the flank. His horse was good, strong, used to battle and gunfire. It carried on.

Darkling! I know you’re in there! The voices from the past echoed in his head and he knew they were not there and history would not be repeated on this night.

Aleksander could not bring his hands together though. He was terrified Alina would fall and their horse would slow down and all would be lost again.

They neared the center of the Fold. He could feel the pull of the creation point. It called to him. More than it ever had before. A persistent tug on his tether. The same tug he felt when Alina called to him.

Perhaps something in the Making at the Heart of the World was rooted into the Fold as well. Perhaps creation simply echoed from this very spot.

The beginning of time, the creation of the earth, the creation of the Fold.

Perhaps it all centered here in this magnetic pull and out of it’s gravity, Alina and Aleksander were born. Shadow and Light. Magnetic poles arrived to stabilize an otherwise wavering world. Arrived to hold everything and everyone in balance.

More gunfire. “You are still my betrothed, Sun Summoner!” Zlatan was with them, taunting them.

Here’s the little witch who’s been stitching him back together. Aleksander shook his head, willing the words away.

Adrenaline was spiking and Aleksander looked helplessly up at the white Light overhead and brought his hands together to conjure the shadows. He tried to direct them and felt Alina slip a few inches in his grasp, her feet lolling dangerously around the front legs of their horse. A few more inches and she would impede his gait. Would pull them all down.

“Fuck.” He cursed, anxiety mixing into his fear as he clutched Alina by the stomach and pulled her back up.

“The Black General! Did you see the shadows. That’s the General of the Second Army!”

“Are you intending to kidnap my fiancée, General?!” Zlatan shouted behind them.

Stand down, Grisha! The white stone building illuminated beneath the dome as it had not been illuminated in centuries. So bright he could not look at it directly.

Darkling! I know you’re in there!

More gunfire and this time a bullet found his back. He lurched and clutched Alina to him, willing her to hold on in case he lost his grip. Willing her to be hidden completely from their range. Shield her with himself.

The horse was slowing. The graze from before was bleeding profusely now. More than a graze evidently. Blood was spilling heavy down the buckles of the saddle.

“Sasha?” Alina questioned. His hands brushed over the black kefta he had covered her in, bulletproof and safe.

History would not repeat itself.

Another shot. Their horse was trotting and the enemy was upon them, just yards away as the beast came to a stop. As it kneeled.

He and Alina rolled to the side, hidden behind the safety of their horse. The horse who was giving it’s life for them.

Aleksander was growing cold. Shock. Bullets in his back. Bullets in his side.

He looked at her. His Light. His love. Bullet now lodged in his stomach. That was the one that was killing him.

He peaked over the top of the horse. His eyes caught on the anxious West Ravkan General who kept one eye on the wavering Light overhead. One last act. Aleksander could do this for his love. One last act to show her no one would dare hurt her on his watch.

He lifted himself to kneel. His arms sweeping out from his sides and gathered the lingering Shadow—it was waiting—ready to do his bidding. One last dark deed. The thin blade was formed so quickly. Aleksander released it.

The surge of victory at watching the head and shoulders of Zlatan detach from his body filled his chest and warmed him even as he watched Zlatan’s soldiers stagger their horses away from the mess in horror. Those men did not matter.

She was safe. He had done what he should. History would not repeat itself on this night. Aleksander was so tired. He could not reform the Cut if he tried.

“Aleksander?”

Alina looked more awake. He was relieved. Finally, she was bouncing back. Too late for him but early enough for herself. To save herself. Everything would be okay for her. That was what he wanted.

A better world for her. She would lead it.

“Alina?” She looked at him and he realized he had seen this look before. Only, he didn’t remember until now.

“I am having the strangest sense of déjà vu.” He said.

Tears were slipping out of her eyes and he was watching her and he felt certain now that he had seen this all before. A snowy battlefield, flecked with blood.

“What are you doing?” She asked. She tried to pull his face up to hers. A Fjerdan wolf dead beside him and Alina yelling at him on the other.

“What are you doing? Stop. No. You said—not again. Please.” Aleksander watched her eyes close and her face was pinched in pain and it hurt to see her hurt. She had called him weak, weak for leaving her. For dying.

“Don’t cry, solnyshka. You will be safe and that is what matters. You will make the world safe for all of our people.” His hand touched her cheek.

Zlatan’s men had not come close and he could only assume it was for fear that she would rescind the Light or fear he would send another blade of shadow. His mouth tasted like bile and tinged with the metallic taste of blood.

“You have the advantage in here, Alina. The Fold is a place only you can conquer.” He smiled and it was almost whimsical in nature. “It was made from me, after all. You were made to conquer me, were you not, little Star?”

Alina hiccuped a laugh and grimaced at the pain in her weakened body.

“Don’t leave me, Sasha.” She said and he frowned at the sign of defeat in her shoulders. His own eyes filled with tears. He had done this with her before.

“I do not want to, Alinochka.” He whispered and his vision was blackening and only had a few moments to say what he wanted. “You have inspired me, Alina. Made my life good. You will inspire everyone. Do not doubt it.”

Her mouth kissed his and he saw blood on her lips when she pulled away. “Please, Sasha. I cannot go on without you.”

Their tether was sizzling and splitting in his chest, itching to burst forth.

Aleksander was dying. “I’ll find you in the after, Alina. I swear it.”

Her hands were shaking.

They trembled as she touched his face.

His features were slack, no quirked brow, no glare for her. No devious, cunning smirk.

No breathless, open smile, as if he just realized he was caught staring.

Instead she smoothed her quaking hands over his cheeks, pulling him fully into her lap.

The horse at her back took a shuddering breath. It too, was dying. Would be dead in another minute.

Zlatan’s men were there. They were still yelling. That much registered in a distant back room of her brain but then she closed the door.

Everything was muffled.

