Return to Edenhurst

At the sound of voices outside Edenhurst Manor, a servant within peered out with a rigid face. He fully expected another creditor come to make a scene. Yet the man who had arrived was one he recognized—someone the household had been desperately awaiting for some time.

Forgetting all protocol, the servant cried out in astonishment.

"Lord Mikhail is here! Lord Mikhail has returned!"

He had only been a guest who stayed once before, yet the servant welcomed him as though the master of the house himself had come home.

The moment the Countess learned Mikhail had returned to Edenhurst, she ran for the first time in her life. She reached the entrance faster than anyone and confirmed it was him, joy spreading across her face. But it lasted only a moment. Seeing Anastasia cradled in Mikhail's arms, she froze solid. Then she noticed Mikhail watching her with a smile that never reached his cold eyes.

"It has been some time, Countess."

The Countess's gaze fell to the limp young woman in his arms.

"That is…"

Why was Anastasia in his embrace—the very girl they had decided to send off after securing a promise of money and temporary provisions from the food merchant?

Mikhail swallowed a sneer as he watched the Countess's eyes pin themselves to Anastasia.

"On the way here I found Miss Anastasia in a difficult situation and was able to offer assistance. She nearly fell victim to an unspeakable outrage."

At the words "unspeakable outrage," the Countess averted her eyes. Inwardly she cursed the food merchant. The vulgar creature. From the moment he asked for Anastasia he had made no effort to hide the lust glittering in his eyes; clearly he had meant to take her once before even reaching home. How long was the journey that he could not wait and had assaulted her on the road, only to be caught by Mikhail?

"Miss Anastasia appears to need rest, so we can exchange proper greetings a little later."

Without so much as an apology for the rudeness, Mikhail brushed past the Countess and went inside. He headed straight for the spacious guest chamber he had used on his previous visit. Anastasia was already asleep in his arms, collapsed into unconsciousness. That was better. Had she been awake, the mere sight of the Countess would have drained the color from her face and set her trembling as before.

Once inside the room, Mikhail let out a dry laugh. Even allowing for ruin, the place was a wretched sight. Everything of value had been stripped away. The once-beautiful furniture was gone; even the curtains had been torn down, so that bright sunlight poured in unchecked. The bed he had slept in stood stripped of its sheets, the decorative fittings that had bound its four posts vanished as well.

Whether they had decided a bed would be hard to resell, or whether they had simply planned to return later with a larger carriage to haul it off, he could not say—but at least this remained.

Mikhail laid Anastasia on the bed and shrugged out of his coat to cover her. Just then the clatter of many carriages rose outside. Approaching the window, he saw a long train of coaches and wagons arriving. At the head of the group stood Yury, whom he had secretly left behind in the capital, waving.

When Mikhail went downstairs, Yury greeted him with exaggerated fuss.

"Lord Mikhail! It's been far too long!"

"The task I gave you?"

"Everything is prepared perfectly."

On the way back from the central plains Mikhail had telegraphed the capital: bring furniture and people to fill the empty halls of Edenhurst.

"Fill it without shortage…"

Mikhail cast a glance around the rooms.

"…in a manner befitting their masters."

While Yury reported on affairs in the capital, Igor was already issuing instructions to the under-butler from Sokolov who had come with him on how the manor was to be handled.

"Start by putting the places they'll stay in order. Ah, and the kitchens as well."

The under-butler was a seasoned man. Before coming to Mikhail's household he had served in many manors; now he questioned the remaining servants of Edenhurst about the layout and facilities, mastering the entire estate with remarkable speed. Once he understood the structure he divided the newly arrived staff by wing and assigned their duties.

Naturally the first place the under-butler decided to restore was the chamber once used by the late Count—the room belonging to the master of this house. After the Count's death the Countess had left it empty, waiting so that her son might occupy it whenever he returned. Now that space would receive a new master instead of the one it had awaited.

Into the bare room, stripped even of its desk, beds, writing tables, and bookcases unloaded from the wagons were swiftly arranged. They were the same pieces Mikhail had used in Sokolov, though finished in colors better suited to Edenhurst. Yury, who had stayed here before, had prepared them in advance.

Once the furniture was properly placed, dozens of servants set about dressing the manor. They worked as silently and unhesitatingly as people who had lived their whole lives at Edenhurst.

Windows left with only dusty glass were polished clean and hung with purple curtains. At the center of every single curtain hung golden-thread tassels from Flanders—items that even in the capital could not be obtained for any premium and had to be waited for. Every curtain received them.

The wooden floors left bare after the carpets were carried off were swept free of dust and newly oiled. Over them were laid exotic carpets imported through Schweik—goods even the imperial household could not easily acquire. Until a year ago Schweik had been an enemy nation; no one but Mikhail had managed to open trade with them.

Under the hands of dozens of servants, the chamber Mikhail would use regained its former glory—no, a more splendid and orderly state than before.

"What in the world…"

Watching the manor transform so rapidly, the Countess could find no words. She was the mistress of this house. Yet unfamiliar servants were rearranging it at will without her leave. And if she tried to stop them?

On reflection there was no reason to stop them. Mikhail had brought all this of his own accord to restore their former abundance; why stand in the way? And… was there any need to risk offending him by interfering?

