The Breakfast Invitation
“You really are stubborn….”
Igor grumbled as he cleared the medicine bottles from the table. A week earlier, the day after restitching the wound and applying the salve, Igor had been summoned by Mikhail at the crack of dawn. Mikhail wore an expression that suggested he might chew Igor up, bones and all, as he spoke.
“Use that dogshit medicine one more time and you’d better be ready for the consequences.”
His gaze stabbed like a blade; Igor couldn’t even manage one of his usual jokes and could only nod hastily in understanding before withdrawing. From that moment on, Mikhail forbade not only the original medicine but any painkiller whatsoever.
He never says a word about it usually, so why now?
Igor instinctively knew it was because of the drug used on the first day.
What on earth did he see?
Most people experienced pleasant hallucinations—what could Mikhail have witnessed that left him so disgusted he resorted to threats? The real problem was that, among the medicines Igor had brought, only that one possessed both anesthetic and analgesic effects. And so for a full week Mikhail grimaced through every inspection and application of ointment.
Just as Igor finished spreading the disinfectant, the under-butler’s voice announced that the meal had arrived. At Mikhail’s leave to enter, the butler and maids wheeled in a large cart and arranged the dishes on a folding table they had carried separately.
Watching the procession, Igor’s expression grew increasingly puzzled until he finally asked Mikhail,
“Was a morning banquet planned without my knowledge?”
“It’s breakfast.”
At the word “breakfast,” Igor let out a hollow laugh.
“Enough for ten people, I take it?”
Indeed, the spread the under-butler had brought was richer than most evening banquets. With this alone one could outshine the dinner of any ordinary noble house: freshly baked breads of every kind, ham, cheese, sausages, crisp vegetables, egg dishes, milk, fruit juices, and even a thick steak.
Igor rubbed his jaw—tingling with sudden saliva—and sat down at the table.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“What does it look like? Preparing to eat breakfast. Shall I call Yury as well?”
With a quantity like this, even Yury’s arrival would not finish it. The instant Igor began to unfold his napkin, Mikhail’s hand cracked against the back of his head.
“Stop talking nonsense and get out.”
“What?”
The order to leave startled him more than the blow itself.
“You mean you had all this laid out intending to eat it alone? I did tell you to look after your meals, but I never said to go this far—”
“Igor.”
“I’m going. Going.”
At the lowered voice Igor hastily gathered his medicines. Even as he stepped into the corridor the absurdity of it still clung to him. What sudden whim had prompted such extravagance? While he walked, puzzled, a figure approached from the opposite end of the hall.
“Miss Anastasia?”
He had not seen her face once in the week since examining the merchant’s bruises—yet here she was. When Igor called her name, Anastasia quietly slipped behind Natasha. The hand he had raised in greeting hung awkwardly until Anastasia peered around the maid and managed a greeting of her own.
“He…llo, Doctor…sir.”
She spoke slowly, clearly struggling not to stutter, and still hid behind the maid; even so, the effort to greet him made Igor smile.
“It’s been a while. Are you feeling well?”
“Yes, I…am f-fine.”
Even that brief exchange left her face drained of color. He could not blame her. Had he not witnessed with his own eyes what nearly happened to her in the forest? After such an ordeal, fear of strangers—especially men—was only natural.
Of course, that is not the whole of it.
The first time he had visited Edenhurst and treated her feet he had recognized at once the marks of long abuse. Back then, before they fully intervened and without any order from Mikhail, he had simply thought her a pitiful young lady. Now, however….
Igor’s gaze fell on the clothes she wore. A thick, seasonally inappropriate bodice that covered neck and arms completely, a shawl wrapped tightly over it—yet every single piece was costly. All of them, of course, gifts from Mikhail.
“Lord Igor, forgive me, but may we pass?”
Natasha, caught between them, spoke with polite embarrassment.
“Ah—of course. Where are you headed?”
“Lord Mikhail has invited Miss Anastasia to breakfast.”
“…What?”
Igor’s mouth fell open. Wait—then that earlier feast, so lavish it could have been mistaken for a banquet, had been prepared for Anastasia?
“Then we shall take our leave.”
“Yes, go on.”
As Natasha walked ahead, Anastasia bowed to Igor and then hurried after her as though terrified of being left behind. Buried in the heavy clothes she looked for all the world like a child.
Igor returned to the reception room, set down his medical bag, and propped his chin on his hand.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Igor? What are you doing?”
“Ah, Yury.”
Yury was leaning against the doorway, chewing a piece of bread he must have filched somewhere.
“I just saw something interesting.”
“What? Show me.”
“Lord Mikhail invited Miss Anastasia to breakfast.”
“That young lady?”
Yury swallowed the bread with a gulp, thumped his chest, and said,
“Seems he likes her.”
“Likes her—meaning…?”
“Why else would he bother with a woman who has nothing but the Lauderdale name and not a single thing of value? Especially a man who wouldn’t lift a finger for anything unprofitable if his life depended on it. It’s obvious. He’s taken a fancy to her.”