A tiny pinprick of light illuminated them now. It was small and Alina felt it dying out inside herself, growing dimmer with a smothering loss.

The men moved to stand closer than she would like, their exit from the Fold far too far away to survive on their own.

She did not look at them. They did not move toward her, their fear of the volcra kept their eyes turned up.

It was possible to pull him back. Aleksander. She could bring him back.

She had done it once. Reforged the broken tether and tied his life back to hers. They were Inevitable. One would not exist without the other—not while she was around to ensure it.

He was dying and she was suddenly reaching desperately for their tether. Their lifeline. She forced it to the surface, the fractured electric thing barely connected to their chests. A sliver of light held onto his body.

She wrapped his limp hand around the tether and covered it with her own.

Together they ventured into the abyss. Into the Making at the Heart of the World. That place that belonged to them alone.

Only—

Aleksander was just as lifeless here. His eyes were still closed and she could not feel his breathing.

Alina felt herself beginning to panic. Anxiety and panic and chemicals in her brain lighting her up with a dying surge of energy.

She poured into him all the Light she contained. Drove her beams into his chest over and over and over. Could not explain why she was doing it. It made no sense. She was no healer and maybe her Light would only drive his Shadow farther and farther away from her.

But, it could only be them. It could not be one without the other.

Where Light traveled, Shadow was compelled to follow and she will not allow him to abandon in his duty.

Not now.

Nothing was happening and as her Light surged, the abyss itself began to fade around them.

Quite suddenly, they were back into their pocket of the Fold and those insignificant West Ravkan soldiers were still surrounding them. Crowded close. Terrified that her light would blink out completely and the volcra would descend.

Alina clutched for their tether again. Nothing but the frayed end of rope was returned. Spitting and hissing electricity like a live wire.

Nothing to ground her anymore. Nothing to hold her to the earth. Nothing to balance her out.

Hemorrhaging Light filled up inside of her chest.

Aleksander was gone. She was alone.

In the beginning, Light had joined Darkness. In the end, Darkness had left the Light and all this debating she had done over whether or not to end the world and start over was so silly.

It had never been a choice. A path she could choose to take or not to take.

Alina was alone and the wrongness of it was impossible to overcome. This was not choice. This was Inevitable.

In the end, Light would shine bright enough to blind all of creation. Blind everyone and everything and nothing would be seen but Darkness. Beautiful, glorious Darkness.

In the end it was not a choice that she made.

In the ending, this was as Inevitable as they had been.

Alina stared at the soft, blank face of her love, lost to her in the here and now.

Saint Alina, Sun Summoner and Mother of the West looked up toward the sky.

She opened her mouth and let loose an unholy wail.

White hot Light burned out of her mouth in a beam that ripped through the Shadow around her and overhead. She could not stop the wave of energy anymore than she could stop her own anguished grief.

Aleksander was limp in her lap and it was finally happening. The Sun Summoner was combusting from the inside and the power of the Sun would ravage her body and rend it to shreds.

That did not matter anymore.

Nothing else mattered in this moment.

The heat surged around her and she did not even register the shrieks of Zlatan’s men or the volcra as they burned up in the light that touched them. Gone with very little fanfare in the end.

But then, the entire earth would be gone with little warning and no time to grieve. No time for regret even.

Light poured from her body and scorched the earth and expanded within the Fold farther and farther in a growing radius around her.

Her and her Shadow, alone at the center. The center of the Fold, the center of life itself.

Had he longed for Alina before he created the Fold? Had he known she could exist before he unleashed his Shadow and necessitated a Sun Summoner join him? She could not ask him in this life and so she did not want this life anymore.

At last, she was going to blink out of the world.

Shining out of it with the blinding, fiery fury of a collapsing star, imploding from the inside.

Alina was powerless to stop what had begun.

What force could possibly contain her anymore?

She was so young. She could not keep it in any longer. Never learned to control it properly. Perhaps she was never meant to.

The radius of her light had expanded to the edges of the Fold and where it was erased from the earth, more daylight rushed in and illuminated the scene.

The fire Light was hotter than any she had ever created. Maybe hotter than anything that had ever existed.

Hotter than the fire and combustion of creation itself. Hotter than the Light that burned at the Making at the Heart of the World. She should know, shouldn’t she?

It was past the point of return and the Light would surely swallow everything in its path.

It was beyond anything known. It was beyond the beginning. She would forge a new beginning, though she did not mean to do it.

It was happening now and no one could stop it.

And then—

Something was knitting itself inside her chest.

Born from the fiery core or maybe born from that solitary cool bit of Shadow that she knew lay just beneath her power. That bit of Shadow inside of her that stabilized it all.

Her chest was itching and then Shadow was swirling into her Light.

“Alina.”

His voice reached her and she prayed her thanks to the Saints that he was on the other side of all of this. He was waiting for her.

She had collapsed the world to get to him and it had worked.

Aleksander stirred in her arms, flesh untouched by the ancient power emanating from her being. They were not in the After. He was returned to her on earth. Untouched.

Untouched because Light would never be able to conquer Shadow. Not completely.

Her wailing stopped but she looked at him helpless as she continued to burn. Light beams emanated from her limbs and out of her chest and her gut and every inch of her skin.

Who could stop a star from dying?

Aleksander cupped her face. “It is going to be all right, solnyshka. I know what to do.”

His thumb stroked her cheek, soothing her.

Of course he knew what to do. He had done this very thing four centuries before. Only he had not had Alina to help him. To push back on him and his Shadow.

Aleksander closed his eyes. Shadow denser than she had ever seen—denser than the Fold itself, poured out of him.

Where her star fire was loud with the vibration of radiating energy, his dark matter was deadly silent. It slithered to the very edges of her Light’s reach and encapsulated it.

The world went dark around them. There were no volcra here. No screeches or voices. There was only they two. Shadow and Sun. Dark and Light.

