The Night the Snake Moves
A full week had already passed since Anastasia shut herself away in her room beneath the house.
Though it was a basement, a faint light filtered in through the ventilation holes, enough for her to make out the shape of the chamber. The only furniture was a battered wooden bed and a drawer so full of holes that even a maid’s room would have refused it. Nothing else remained.
If they had still stacked old crates and luggage here the way they once did, at least the servants would have come and gone. Now the room held nothing but her, and for seven days Anastasia had not properly seen another human face. Once a day she heard the soft footsteps of the young maid who left a scrap of dry bread, yet the girl never handed it over. She set the basket outside the door and fled; only then would Anastasia crack the door open and snatch it inside.
Even that had stopped yesterday. Today a guest was expected. From early morning the hurried footsteps and voices of the household staff echoed overhead. They were busy preparing for company.
Anastasia stared at the empty bread basket. By now the maid should already have come. She waited long after morning light appeared, yet no footfall approached.
She’s late because they’re all so busy…
In that case the girl would arrive very late—or not at all.
Still curled against the wall, Anastasia bit her lip as a sharp pain lanced through the sole of her foot.
“It hurts…”
The wound she had taken a week earlier while fleeing through the forest still refused to close. At last she crawled toward the thin shaft of light and examined her foot. The torn flesh was swollen hard and weeping; it was clearly festering.
If I can just reach the forest…
Spring had returned, and the woods once more offered herbs she knew how to use. She had treated wounds with them many times before; finding them would be no trouble. Edible mushrooms were beginning to push up as well—enough to quiet the worst of her hunger.
Anastasia leaned her back against the door, drew her knees to her chest, and buried her face. Hunger she could bear. The wound on her foot frightened her. As a child she had watched a villager leave just such an injury untreated until the flesh rotted and the foot had to be cut away.
Will I end up the same?
She pictured herself without a foot, forced to crawl. Like a snake. The thought pulled a story from the Scriptures into her mind.
In the beginning God made paradise, and there lived many beasts together with the first man. Yet one creature was denied a place: the serpent. Born wicked, it found no seat in paradise. So the snake hid forever in the forest and, when night fell, crawled through the sleeping garden, envying every creature that belonged there.
Recalling the opening of the holy book, Anastasia pressed her face harder into her knees. She had always felt the serpent’s story was her own—an existence that should never have been allowed inside paradise, one that must live by slipping past the eyes of others.
Besides, had not her father and the Countess always looked at her and said she was like a snake?
Endless melancholy rose and closed her throat. She forced her mind toward brighter things: beauty, prettiness, light and color…
“…That man.”
Without warning the face of the stranger she had glimpsed in the forest a week ago floated up before her. Anastasia startled at her own thought. Whenever darkness threatened to swallow her, what she always summoned was the sight of Edenhurst itself, golden under the forest sun—the most radiant, beautiful thing she had ever seen, so beautiful she had wept the first time. Why, then, did a man she had met only once rise in its place today?
“But… I’ll never see him again.”
Edenhurst would stand here forever; she could look upon it whenever she wished. The man, however, had been only a lost stranger. She would never meet him twice. Forgetting even that she had fled from him in panic, Anastasia felt a quiet regret.
If only I had looked more carefully… then I might have seen him again, if only in a dream.
While she tried to hold the memory of his face, the light through the ventilation hole slowly shifted color. Then footsteps sounded beyond the door. Anastasia lifted her head at once and listened. They were not the light steps of the young maid, yet anyone at all was welcome.
Bright, excited voices drifted through the wood.
“Did you see the guest too? I nearly jumped out of my skin!”
“I saw him. Almost screamed when I peeked through the window. They said he’s a commoner like us, so I expected someone who looked like the village lads… but isn’t he handsomer than any noble who’s ever set foot here?”
“I know. When I first heard about the marriage I felt sorry for Lady Elizabeth, but with a face like that she can’t be too disappointed, can she?”
“Still—he’s only a commoner.”
“What does that matter? Once they’re married he’ll be Count Lauderdale. And I heard he’s the richest man in all of Novgord. The whole port of Sokolov—the one they say is grander than the capital—belongs to him!”
Anastasia pressed closer to the door, drinking in every new scrap of information. The maids, however, found whatever they had come for and soon retreated.
Elizabeth is to marry…
Then she would become the new Countess. Managing who stayed and who was cast out of Edenhurst would fall to her, just as it now belonged to the present Countess.
Elizabeth will throw me out at once.
