Behind the Screen

"Yes."

The maids obeyed his order at once. They neatly folded the garments they held, set them upon the bed, and slipped quietly from the room.

In the Edenhurst of old, every maid had answered to the countess. And if he ever ordered them to leave a man and a woman alone together, they would start as if struck and insist it could not be done.

That is why I sent them all away.

He had deliberately tightened the noose until even the servants’ wages could no longer be paid—partly to pressure the countess, partly to clear out anyone who would not heed him. Most of the tiresome souls still lingering at Edenhurst had left of their own accord.

As for the loyal few who had remained to the last, he meant to dispose of them once the servants brought from Sokolov grew familiar with the house. Then no one inside these walls would dare tell him something was difficult, or that it could not be done.

Once the place had been thoroughly replaced, there was a blessed lack of needless fretting. Mikhail regarded the clothes the maid had left behind. One was a petticoat of thin linen; the other was a house dress of the cut currently fashionable in the capital.

He lifted the petticoat first. Its faintly rough texture felt cool against his skin. So sheer was the fabric that the shape and outline of the hand holding it showed through with perfect clarity. What would it look like on Anastasia?

He turned his head. She was still there, body tucked beside the bed, only her face visible above the covers—still swaddled in layer upon layer of clothing. Perhaps that was why he found it so hard to picture her in anything else.

He stroked the petticoat a moment longer, then spoke.

"Miss Anastasia."

"Yes…."

She had screamed at the maids, yet answered his call with such meek readiness. The fact pleased him.

Mikhail recalled something acquaintances who had newly taken in cats used to say. At first the creatures did not know their master; they bristled and kept their distance. Then, little by little, they grew accustomed, closed the gap, and one day accepted a hand. Yet they still unsheathed their claws at strangers—and that sight, the owners claimed, filled them with a private satisfaction: the animal followed them alone.

When he first heard it he had not understood what there was to feel good about, and had merely pretended to listen. Looking at Anastasia now, he understood.

To be gentle with him alone, when she was anything but with others—that was a deeply satisfying thing.

"Is your body feeling any better?"

She had wept long in his arms before fainting. When he carried her out of the forest, Igor had examined her and declared that the marks on her flesh would fade soon enough; she had merely exhausted herself once the tension broke and lost consciousness for a short while. Nothing else was wrong.

Yet looking at her now, Mikhail found it impossible to trust Igor’s words.

He had known Edenhurst was impoverished. Still, he had believed the bare minimum of food was being sent in. Anastasia’s face, however, was haggard as though she had starved for weeks on end.

Well—he was home now. He would see that she ate. He spoke again.

"The maids came to help you."

"I know…."

"Then why have you not changed?"

"……."

At his question color flooded Anastasia’s face; she could not answer.

"Anastasia?"

He called her name once more. Dropping the “Miss” made it easier on the tongue, and he liked the sound of it.

"Anastasia, if they offered you any rudeness I will dismiss them this instant. If you wish it, I can have them flogged and driven far from here. Which do you prefer?"

"No! Those people did nothing wrong!"

Her eyes had gone round at the word “dismiss”; at “flogged” she started up from the bed. He had chosen the words deliberately, knowing exactly how she would react.

"It’s just that I… I… didn’t want to wear anything else."

She clutched at the clothes she still wore.

"I… like these."

Impossible. Mikhail was certain no one on earth possessed a taste for rags. Yet he could not say so outright, and so he softened the truth as best he could.

"Whatever garments you prefer are yours to choose. Still, I do not think this particular attire is suited to comfortable rest."

The sleeves, torn by the merchant’s grasp, hung in tatters; dirt caked the elbows. The skirt he had seen when he carried her bore crushed grass stains from the forest floor where the man had pinned her. Every one of those traces grated on him.

I forgot to ask what they did with that bastard.

On his way out he would order Igor that if the merchant still drew breath, he was simply to be buried again.

"So I would be grateful if you would change."

"But…."

"But?"

"I—I can’t wear those."

Anastasia pointed at the house dress on the bed with the look of one confronted by the most blasphemous object in creation.

"Is something the matter with them?"

She hesitated a long while before answering, face burning, voice barely a whisper.

"They show… too much of the body."