A dying star, shining it’s brightest at it’s imminent collapse and the black hole born from the sheer power of the supernova.

The dark matter swirled and undulated and it was an unyielding master of the Light.

Alina watched it awe as it pulled on every ray that attempted to escape. The Dark curled around it, cooling it, taming it into submission.

Alina gasped for breath, the column of light pouring out of her was gentling at last and cooling off.

“Look at me, little one.”

Her eyes blinked with bleary tears.

“At me.” He said again, coaxing her face.

Her eyes met his steady gaze.

“Breathe with me. We will survive this.”

His voice was soft and unwavering and she burrowed into the assurance it offered.

Her Light gentled and dimmed and then faded entirely at the center of the black hole he created.

Her eyes stared into his. She gave him a small smile which he returned. Both of them captivated in the silent awe of what they created.

Alina laughed. A watery laugh as tears poured down her cheeks and he kissed them over and over.

She sighed, weariness overcoming her and Aleksander soothed her and she let her eyes close, submitting to her exhaustion.

Only then did he call the dark matter back into himself, allowing the natural light of the morning to beat down on them.

They huddled together, centered in the fresh, circular lesion at the heart of the Fold. The buildings of Novokribirsk discernible on one side of him and the army outpost in Kribirsk on the other.

He surveyed the damage, miles wide inside the fold. Wide enough for a small village.

The only casualties were easily explained away. Zlatan and his men no more than dust in the desert. Who would care for the disgraced general and his men? The monsters who would seek to kill the Sainted Sun Summoner?

No one need know how close she came to rending the world apart. No one would know this was an accident—that her powers got away from her.

He could spin this. This—an obviously intentional attempt to banish the Fold—the people would weep and bow at her feet as they were meant to do. The people would not come for her in their fear.

His hands cradled her sleeping form and he allowed himself a smile.

“You cannot escape me now, Sol Koroleva. You watch us. Together we will drag this world into a new age.”

He kissed her cheek, her answering breath somehow, miraculously cool against his skin. He pulled her head close and held her, whispering in her ear.

“When you wake, the world will have been made new.” He stroked a hand over the back of her head, her hair white and gleaming in the morning sun. “You delivered it another miracle." He laughed to himself, tears tracking into her hair from his cheeks, "My cursed, relentless little Saint. Just another miracle.”

Alina lay awake in the moonlight, white beams cast across their bed.

Between her thighs, the tacky seed was drying and growing itchy. On this last night at the dacha, they were lazy with keeping clean.

Exhausted and spent, the effort to clean up after every round cost too much and they opted to fall asleep in each other’s arms. Waking only occasionally to refuel with food.

She watched him doze, running her hand through his long loose hair and drawing lines across his features.

She could not leave him.

She could not go home.

At home was something she did not want to face. Did not want to do. At home were people who demanded too much of her and censured her own actions in the same stride.

Running had never seemed so appealing before now.

She could take him with her, keep him as she longed to do.

And the Tsar would die and Nikolai would be put on the throne and someone else would kill Zlatan and they would find someone else to lead the West and it could all be done without either of them.

They could go live in anonymity among the otkazat’sya. They could outlive this whole generation of people and then rise up in the next century if they wanted.

Two Immortals, two creators of the world.

What was to stop them from scrapping it all to start anew? Reducing this world into powder and regenerating something better in its place.

They held the Making at the Heart of the World between them.

Did that not give them the power to decide how the world spun next?

They could create a new world and walk it’s lands from the first day, together. They would ensure equality and freedom for all Grisha from the beginning and they would rule in tandem.

It would be a world made just for them.

With a pang she thought of Tamar. Tolya too. And Nina and Matthias.

Even of the ashes of Pabel.

The bodies of her father and mother that lay at the bottom of the True Sea.

Could she destroy a world which held all of them? Erase the people she loved, both alive and dead from existence?

Pabel would not like it. Pabel who had seen so much hurt and pain in the world that he struggled to remember how to hope.

Pabel who had claimed himself as her first true miracle. “The Sun Summoner made an old man believe things could be good again. That people with power could be good again. I thank the Saints for you, Alinochka.”

To take it all away would be to obliterate that hope entirely. Was that in her?

Her fingers brushed down the neck of her Shadow Summoner, his even breaths filled the space between them.

What would it mean to erase the Fold he created?

She wondered yet again what would have happened if she had been there to push back against his Shadow. What shape would his Shadows have taken in the presence of her Light?

It would not undo the pain he poured out onto the earth that day.

Perhaps it would be wrong to undo it. Wrong of her to clear away the evidence of his agony like wiping a tear drop from the face of the earth.

Pain is memory and Aleksander might not want to forget the few people who made a mark on his long life anymore than she wanted to part with hers.

Moreover, how could she erase the world when so many had made their marks upon it?

Just a few months and she and Aleksander would be together.

That was, if Aleksander choose to stand with her when all was said and done.

The thought of the Tsar and the Tsesarevich and their impending assassination and the secession of the West and the engagement to Zlatan and the murder of Zlatan and the transition of power to Nikolai and herself all swirled around her head, unsettling her anxieties.

Would he instead hate her for eternity? She had told him once that she could endure it. She prayed that was true.

Thinking of it any longer was causing the pressure to build in her chest and his brow was furrowed in his sleep and that was probably because her emotions were bleeding into him.

She placed soft kisses to his face until it relaxed. It relaxed her too.

But then.

His cock was hardening, pressing against her thigh and she welcomed the oblivion of sex. She kissed his pliant sleep-softened lips as he murmured unintelligible words to her and his eyes blinked open.

When he was semi-aware, Alina rolled him to his back, stroking his cock with her tongue before she settled herself over him. Soft groan issued from their throats and his hands spread over her thighs, running down them with splayed fingers in appreciative strokes.