The Countess thought it over and abandoned the exercise of her rights. The reward for surrender came swiftly: before long her own chambers, too, were filled with precious things.

While the servants labored for the comfort of Mikhail and a few others, Mikhail himself was receiving Yury's report on the capital.

"So the Dowager Empress is in a frenzy over Schweik."

"Yes. Since the armistice the negotiations have failed to reach settlement again and again. This time, however, for some reason Schweik has stepped back and offered terms more favorable to Novgord."

Half a year after the cease-fire the two nations still dragged things out, unable to find common ground. It had been a war neither side truly won or lost, which only made matters worse. Yet suddenly Schweik had presented terms disadvantageous to itself. Naturally the imperial court wanted to probe their true intentions.

"What is the schedule with Schweik?"

"They'll be going back and forth all summer settling a draft agreement. The Dowager is said to be leaving for the summer villa with the Emperor starting next week."

"The Emperor's health has worsened further, then?"

"Yes. Apparently… the recent seizure was so severe there is talk of brain damage."

"Is that so?"

Mikhail frowned at the news of the Emperor's condition. The Emperor, the Dowager's son, was the root of her power. Any mishap that befell him therefore directed suspicion toward others rather than her. And Mikhail was always the first to receive those glances.

"She didn't arrange it herself?"

Every time those suspicious looks fell on him Mikhail found it absurd. As a boy the Emperor had been brilliant. Yet the moment he ascended the throne after the previous Emperor's death, seizures began and his body weakened. That was how the Dowager had become regent in the first place.

If the Emperor died, Mikhail would benefit. But so long as the Emperor survived in frail health, the greatest gainer was the Dowager herself.

"Probably."

"A formidable woman. Even her own son is nothing more than a tool to her."

"Indeed."

Yury clicked his tongue in agreement. The stack of reviewed documents beside the two men grew steadily higher. When the long report finally ended, Yury spoke again.

"In any case the capital should remain quiet through the summer, so why not take the chance for a long rest?"

"Did Igor tell you to say that?"

"Yes."

Yury answered as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"And another thing…"

Suddenly Yury shot a fist toward Mikhail—specifically toward his side. Just before the blow landed, Mikhail's own fist flashed toward Yury's face. But Yury darted backward and slipped the punch with practiced ease.

Before Mikhail had seized him and forced him to study accounting, Yury had been a street-smart money-lender in the back alleys of Sokolov, faster than anyone at running. He grinned.

"See that? You can't even land a proper hit on me."

Mikhail sighed. When he lifted his coat, the shirt beneath showed a dark stain of blood. Igor had treated it in haste, yet the reopened wound refused to heal cleanly.

"You were stabbed rather deep this time. There's muscle damage as well, so take the summer easy. The Seventh Dock construction is proceeding smoothly; nothing urgent requires you. Besides, if anything happens to the Emperor while you're running about, you'll only make a perfect assassin for them to pin it on."

Yury was right. The wound was deeper than expected, and because it had not closed properly at first his body remained weakened. At least a few quiet weeks would be wise.

"Very well. This summer I'll spend at Edenhurst."

"And the wedding—when will you hold it?"

Since he had already decided to rest, finishing everything in the summer would be convenient. Yet for some reason Mikhail felt no desire to fix a date. It was a matter that needed settling as soon as possible, and still…

"I'm still considering. But I intend to have it done before summer ends."

"Understood."

Having said all he needed to, Yury told him to rest well, closed the door, and left. The moment it opened, the under-butler waiting outside bowed.

"Come in."

Sensing the man had something to report, Mikhail called him forward.

"What is it?"

"The Countess wishes to speak with you. I informed her you were resting and sent her away."

"How many times has she come?"

"Three times through a maid, and twice in person."

"Igor will invent a suitable excuse; pass it on as is."

"Yes, my lord. And… Miss Anastasia has awakened."

"Has she?"

At that Mikhail rose without a moment's hesitation and ordered the under-butler,

"From now on, anything concerning Miss Anastasia is to be reported to me at once."

Mikhail stepped into the corridor and made for Anastasia's room. Servants passing by bowed deeply at the sight of him. Those Yury had brought were the swiftest and most tight-lipped among the staff of Sokolov Manor. Over the coming days they would remake Edenhurst in the image of Sokolov and obey their master's every command. Of course, they had only one master.

In a house now filled entirely with his own people, Mikhail walked at an unhurried pace toward Anastasia's door. Moments later his relaxed expression hardened. A loud voice had come from within her room.

"No! Go away!"

It was unmistakably Anastasia's voice. Mikhail flung the door open at once.

"What is going on?"

His own voice rose without his meaning it to. As he entered, the maids inside quickly lowered their heads. Mikhail surveyed the room.

The first thing that caught his eye was Anastasia, curled into a ball on the far side of the bed, only terrified eyes visible. She clutched the clothes she had pulled on with both hands and was on the verge of tears.

"What happened?"

"We tried to help the young lady change, but she refused quite strongly…"

In the maid's hands were a thin linen dress and the clothes Mikhail himself had ordered brought. On the floor lay the dusty, torn garments the maids had managed to remove. Understanding the situation, Mikhail ordered them,

"Leave us."

The maids turned at once to obey. Before they could go he added,

"Leave the clothes."