So This Is How She Looked
Whether or not they had made any real effort to receive him, the room prepared for Mikhail was spacious and clean. Anastasia lay on the bed that should have been his. In the room with Mikhail and Yury—and under the excuse that Anastasia could not be left alone among men—stood a maid who had been pushed inside.
Yury stood beside the bed, watching Mikhail gaze down at Anastasia with a look of pure incomprehension.
He prided himself on having worked under Mikhail for quite some time, yet he had never seen the man like this.
Just at dinner he was ready to leave for Sokolov at once.
Long service had taught Yury to read Mikhail’s mood from the smallest gesture. Mikhail was thoroughly bored. That was why Yury and Igor had both concluded that Mikhail meant to abandon the acquisition of the count’s title and Edenhurst and return straight to Sokolov tomorrow.
And yet here he was, carrying a strange girl into the house and giving up his own bed for her.
Isn’t this a first?
Mikhail was particular about the places he stayed. Whether in his mansion in Sokolov or anywhere else, he hated strangers entering his space. So what in the world was this?
Don’t tell me this is his type?
Yury craned his neck this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of Anastasia’s face. But Mikhail had pulled the blankets high, and the cushions heaped around her as if to forbid any looking kept him from seeing properly.
Mikhail glanced at Yury’s furtive peeping and waved a hand.
“Go fetch Igor. What the devil is taking him so long?”
Yury left without another word. Only the maid remained. When Mikhail turned, she bowed her head low and stared at the floor.
“Is Miss Anastasia always like this?”
“I beg your pardon…?”
“I mean does she always wander about in these grotesque clothes with her hands and feet cut up.”
“…I do not know, sir.”
When the maid avoided the question he stroked his chin and changed tack.
“How many years have you worked in this house?”
“This is my sixth year, sir.”
“Six years and you still don’t know the young lady you serve. Useless.”
He spoke quietly, yet the words struck the maid as far more terrifying than any shouted reprimand. She twisted her apron in trembling hands, not knowing what to do. She had thought him merely a guest when she entered; now she was bowing deeper than she ever did before the countess.
“Where is Miss Anastasia’s room?”
“The basement storeroom—ah!”
The maid clamped her mouth shut the instant the words slipped out. Mikhail did not press. He had heard enough to guess. He pointed to the bloodstained cloths piled on a nearby table.
“Clear these away and bring clean ones.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Only too glad to escape the room, the maid completely forgot the countess’s order to stay. She snatched up the soiled cloths, bobbed a hasty curtsy, and fled.
Silence settled over the empty room. Mikhail stepped closer to the bed and looked down at Anastasia. Long, tangled red hair covered her face so thoroughly he could not see it properly. Without hesitation he reached out and swept the strands aside.
The act was the height of rudeness, yet he did not care.
“…So this is how she looked.”
Mikhail studied the face he had been curious about a week ago. His first impression of Anastasia was simply thin. Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks. Her pale skin, flushed with fever from her wounds, only made her look more like a patient. Even so he could not take his eyes off her. He examined her more carefully.
Long, slender brows, a straight nose, red lips. It was strange how all those features sat so neatly on a face no larger than his fist. He gathered a fistful of the red hair resting on the pillow, taking as much as he wanted.
Anyone watching would have been shocked. In Novgord, hair was something permitted only to lovers or spouses. Mikhail, however, examined the strands in his hand with an indifferent face and murmured,
“Pretty color.”
Red hair was uncommon in Novgord, but not unheard of. Hair this close to the color of wine, though—he had never seen it before. Right now it was dry and hopelessly tangled, nothing to look at, but if it were carefully combed and given a healthy sheen… it would become quite a beautiful color.
The mere thought pleased him, so he gathered and stroked the hair several more times. He toyed with it like a newly acquired plaything until something felt missing.
His gaze returned to Anastasia’s face.
“Her eyes were rather pretty.”
That was what he regretted—not being able to see again those eyes that had stared at him in shock. Red hair and deep green eyes… that combination was almost like—
Heavy, hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor. Mikhail released the hair and stepped a few paces back from the bed.
A knock, then the door opened. Igor entered, carrying a small, sharp knife and a pair of fine tweezers.
“I brought them.”
“Then treat her at once.”