She pressed her hands to his chest and circled her hips, warming him up and feeling the pay off as he grew inside her.

When Aleksander had fully woken, his hands captured her hips in a vice and he held her still while he thrust deep a few times.

Lightning was shooting through her belly and into her core and her head was thrown back in the pleasure of it.

Everything felt suspended. Worries, anxieties, fears. They pushed out from her being and she lived in the place where she and Aleksander dwelled as one.

The need to be close was overwhelming them both and when she pulled up on his shoulders he was already sitting up. His mouth met her breasts and his hand lay against her stomach.

His palm pushed in to feel the tip of his length as it moved in her and her mouth began to water at the feeling.

His other hand went to her lips and she laved his fingers with her tongue. His wet hand pressed firm strokes to the slippery lips of her cunt, ensuring she felt every sensation of him.

“Nothing is better than this feeling, Alina.” He confessed to the valley of her breasts.

She nodded against his hair, clutching his head as they strived to get deeper, tighter, wetter.

As if through this act they could possibly fuse together for good.

“Nothing,” she agreed, “nothing will ever be better.”

Aleksander pulled her mouth to his, struggling to keep the rhythm while he tried to consume her whole.

____________________________

It was at dusk the next day that they gathered their things.

Aleksander stood before her, dressed in his black kefta, hair pulled back into his warrior’s knot. In his face he was still soft and gentle, completely open to her and her alone.

His General’s persona was just at the edge of their room and she knew once they passed the threshold, she would not see him like this again.

May not see him like this again for a lifetime or more after this day.

Alina was already crying. Dense, silent tears rolled down her cheeks as she finished the last clasp over his chest.

His calloused hands held her face and he brushed the tears away with his thumbs.

“I cannot do this, Sasha.” She whispered.

His eyes slid shut and his forehead rested to hers. He breathed a deep, shuddering breath.

“Let us go far away from everything. We can do that.” Alina began in a flurry, “We could begin a quiet life away from everyone. Just for a while. Just for now.”

He was confused and shaking his head but she barreled on, unrelenting, “In a century we can rise up together, partners and creators and we will rule all of Ravka as we were made to do. No one will deny the sanctity of a Shadow Summoner and a Sun Summoner blessing the earth in the same moment. Everything can be ours then.”

Her knuckles were white where she clutched at his wrists and he began shushing her, thumbs still methodically brushing over her cheeks, soothing her.

If she could only make him understand that this would be the best thing.

“Where is this coming from, Alinochka?” She closed her eyes and shrugged helplessly.

His voice was strained as he spoke, “I cannot leave my people. You know that I cannot. My Grisha, all those at the Little Palace, in the Second Army. Grisha cowering from discovery for fear of death, enslavement, experimentation—you know we cannot hide, solnyshka.”

Her people waited for her as well. Waited for her to deliver them from the fate of Zlatan. From the impending alliance with Fjerda which would open hunting season on all the Grisha in the West. How could she even consider abandoning them?

Her legs were crumbling beneath her and Aleksander caught her and clutched her to his chest.

Alina was so full of everything.

Full of power and full of energy and full of passion and of love and of rage and contempt.

Why did it all make her feel so small in this moment?

Her body was some insignificant casing and in her was contained the full fury of the sun and who exactly thought this would fit together well?

She was altogether too young to feel the weight of this so acutely. It seemed that everything would go flying out from her body as soon as she rested.

Had Aleksander once felt this way? Perhaps it would take a few centuries for her to adjust.

Only she did not have that kind of time. Discernment and commitment and loyalty were already tangled inside.

His hand stroked her hair and he murmured into her ear. “Come with me now. Please, Alina. We can be together and lead as we were meant to do. It can all start right now, you just have to trust me.”

The agony of his request flared inside her and she wanted desperately to be able to follow him home.

But again she thought of Tamar—all of her friends and allies and knew that she was the lynch pin in their plan to free the West.

She knew without a doubt that she would regret not following him home anyway.

She thought of the words of his mother, Zlatan fears Aleksander. Zlatan will kill Aleksander, one way or another.

The gasping breaths of Aleksander.

A Fjerdan wolf. A zealous Secessionist.

The tether fraying in her chest.

The feeling of being unmoored. Set adrift.

Alina, floating through space and time, ungrounded, untethered.

Alone.

She had to push forward. Keep to the plan. Trust that her opportunity—their opportunity—would arise again.

They had eternity to figure it out. It was she who had determined they were Inevitable.

She who held this truth in her chest as a perpetual water wheel of hope. Rising within her and renewing her resolve to see through the circumstances before her.

One day they would truly belong to each other. The fires of doubt flared again and again but the truth of their inevitability rose and doused the flames time and time again.

She owed it to give her people their day now—those who did not have eternity.

Her breathing slowed as she composed herself. When her eyes met his, she did not need to voice her rejection of his request.

His mouth scrunched with the bitterness all the same.

“It is close.” She began, cutting off any possible disdain he could offer up.

“I am close to the end of my work in the West. I will come to you when it ends. I will follow wherever you ask when I do. I will devote myself to your will and your life and your pleasure until the world burns up beneath us. And if there is an after I will find you there and my vow will remain the same.”

Aleksander did not have words for the unease he felt between them. The anxiety and the guilt and the shame she was emitting sounded off inside of him like a warning bell.

He simply nodded, bending to gather her mouth in a kiss. One that filled them both with urgency and comfort.

“I will not be able to be in touch for at least three weeks, Sasha. Everything is all right, I just need you to know.”

“Not even—“

“No. I am almost to the end of something. If I have you to fall back on right now, I may not see it through. I have to see this through. For myself.”

He did not like the answer, she could tell. Still, he nodded in acceptance.

When he lifted her traveling cloak from the bed and secured it over her shoulders, he took care to caress her neck with the backs of his fingers as he closed the clasp.