Showed the body? Mikhail blinked at the unexpected reply and lifted the dress. The moment he took in its overall shape—a simple one-piece—he was left speechless. By his standards the garment was modest enough to serve as a nun’s habit without the least impropriety.

"…I cannot see where."

"The arms…."

"Short sleeves in summer seem only natural."

His firm tone left Anastasia at a loss. He decided to press a little harder.

"The maids looked, and it appears there are no other clothes remaining. Whether you care for it or not, I think it best you change into this today and rest. I shall call the maids back, then—"

"Don’t!"

The mere mention of summoning the maids again made her start in horror and stop him.

"I’ll… put them on myself."

At that, Mikhail set the petticoat and house dress within her reach. Anastasia stretched out a hand, gathered them up, and then simply stared at him.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I… need to change…."

He pointed toward the folding screen the maids had placed in the corner. It was one of the furnishings lately fashionable in the capital—each panel painted with exotic scenes—and when stood against a wall it created a private space screened from view.

Everyone desired one, yet because they had to come by way of Schweik, nobles still queued for them however they could.

"Over there. Change behind the screen."

"Pardon?"

"In every other noble house that is how it is done, Anastasia. The piece is made precisely for changing clothes."

Her eyes wavered. Was that truly so? She looked at him. His face was calm, as though he were stating the most ordinary fact in the world. When she still hesitated, he smiled.

"Don’t worry—nothing can be seen through the screen. Still, if you wish, I will turn my head the other way."

"No… there’s no need for that, but…."

Mikhail saw the flicker of unease that crossed her face. Fear. Shame. He knew perfectly well what troubled her.

"Anastasia. I will not lay a hand on you."

He added, voice low:

"Not unless you want it."

Silence settled over the room for a moment. Clutching the petticoat and house dress to her chest, Anastasia darted quickly behind the screen.

Her heart hammered. Heat climbed her throat and flooded her face until it burned. She thought herself mad. Simply being alone with a man in the same room was mortifying enough—yet here she was, about to undress with only a screen between them.

She looked at her wrist. The red imprint of the merchant’s grip still marked the skin. The place where she had been struck still stung with residual heat.

It was unthinkable. And yet….

She remembered the last words Mikhail had spoken. That he would do nothing. Not unless she wished it.

I can trust Lord Mikhail.

He had always treated her kindly. He had tended her injured leg, given her his own room, let her receive a gift for the first time in her life. And today he had even saved her from that nightmare.

She reached out and touched the screen. It was made of wood that never grew in Edenhurst, painted with strange foreign scenes—another world’s object she was seeing for the first time, and it fascinated her. The calm face of Mikhail saying that every other house did it this way rose in her mind.

He had come from the world beyond this paradise. A man who knew letters, who read books, who traveled far. Therefore his words must be true.

Slowly she began to undo the buttons. Soft thuds followed as the thick layers of clothing fell one by one to the floor.

Beyond the screen Mikhail sat with his long legs crossed, chin propped on his hand. The screen stood high enough that even the crown of Anastasia’s head remained hidden. Because his sight was wholly blocked, perhaps, every sound of her movement reached him with startling clarity.

A soft scrape—fingers trailing across the wooden panels. The novelty of the screen must have captivated her. On the thin bark a faint handprint appeared and vanished. For an instant Mikhail’s vision swam; he blinked slowly. He had been indoors long enough that the sunlight should not dazzle him—yet a moment later he nearly laughed aloud in disbelief.

He had felt the heavy, unmistakable stirring below his waist. Absurd. In Sokolov the most celebrated beauties had tried their arts upon him and left him cold. He possessed the same aesthetic sense as any man; he could recognize their loveliness. But that was all it had ever been. Desire itself had never once awakened.

And now his body was answering more fiercely than it ever had.

Thud.

A sound larger than thunder crashed over him while he still struggled to credit what was happening. He knew at once it was fabric striking the floor—the sound of Anastasia undressing on the far side of the screen.

Without thinking he clamped a hand over his mouth. Otherwise he could not have said what noise might escape him.

Thud. Thud.

Thin cloth falling could not truly be loud, yet each soft impact left his ears ringing and his head spinning, as though lightning were striking again and again beside him.

In the quiet room filled with the gentle afternoon light, he alone stood in the midst of a storm.