Unlike the Countess, who still allowed Anastasia a corner of the basement for the sake of her son’s memory, Elizabeth had not a single reason to keep her. The moment Elizabeth became mistress of the house, Anastasia would be driven into the open. The only person who might prevent that fate… was the guest who would soon become Count Lauderdale himself.
Anastasia sat upright, folded her hands, and closed her eyes. From childhood until this hour the only refuge she had ever known was the God who watched everything from on high.
“O God, grant him a merciful heart. I dare not beg that he pity me… only let him never learn that I exist. Let me stay… only let me continue to live here. That is all I ask.”
Fever already rising from the infected wound, she offered a prayer that kept no proper form, yet was desperate beyond measure. While her eyes remained shut, the last thin shaft of light vanished and darkness swallowed the room.
Night had come. It was the hour when the snake could move.
Boring.
That single word summed up every feeling Mikhail had known since setting foot in Edenhurst. Everything about the estate bored him.
How can it all be so predictable?
When the person who greeted him was not the Countess but the butler, he heard Igor and Yury snicker behind his back. They found it absurd. Without his money the household could not buy a single potato next month, yet the Countess still looked down on him from the height of her title.
She must believe she holds every advantage.
She no doubt imagined he was desperate for the countship, that the Lauderdale title was a glory he dared not even lift his eyes toward.
Mikhail exhaled a quiet sigh.
He did need a title; that much was true. He had chosen the Lauderdale family only because he wanted the rank quickly. Given time he could have acquired any number of other houses. The Countess, however, seemed to think his haste—his desire to move before the Dowager Empress could interfere—meant he was salivating over Lauderdale itself.
He chewed a piece of the steak set before him. The meat itself was not bad; the cooking was a disaster. Yury had already reported that the family could not afford a capital chef and had hired someone from the nearest village. Compared with what Mikhail ate in Sokolov or in the capital, the difference was painful. Had he known, he would have told Yury to replace the cook as well.
If this is how they receive a guest they ought to be embarrassed, yet she offers not even the usual polite excuses.
Whether she was ashamed of the kitchen or simply believed this was more than enough for a commoner, Mikhail could not decide. Recalling the Countess’s manner since his arrival, he leaned toward the latter. Even the head maid who poured the first tea had been clumsy, yet the Countess had claimed the woman was long experienced at the service. Afterward she had watched Mikhail’s reaction with careful eyes.
She means to grade every step I take.
He weighed the cost of taking over the estate against the patience required to endure a Countess who would certainly remain loud and difficult after the wedding. No matter how he calculated, the balance came out against him.
Perhaps I should simply walk away.
Even if it took longer, pressuring the Dowager Empress was not impossible. By the time his mental ledger closed, dinner had also ended.
Proper etiquette required that they move to the drawing room, where someone would play music while the company made polite conversation.
“Elizabeth plays the piano beautifully. I’m certain you will enjoy it, Mr. Mikhail.”
In Sokolov he regularly summoned soloists from the royal symphony. His own mansion contained a private concert hall built solely for his use. That the Countess believed a few amateur pieces would please him was so condescending it almost made him laugh.
He felt no desire whatever to enter the drawing room. Instead he glanced toward the dark garden and remarked,
“The garden is quite lovely.”
It was already too dark to see a single flower. Sensing his indifference, the Countess spoke quickly.
“While the drawing room is prepared, would you care to stroll the grounds? The garden is the pride of Edenhurst. Elizabeth, show our guest the way.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Elizabeth came to his side. Mikhail noted the faint flush of excitement on her cheeks. In the capital, society beauties sought him out first; he recognized her interest at once and felt nothing. The reaction was too ordinary, too familiar, to move him.
“This way.”
As they descended into the garden, two maids with lamps followed. Mikhail watched Elizabeth’s light, practiced steps.
Not bad.
Her looks were fine enough to justify the Countess’s boldness, and her bearing was thoroughly aristocratic. The gown was a season or two behind fashion, but money in the capital would cure that in an afternoon. After marriage she would serve perfectly as the elegant countess who kept lesser nobles from speaking out of turn at his side.
And yet…
She was still boring. Soft manners, gentle voice, conversation that never strayed from the expected. Mikhail found far more amusement in Catherine, who kept stealing glances at him with bright, hungry eyes. At least the younger sister was honest about her desires. Amusing, yes—but he had not the slightest intention of marrying Catherine either.
Wondering how he would endure the equal boredom of the garden after the equal boredom of dinner conversation, he walked beside Elizabeth. With every step his calculations tilted further toward abandoning the Lauderdale match altogether.
Just as he prepared to tell her, while she prattled about flower varieties he did not care for, that he intended to leave the next morning—
Rustle.
In the darkness beyond the low shrubs, something moved.