“You promise it will be soon?” He asked.

“I do.”

_________________________

Alina emerged from the Fold well past midnight.

Her goodbye with Aleksander lasted far longer than either of them intended.

Ultimately, she ended up on her hands and knees, head arched back to view the undulating curtain of Shadows as he tugged her hair in one hand and steadied her hips with the other.

His hand wrapped into her locks and he thrust into her from behind with a punishing pace—unwilling to let her forget who had used her body in this way. Who it was who owned her body. Her soul.

Their dual cries were swallowed by the void before them and something about the swirling darkness made her feel even dirtier as she cried out her ecstasy into the void.

His head fell between her shoulder blades, arm supporting her torso as he rubbed her clit with his dripping spend, determined to leave her with another orgasm.

She came again with a whimper and he let her ride it out on his fingers and then pressed his cum back into her with soothing shushes.

She growled and then moaned. She wanted to kick him away but his fingers were still moving, feeding her aching center with his cum and she hated how much it roiled her belly with pleasure.

It was impossible to know if she could ever get enough of him.

When he buckled her trousers for her, cupping her clothed cunt all saturated with his seed, he whispered in her ear, “Wouldn’t want you forgetting me on the journey home, pet.”

And then with a kiss to her mouth, he sent her off into the shadowland.

The literal dark scar of his pain, etched into the earth by his hand.

As if she could forget him in here—her Shadow Summoner had the real flare for theatrics.

She did not want to think of anything but Aleksander anyway—did not want to redirect her focus to the other General. The man whom she would announce her engagement to in a fortnight.

Alina moved through the comfort of the Fold. Feeling as if she were still safe in the arms of her love.

Feeling that, for a couple more hours at least, nothing could touch her here.

She thought again of his request that she follow him home now. Tonight.

Just as she predicted, she already regretted her decision to say no.

__________________________

Three Weeks Later __________________________

Aleksander did not hear the sound of the cheering crowd. His breathing halted altogether.

Over the heads of thousands of people, Alina’s eyes locked with his. Her fear swirled into the swell of his anguish.

His chest tore open and the alley around him filled with a tidal wave of darkness.

Shadows poured out of his body in a geyser of black matter.

Alina was still standing on stage, with her eyes fixed on him while the other General stood beside her, waving to the crowd.

He made quick work, forming his shadow into something he could control, something large and dense which he could sweep across the crowd and use to pick up the little body of the otkazat’sya General and pull it apart into a dozen—

Aleksander froze in place.

His chest convulsed.

The shadow around him was dissolving. Blowing away like the sand at the top of a dune and he did not even have a moment to be properly confused before he fell to his knees.

He saw only blackness.

__________________________

He woke on a thinly cushioned bench, head pulsing with the furious pumping of blood and he put a hand to his forehead.

The metal rod strung between his wrists stymied the movement, clunking across the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck!” He blinked and looked down. Grisha slaver’s shackles. Aleksander shook his wrists in their steel bindings and cursed again.

Metal bars stretched from floor to ceiling across the back half of the stone room he was in. Nothing else was particularly notable with the exception of a small window inset near the ceiling of his cell.

The passing horse hooves and feet he could see through the square told him he was below ground. The brightness of the light told him he had been out a few hours.

Locked in a cell.

Shackled at the wrists.

Alina.

Alina engaged to General Zlatan.

Alina would be married to a Secessionist leader.

He had to get out.

“HEY!” He shouted, calling out beyond himself over and over again.

At the other end of the basement was a door. Aleksander fixed his eyes on that as he got to his feet, yelling as if it were powerful enough to bring the thing down off it’s hinges.

He began to hit the shackles against his cage so the vibrating metal jarred him and the clanging echoed off the stone.

The door to the chamber burst open.

Had there been any room left in his body for a spare bit of shock, he might have felt it as he watched his mother descend the stairs.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting desperately for her to be gone when he opened them again.

She was not. Baghra looked at him, sizing him up.

“It is good that I was close by before your little episode could play out, boy.” She said. “It would have been just like you to ruin a perfectly good plan by creating another shadow Fold and turning the public tide even stronger against Grisha.”

The shadows dissipating. How quickly his creation dispersed…

Of course his mother was involved. But then how did he pass out—

“One of our Heartrenders made quick work of you while I cleaned up your mess.”

Aleksander watched her, mind sluggish with disbelief. Pain. Betrayal too.

“I do regret that,” she said, pointing at the slaver bar keeping his hands from touching, “for what it’s worth.”

There was a muffled commotion sounding through the barrier of the door. Baghra glanced behind her and then returned her attention to her son.

“Humph. I supposed I will not have long uninterrupted—”

“Is this where you have been, Baghra?” Aleksander asked. He looked around again, gaining his bearings as he processed the events of the last twelve hours.

“Yes and no. West Ravka is new to me in the last few years. Before this we were mostly overseas.”

His eyebrows raised, surprised at how easily she was answering his questions. Struggling to take advantage of it even as he could barely comprehend the circumstances. The series of events which brought him here.

“You said…a plan—what are you doing?” He asked. “Who are you doing it with?”

Very few times in his life did Aleksander feel like he was out of step.

With Alina, that was essentially the rule. However, now he knew his mother was somehow folded into his captivity, he was growing weary with all the plot points that were not his own.

“Hush boy. There is barely any time to go over all of that with you. I’m here to talk to you about what you really want to know.”

Shadows fell from beneath his clothes at the reprimand. His shackles prevented him from controlling them properly but they congregated around his ankles all the same.

“And what is it you think I want—” He began through gritted teeth.

Baghra rolled her eyes, cutting him off, “Your Sun Summoner, stupid boy.”

The commotion behind the door was growing louder.

Aleksander sneered at her and looked away. The idea that his mother was privy to his desires was a gross realization.