Yury dropped into the chair opposite and continued,
“She’s skin and bones, terrified of men, and so uneducated she’s practically an idiot… but she’s not bad-looking, is she? Honestly, the first time I saw that red hair I was stunned. Even in Ils you rarely see a red that vivid. Pretty eyes, too.”
“Well. With proper care she would become beautiful enough. But Lord Mikhail has seen women like that more times than he can count—why now…?”
“Oh, come on, don’t overthink it. Just accept it.”
“Still, he’s going to marry Miss Elizabeth. Keeping Miss Anastasia at his side might… look a little unsightly, that’s all I’m saying.”
At Igor’s words Yury shot him a look of pure exasperation.
“What’s with that face?”
“Just surprised a man who came here from murdering people frets over appearances.”
Yury glanced at the door in case of listening ears, then remembered the house was now staffed entirely by Sokolov servants and turned back.
“If he likes her he’ll make her his mistress and keep her here. What’s wrong with that?”
“They’re sisters, though….”
“If he wanted Miss Catherine as a mistress I’d object myself, but she’s only an adopted daughter—so what does it matter?”
Yury reached for the fruit basket on the table.
“Just be glad. While she’s here he’ll hold her for a while; if he tires of her he’ll send her off wherever she wants, and if he still likes her he’ll leave her at Edenhurst and drop by now and then.”
Crunch. He bit into a red apple as he finished.
“Anyway, the marriage is with Miss Elizabeth. This is just temporary amusement.”
“Welcome, Anastasia.”
Mikhail greeted her with a bright smile; Anastasia could only bow deeply. At his silent glance Natasha murmured that she would withdraw, closed the door, and left. Alone, Anastasia stood like a chick that had lost its mother, suddenly anxious and at a loss.
“Please sit here.”
“Th-thank you. But… please speak more casually to me.”
It pleased her that Mikhail treated her with the same courtesy he showed the Lauderdales, yet it also weighed on her. After all, she bore only half a name and was no true daughter.
Once she had grown old enough to understand her situation she had sometimes wondered, as the servants whispered, whether she might be the count’s bastard. Yet whenever she saw her reflection in water she found only her mother’s face—never the count’s, never any father’s.
Mikhail must know the truth by now, yet he continued to treat her unchanged. No—if anything he treated her with even greater care than before.
“I must decline that request. I wish to remain as polite and gentlemanly as possible toward Miss Anastasia.”
“…Pardon?”
“More importantly, let us eat before it cools. This way.”
Mikhail drew out the chair beside the table and offered her the seat. This, too, was the first truly courtly gesture she had ever received.
“You needn’t—”
“I beg you, Anastasia. Grant me the honor of sharing breakfast with you.”
The words were deliberately playful, exaggerated. But Anastasia, who had never in her life been treated so, could not tell where sincerity ended and jest began.
Before she quite realized it she had forgotten Natasha’s absence; more embarrassed than frightened, she carefully approached the chair he held. Gathering her skirts, she sat.
Was being given something—simply for her—so trembling and sweet a thing? For the first time she felt as though she had become a proper young lady, and she gazed at him, forgetting even to offer thanks.
She understood, then, why she did not fear Mikhail. Beside him she felt like a better person—someone who need not be despised, someone worthy of receiving kindness with her head held high.
Anastasia straightened her back and lifted her chin for the first time, the way Elizabeth had looked when Anastasia once peeked at her after being summoned by the countess.
Only then did the table she had been too flustered to notice properly come into focus. The moment her eyes fell on the cutlery arrayed beside the plates, her face drained of every drop of color.
Until now Natasha had brought every meal to her room. Noticing how uncomfortable Anastasia grew in the presence of others, the maid had waited outside until she finished. Thus Anastasia had always eaten at ease—with a single spoon.
I… don’t know the etiquette….
The surprise of the invitation itself had left no room to consider such things. Never having sat at such a table, how could she possibly know? She recalled the kitchen servants’ gossip: a nouveau riche invited to Edenhurst who had no idea how to use the cutlery and simply did as he pleased. The expressions on the count couple and the young ladies had been something to behold.
Lord Mikhail will think the same.
He was kind and gentle; he would never show it openly. But in his heart he would surely decide she was different from the true Lauderdale daughters—ignorant and vulgar.
Until this moment she had never cared. Now the shame burned. To stand revealed as uncultured before the first person she had ever wanted to impress—that was unbearable.
Desperately she hunted for a way out.
“Um… before we eat, I would like to offer a prayer!”
The words tumbled out in a rush, yet they made a serviceable excuse. Anastasia clasped her hands and scraped the very bottom of her memory, reciting every mealtime prayer she knew. The store of prayers, however, ran dry almost at once.
“It seems that is all.”
Just as she prepared to repeat the same prayer if Mikhail had not noticed, he spoke. She could not claim the prayer was unfinished. Hands trembling on her knees, she looked at him. If she simply followed whatever he did….
“You first, Anastasia.”
“…….”
At his words the world seemed to collapse. Spoons, forks, and knives covered the table in bewildering numbers—long, short, some of entirely different shapes. While Anastasia sat frozen, unable to reach for any of them, Mikhail said quietly,
“You don’t know how to use them, do you?”
He had known from the beginning that she would not.