Soon after Igor came in, maids followed with hot water, a lamp, and clean cloths.
Igor dragged a small stool to the bedside, ordered the maids to set the lamp nearby, and sterilized the little knife in the flame. Seated, he pulled Anastasia’s hand out from under the covers and grumbled,
“I never thought I’d have to use my medical license all the way out here.”
“Isn’t it a fine thing? You can offer a helping hand when it’s most needed. Isn’t that the oath you take when you sit for the physician’s exam?”
Mikhail’s casual remark left Igor’s mouth hanging open. The reason Mikhail’s secretary had taken the examination and obtained a medical license was that Mikhail and those around him were constantly injured in the endless fights over port rights. When even the hastily summoned doctor turned out to have been bought by the other side, Mikhail had said,
“It’d be better if one of us just became a doctor.”
Then he had put a bullet through the physician’s head. In the end, that was why Igor had been forced to earn the license.
Giving up any further argument—there was no point wasting breath on Mikhail—Igor focused on the work. He brought the lamp close, even produced a magnifying glass from somewhere, and examined Anastasia’s hand.
“Just as I thought.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Cuts from glass shards. And there are still pieces left inside.”
“Doesn’t that hurt?”
Mikhail frowned. He remembered the man who had tried to ambush him in Sokolov—how he had seized the fellow by the head and smashed him through a window. He hadn’t cared about the man’s throat, but his own hands had been scraped and full of glass, and he had been thoroughly irritated.
“Of course it hurts. Looking at the wounds, they’re already starting to close, so I’ll have to open them again and pull the pieces out.”
Igor fell silent, then carefully sliced open the half-healed cuts with the sterilized knife.
“Nngh…”
A soft moan escaped Anastasia’s lips; she tried to twist away from the pain. When that made Igor’s work difficult, Mikhail seized her arm firmly.
“Keep going.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Igor’s eyes spoke clearly: You do realize this is extremely improper, don’t you? Adopted daughter or not, she still carries the Lauderdale name!
Mikhail’s eyes answered just as clearly: Just do your job.
Igor was a diligent secretary who followed orders well. Besides, he felt genuine pity for Anastasia, so he worked with the utmost care, examining every part of her hands and extracting the remaining shards. There were not many, and none were large, yet they must have stung the entire time they were lodged inside.
As Igor wiped away the blood with the cloths the maids had brought, Mikhail asked again,
“What about her feet? Do they need looking at?”
“Worse than the hands. Nothing to dig out, but they’ll need medicine. The fortunate part is that medicine can still do something. A few more days and… well, you know.”
Igor made a snipping motion with his fingers, as if cutting a foot clean off.
It was common enough for those who went too long without treatment to lose a limb. Mikhail’s gaze drifted to the thin ankle that had slipped free of the blankets.
Good thing we didn’t have to cut it off.
A brief commotion rose in the corridor, then the countess entered with Elizabeth and Catherine. They must have coordinated their stories beforehand; the earlier panic had vanished from their faces, replaced by expressions of pure concern. Only Catherine still could not quite hide her pouting lips after the scolding she had received.
“I was so worried we would have to summon a physician in all haste, yet to receive such help—I am truly grateful.”
Not a shred of sincerity colored the countess’s words, but Mikhail smiled with perfect composure.
“Grateful? We are the ones honored to be of assistance.”
He caught Elizabeth’s glare fixed on Anastasia and spoke before the countess or her daughters could.
“My secretary Igor is also a physician of some renown even in Sokolov. He will remain here with the maids until your daughter regains consciousness, so I think it best we move to another room to continue our conversation. Well then…”
With his back to the countess, Mikhail shaped the words with his lips.
Thirty rubles.
The sum was meant to soothe Igor’s grumbling—extra pay equal to nearly a month’s salary. Igor decided to bargain while the chance was there.
Fifty rubles.
When the silently mouthed figure appeared, Mikhail gave a short laugh and clapped Igor on the shoulder. His lips moved again.
One hundred rubles.
He gave the shoulder one more firm pat.
“I’ll leave her in your care, Igor.”
With that, Mikhail turned and left the room with the countess. Alone with the maids, Igor stared blankly after Mikhail’s retreating back.
Never before had Mikhail raised the price of his own accord after a negotiation was already settled.