He could not deny it. He hungered to know everything she knew about Alina.

His body craved to swallow up everything everyone in the world knew about Alina. On this side of the Fold, it was clear, just how much of her life was obscured from him.

“As I said, you almost ruined our plan today. The truth of the Sun Summoner is not yet known to the public—at least, not as Grisha. Alina or rather the otkazat'sya 'Anya', is a well loved public figure in the West. This engagement to Zlatan is what we would call an undercover assignment.”

Aleksander grew uneasy as more questions pestered his slow-moving brain. The blood still pumped furiously and the noise outside the door continued and he had not seen his mother is over ten years.

As if all of that weren’t dividing him, his insides were still being eaten alive at the image of Alina’s hand in Zlatan. At the image of a wedding day between them.

Aleksander cricked his neck, determined to focus. “Why are you telling me this?” He growled.

A bang sounded from the other side of the door and a white flash of light illuminated through the cracks.

Baghra had a look on her face that he could not place. She was hesitating—something she never did.

Then her wrinkle-lined eyes met his. Guilt.

He read it on her face, plain as day. Though, it had never appeared to him before. At least not in memory. It was a marvel to witness—rare as the Sun Summoner herself.

“What did you do?” He asked.

The guilt dissolved into a scowl.

“What I always do—exactly what has to be done. We needed a way into the Secessionist party so we could bring it down. Alina was able to provide one for us. She was simply doing her duty—”

The din from the hall was growing louder. Another flash and then a scream.

The door burst open for a second time.

Alina stood, silhouetted on the threshold, chest heaving.

“Get out.” She hissed at Baghra.

The malice in her tone was shocking to him.

Had he not been so murderously heartsick over her in the moment, he might have been aroused to feel something more.

The surge of heat he felt was quickly squashed under the image of Zlatan holding her hand and simpering to the crowd.

Baghra lifted one imperious brow and left out the door.

Alina bolted it behind her.

She practically ran to him. Desperation written on her face as her hands wrapped around his through the bars.

Aleksander stiffened, carefully wiping his face of emotion as he backed away.

“Are you okay? Have they hurt you?”

Her desperate and pleading looks were too much to bear. On her hand, the gleam of the engagement ring caught his eyes. He sneered at the sight of it. Shining, even in the dim light.

In himself he found a cruel smile to give to her.

“Alina. Welcome.” He gestured around himself. “As you can see, my new place is sparse but over time I’m sure I will come to call it home.”

“Aleksander…”

In spite of the fact that he did not want to succumb to his bitterness—at least not immediately—he found that the persistent gleam of her ring would not stop twinkling in his eye and he could not stop himself. “Forgive me, dear. Congratulations are in order, aren’t they?”

Aleksander gestured toward the ring, his hands still heavy with the steel rod. Her eyes lingered on the shackles and then met his eyes again.

She looked afraid.

Good.

He continued, “I should thank you, I suppose. For choosing me to work out all your pre-wedding kinks. As you now know, I am quite skilled between the sheets. My one downfall is that I’m a terrible bragger. I am thinking of writing Zlatan a detailed letter of every way I have used his future wife’s body.”

Horror was painted over her face and Alina shook her head at him. “ You cannot think that I—that is not what happened with us.” She was breathless. Catching up to his words and his emotions.

Both of them once again playing the game of trying to guess the other’s thoughts. Both of them trying again to head the other’s thoughts off at the source.

Alina swallowed, glaring at him with resolve. “Aleksander, no. You mean more than him…that week meant more than—”

“Come now, Alina. You don’t have to be shy with me. I have seen you from every angle now,” The abrupt shift in his tone alerted her that he spoke of more than sex. “Who better to describe every facet of your being than I?”

“Listen to me, Sasha, please—”

Aleksander hit the slaver shackle against the bars of his cage. Alina jolted and stumbled backward as the sound again echoed off the stone walls.

That she would call him that name. That she dare use that name to coax him into submission—it was despicable.

He tore his eyes away from her, willing his emotions to abandon him in the process.

She wanted to be candid, very well. He could provide candor. “You have betrayed me. Utterly and completely.”

Her breath hitched. He did not look at her to see the tears he knew were already in her eyes.

Aleksander continued, voice even and empty, “If I could rip the light out of you and give it to someone else, I would do it. I would do anything to cut my tie from you.”

Anything that will numb it all again.

In his periphery, he watched her legs give out. Silently crumpling beneath her weight until she was kneeling quietly on the floor, her hands still clamped to the bars for support.

“I asked you not to come.” She said, softly. “I said you had enemies on this side of the Fold."

“You failed to inform me that you were one of them.” His tone was still flat and lifeless.

“I am not your enemy, Sasha—“

He stiffened, his jaw clenched. “Do not use that name with me.”

The quiet fury seeped from his otherwise controlled voice. “That you would name me with affection when you have sworn yourself to another man is the gravest of insults.”

Alina reached her arm through the bars, willing to touch him—to have him look at her.

“I am not sworn to him, Sasha."

“You are not permitted to use that name!” He shouted at her, composure breaking as his yell also echoed around the chamber. She flinched.

He paced the wall, breathing heavy from his thoughts. How did this happen? How could he not have known?

How could she not have told him?

Alina took a breath.

“Zlatan does not know me. He does not have my true name nor does he have anything true about me. He is angling for a political marriage with Anya.”

Aleksander huffed.

In truth, even he had heard of this woman. This sainted being from across the Fold capturing the heart of commoners. It was a smart move on the part of Zlatan, this ploy to tie the love of the people into his rule.

Except—now Zlatan would have to be ripped apart by shadow as soon as Aleksander could get his hands freed.

Zlatan, his hand holding Alina’s. Zlatan, marrying the Sun Summoner before the entire country.

“And has Anya spread her legs for the esteemed General Zlatan?” He asked, hoping it hurt her to hear the words as much as it hurt to ask them.

“Has she done her duty for the new leader of West Ravka? This Anya might be a saint but I’m sure the way she uses her mouth and her cunt is completely divine.”

She clenched her teeth, growling at him. Sunlight rose to the surface of her skin and he stared down at her with blank eyes.

"I have never allowed him to so much as kiss my lips.”

He scoffed, “Saving it all for the wedding day, are we? Well I suppose Anya is as big a tease as you are, Alina. The part must be terribly easy for you to play.”

Tears were falling down her cheeks and she gripped the bars as she got to her feet.

“I cannot discuss this with you right now.” She choked on the words, starting to back away.

He launched himself at the door, chest pressed to her fist, trapping her hand around the bar where she stood, already half turned toward the door.

Aleksander’s eyes were feral as they finally met hers.

“You let me believe you were mine.” Her face crumpled further, tears streaming as she spoke.

“I am yours.”

“You are a liar.” His teeth were clenched and to his own growing horror, his vision blurred with unshed tears and his voice cracked. “I have been betrayed by hundreds of people over my lifetime. None have been as cold or as treacherous as this. I will never forgive you for this, Alina.”

Alina stared into his eyes for several long moments. With her sleeve, she wiped her eyes and her nose. Sighing, she pulled away from him.

“You must be hungry. I will be back.”

It was obvious she was about to return only because the yelling commenced outside the door.

Still, the door opened and she stood at the top of the stairs, quite alone. Her demeanor was rankled but she closed the door firmly behind her, balancing a tray on one hand.

Aleksander watched her from his seat as she unlocked the cell and entered. The cage was opened but his hands were still bound and he was dangerously close to her now.

It hurt to be so close.

The tether inside of him pulsed, itching to light up and stretch between their chests as it had done a dozen times the last month. Aleksander closed his eyes and breathed, willing the thing to coil itself back up so he could press it down again.

Alina straddled the bench next to him and picked up the piece of bread, dipping it into the stew on the tray and holding it out to his lips.

Though the cell was open, his hands, evidently, would not be unbound for him to eat.

Aleksander turned his face away from the proffered food and stared out the small window at the fading daylight.

“Would you rather me send someone else here to feed you?” She asked, quiet and small again.

He hated her for it.

“I would rather you killed me than continue to force me through this humiliation.”

Alina sighed and took a bite of the food herself.

Just a few weeks ago, she had fed him. She sat on his lap and spooned jam on a roll and he licked the excess sweetness from her fingertips. Then when breakfast was done, they pushed the food aside and she fed him with her body, legs spread open on the table so he could feast on her cunt with the voracity of a starving wolf. His tongue had explored her, devouring and stroking until she had finished twice. After he had pulled her lips to his, feeding her body right back to her.

The memory sent a lurch through him.

Her eyes met his and she cleared her throat. The regret and shame in his gut told him they both felt the desire of that moment.

Just as he sometimes shared the feelings of her euphoric orgasms, she would feel his desire for her in return.

“Zlatan has never touched me.” She said, their shared feeling a natural lead in. “He will not ever touch me intimately. I swore the truth to you that day when I said I would only be yours.” She put the food behind her on the bench and shifted toward him.

“Zlatan needs me to further his agenda only. He does not require me to even pretend affection. We, my friends and I, are using him to bring me into a place of leverage and power. Once I am established, we will kill him. We know under his lead, we will never get freedoms or protection for Grisha. Under my rule, it will be law.

“Please believe me. There will be no wedding. No newly wedded kiss. No wedding night.”

Alina lay a soft hand on his arm, “I will slit the throat of Zlatan myself. I will do it in front of you if it is what you wish. I would have you watch as I take his life.”

His eyebrows twitched as indiscernible emotions waved across his features. His breaths were quick but deep. He could not deny the image she provided him was a pleasant one and she had all but cooed the promise into his ear.

“I understand you do not trust me, Aleksander. For that, I am sorry. If I could go back and tell you everything, I would.” She chewed on her lip, “Actually, if I could go back, I would have gone home with you when you asked me a few weeks ago. I would do anything to make this different.”

The churning in his stomach had been placated somewhat. The pain at the thought of Alina letting him into her body only to give it someone else had dulled a little.

A plot for power he could understand. Taking advantages when offered freely was a rule he generally followed without exception. This was war and Grisha would never be in a place to be given the freedom of a safe life. The freedom had to be wrenched from the hands of those who withheld it.

Alina took a chance, dipping the bread back in the stew and raised it to his lips again.

His eyes told her he still did not trust her but he did open his mouth for a bite.

He chewed in silence, unsure what to say next.

He wanted to know everything now.

He wanted to destroy her.

He wanted to fuck her until she cried.

He took the next bite offered and chewed.

“And the Tsar?” Aleksander said eventually, “You had him assassinated, did you not?”

She blinked, apparently forgetting her hand in the demise of the ruler of Ravka. Then again, it was not yet public knowledge on this side of the Fold. He had only received the intel hours ago.

“Yes and no. You told me the crown would align with Shu Han. Our Council has had someone in place for a very long time to take out the Tsar and the crown prince at our signal.”

Aleksander closed his eyes and grunted. The information he had shared had been useful to her after all.

He had been arrogant. Idiotic. Believing she would not be able to enter his territory without him knowing.

“How?”

Alina watched him with trepidation. Still, he did not look at her.

“A Squaller. He is young. We sent him to the Little Palace some time ago and he has been there waiting for the right moment.”

“A young Squaller…Kalem from Novyi Zem.” Aleksander said, nodding his head in understanding and internally screaming.

He had been highly impressed with the boy. Overlooked the fact that he was quite impressive for being so new to the Little Palace.

Sighing, he got to his feet, no longer able to stand being near her once again, “You have to let me go, Alina.”

She frowned.

“My army is marching back to Os Alta as we speak. Once the court finds out it was a Grisha who took out the tsar and the crowned prince, there will be no one to protect them. Not the army, not the teachers.”

He looked back at her, scrutinizing her. “Alina, there are children in the Little Palace. Did you not consider this?”

“Of course we did.” She seethed. “Kalem has ensured everything points back to the visiting Shu delegates. No one will be surprised that they have betrayed their own peace talks.”

“But you cannot be sure,” He said, pacing the cell. “You cannot be sure and I cannot stay here when there are people who count on me. Why did you not consult me?”

He glared at her, “Do you doubt me so much that you would go behind my back and put me in this position?”

“No, I do not doubt you!” Her tears and her tone made her surge of desperation all the more evident.

“Then why, Alina!?”

She flinched and then looked at the door.

“It was out of my hands.”

“Do not dare lie to me. You did not need to tell them what I confided to you about the arrangement with the Tsar and Shu Han but you did.”

“I did no such thing!” She got to her feet and was finally angry. "Kalem has been monitoring the situation for months. He knew it was time and he waited for approval from the Council first.”

Alina clutched his arms, forcing him to face her. “It was planned before we went away together. That is why I invited you when I did. I did not want anyone in the Palace to suspect your involvement.”

Frigid air cascaded into his chest, choking his lungs. A bitter laugh tore out of the cold.

He ripped his arms out of her grip and slammed the steel rod against the bars once.

The metal clang rang through the room once more forcing Alina to cover her ears.

He hit the bars again.

Then again.

Aleksander was yelling soon. Loud, raging bellows, deep and guttural, joined the clanging as he hit his hands against the bars over and over and over.

He could not stop the fury pouring out from him along with his shadows. They wafted around him without agency, their master unable to lift his hands to control them properly.

Aleksander shouted himself hoarse and blood seeped from the wounds beneath the shackles and the pool of shadows crept over the floor, filling the room.

Only then did he stop, chest heaving and forehead resting against the cell bars.

Alina approached him with caution. She touched a hand to his back and he stiffened. She flinched back.

“Let me out of here, Alina.” His voice croaked, raw from his rage. “This has gone on long enough. I have to go where I am needed.”

She said nothing for a moment.

“Aleksander, please.” Her voice was so small again and closed his eyes against her. He hated her. He had to hate her. It was easier than loving her.

“Sasha, I need you.”

If he could wish for anything at that moment, it would have been the will to believe her. The will to believe that most of the thoughts and words she had spoken to him over the last few years had been true.

He couldn’t.

“You have just told me that you not only took the throne out from under me, undermining my leadership of both the Little Palace and the Second Army in doing so, but on top of that, this week away together…This time which you so generously granted me, was some sort of ruse to serve your agenda.”

“That is not what I said. You are willfully twisting my words.”

“Am I?” He asked, his voice was empty again. Alina turned his face toward his, her palms were hot on his cheeks and he closed his eyes so he would not have to look at her. The anguished tears on her face already burned into his vision.

“Yes! You do not understand. You are used to being in charge of everything. You believe that I am in charge here but I am not.” Her forehead pressed against his.

He remained unmoved.

“Then take charge, Alina. Get me out."

The door to the chamber opened again and Aleksander turned to see his mother once more.

Alina scowled at Baghra like a feral cat. His mother looked between the two of them and eventually landed on Alina.

“I have convinced the Council it will be in our best interest to let the General return to Os Alta.”

Silence fell between the three of them. It stretched until Baghra let out an impatient noise and gestured for Aleksander to step toward her.

Baghra stood just outside the cell, a key clutched in her hands as she pulled Aleksander’s arms toward her.

Aleksander held still while his mother removed the bar from his wrists. Alina stood beside him, her hands closing over his bloodied wrists as they became free.

He watched her, cataloguing her features. Those wide and fearful eyes, her anger at the wounds he now bore. She wanted to fuss over him and he was tempted to let her.

Tempted to fall back in.

How easy it was to forget she was so young. She was still so malleable and full of raw potential. The people here did not know what it was they held.

And she did not know yet how to withdraw from the influence of others.

Perhaps he should have expected that when she fell out of his grasp, she would end up ensnared in another. Could he hold her responsible for this?

It felt impossible to decide. He was too close to the book and he had to put his mind and his focus back where it mattered.

Alina was out of his purview for the time being.

He tore his eyes from her and looked at his mother expectantly.

“We have horses saddled and ready to return you to the Fold and then on back to the Little Palace. It is expected that you will work with Nikolai, Darkling. As Tsar he will protect Grisha and keep the Second Army in his service.”

Aleksander made no acknowledgement, simply staring at the ancient woman before him. The one who raised him and endured century after century as he did.

He walked around her.

“You have done well without me, boy.” Baghra said to his back.

He scoffed, reaching for the chamber door. Alina was at his heels.

“And this Summoner,” Baghra gestured at Alina. Reluctantly, he turned to look. “She did not choose this. She is doing this for you—to protect you. For the good of Grisha.”

Alina’s eyes stared at the floor in shame as she passed.

Without a word, he followed her through the door.

________________________________

He stared up at the black curtain. The dark of nighttime surrounded them once more and their horses shuffled at the edge of the Fold.

Aleksander looked down at his hands. When he had come through the Fold just last evening, he felt he had something to hold onto.

The Light lived in his palms and was dependent on the strength of his connection to his other half.

Together, he and Alina had ventured deeper into the Making at the Heart of the World and while there, they could use the elements almost interchangeably.

And now, once again, he found himself removed from her. No trust between them—not any more.

Perhaps in time they could reforge something but, as it was, Aleksander could barely spare a thought for the woman who, just a night ago, ruled his very existence.

The pain was too much to bear and the offenses too great a burden to carry.