Breakfast for Two

“Is it true? That she was having breakfast with Sir Mikhail?”

At Catherine’s sharp voice, the elderly nanny nodded.

“Yes, I saw it myself. Lately the kitchen has been preparing far more food than usual, enough to make me wonder. And when I noticed the trays going up were set for two, I thought he must be dining with his secretary… until I passed the corridor and saw Lady Anastasia coming out of Sir Mikhail’s room.”

The nanny was the one the Countess had brought with her upon her marriage—loyal enough to remain at her side even after everyone else had abandoned Edenhurst.

“Lady? What lady? Just call her Anastasia!”

Catherine snapped at the innocent nanny, then collapsed onto the sofa.

“What on earth… How did this happen? Why is she with Sir Mikhail?”

Nearly two weeks had passed since Mikhail’s return to Edenhurst, and in all that time Catherine had not caught so much as a glimpse of him. Her mother had sent servants again and again with invitations to meals or tea, yet the secretary named Igor always refused, claiming Mikhail needed rest after the long journey from the Central Plains. The Countess had looked distinctly displeased at having her invitations declined, but there was little she could say. Aside from the refusals to meet, Mikhail had treated them with perfect generosity.

The manor was being filled with the latest expensive furnishings from the capital; new curtains and carpets were laid everywhere. Catherine had seen the wooden crates they came in, stamped with the Ilenka logo and lettering from Ils. Everything Mikhail was installing was of the highest quality. The weed-choked drive in front of the house had been neatly cleared, and the garden trees had been trimmed into orderly shapes almost overnight. Meals had returned to the standard of her childhood, when the Count was still alive—no, they were even finer.

The first evening after the new cook arrived, Catherine had been left speechless. The food set upon the spotless tablecloth was flawless from the china to the plating, and the taste rivaled the finest restaurants she had known in the capital while her father lived. It left her embarrassed.

Why did Mother do those things?

Amid the luxury she had not tasted in years, Catherine remembered the dinner they had served Mikhail on his first visit. Cook Emma’s cooking might have been respectable by Edenhurst standards, yet compared with what they now received it was painfully crude. She could only imagine what Mikhail had thought of them then. He certainly had not formed a favorable opinion of Edenhurst’s people.

Still… the fact that he came back at all must mean Sister caught his eye.

On his previous stay, Mikhail had spent every afternoon with Elizabeth. True, their time together consisted of nothing more than walks around the estate with maids in attendance, but the atmosphere had been pleasant. He always met Elizabeth with a smile, and Elizabeth, who had first been so reluctant, soon lost every trace of reserve and answered him with laughter. Catherine had never in her life seen her sister behave so warmly.

But he still hasn’t proposed.

Catherine thought of Elizabeth’s recent manner. When Mikhail returned, no one had welcomed him more eagerly than her sister. Yet as the days passed, a look of anxiety settled over Elizabeth’s face. That was how Catherine knew: Mikhail still had not offered for her sister’s hand.

Why?

At first she had been puzzled. Had he not come back precisely to propose to Elizabeth? Had he not said he needed the count’s title? Was that not why he was looking after Edenhurst—and even after Catherine and their mother? If not, why come here at all?

A man with so many other villas has no reason to stay here unless there is something only Edenhurst can give him.

So he must want something obtainable only at Edenhurst. Catherine had been certain that something was Elizabeth. But what if… it was not?

The news that Mikhail was with Anastasia filled her with sudden dread. She had never considered the possibility.

Of course she knew that on his first visit he had caught Anastasia in the garden and ordered her wounds treated. After that, however, he had shown her no further interest. He never summoned her again. The servants who had tended Anastasia then had said Mikhail never sought her out a second time.

So Catherine had concluded he merely offered a scrap of attention and mercy to the girl he had mistaken for game, and that was the end of it.

Yet when he returned this time, Mikhail had carried Anastasia in his arms. He claimed he had rescued her from the grocer who was supposed to take her away and who had tried to force himself on her. Once more Catherine assumed Mikhail was merely extending a charitable hand and would soon lose interest.

After all, who would ever take an interest in Anastasia? That wretched, grotesque creature?

Catherine tried to picture Anastasia beside Mikhail. Her face went white.

What if Anastasia starts talking about things she shouldn’t?

She almost wished the girl were a true simpleton, but Anastasia was not.

Catherine knew Anastasia could recite every prayer. Once, when Catherine had tired of a pair of old shoes and tossed them to her as if they were a royal gift, Anastasia had poured out a long prayer of thanks with genuine fervor. Amused that the girl knew a prayer even Catherine herself had not fully memorized, she had ordered Anastasia to recite every prayer she knew. Anastasia had asked, quite seriously, whether she was truly expected to recite them all, for she knew a great many.

Catherine had found the claim absurd. How many could a creature like that possibly have learned?

Even Catherine, who had been taught by tutors since childhood, knew only a modest number of prayers. There was no real need to know more. Lengthy ones were for priests and theologians; ordinary folk needed only a few for mealtimes.

How could she possibly have learned them all?

Settling onto the sofa with the intention of laughing her fill, Catherine told Anastasia to begin.

An hour later she was biting her lip.

For a full hour the prayers poured from Anastasia’s mouth without a single stumble. Catherine half-suspected the girl was simply repeating the same ones, but that was not the case. The maid who shared the room stared at Anastasia as though she were seeing a ghost. Somehow, even while reciting sacred words, the sight of her was deeply unsettling.

Unable to bear any more, Catherine ordered her to stop and demanded,

“Who in this house taught you those prayers?”

“No one in the house, my lady. My father taught me when I was small.”

Catherine had thought it a lie. By then Anastasia had lived at Edenhurst for nearly nine years; she had arrived at the age of twelve. How could she still remember such things?

Yet Anastasia truly knew them, and Catherine confirmed that no one else had taught her. More than that… Anastasia knew more prayers than anyone else in the entire manor.

Still, that was all. Anastasia remained an idiot who could neither read nor count.

But she can speak.

While their father lived, Anastasia had been locked in a room aboveground; after his death she had been sent to the cellar. Catherine knew perfectly well what sort of treatment the girl had received. What would happen if she told Mikhail those truths?

Catherine set the unopened letter on the desk and rose.

“Take me to her.”

“My lady? Where—”

“Where do you think? Take me to Anastasia.”

She needed to see for herself whether Anastasia was truly meeting Mikhail, and if so, how close they had become.

The nanny led the way; Catherine followed briskly. Walking the corridors of her own home, she felt a strange sense of alienation. Everything had changed.

The portraits of the previous counts were gone, replaced by fashionable Flemish still lifes. The cloudy glass vase that once stood on the old wooden table had vanished; in its place stood mismatched tables of gold and crimson and small sculptures.

When had Edenhurst become like this?

Then she realized the nanny was heading toward the annex.

“Nanny, that’s the annex.”

“Yes. Anastas— Anastasia is staying there, they say.”

“That’s impossible. They told us the annex was under repair.”

After Mikhail’s arrival she had noticed servants from Sokolov going back and forth to the annex with unusual frequency. When she asked, they answered that they were renovating the entire building on Mikhail’s orders. She had tried to enter once, but unfamiliar footmen politely asked her to return later because work was in progress. After that she had paid the place no further mind, assuming they would show it to her once the repairs were finished.

And Anastasia had been living there all along?

Though called an annex, it was simply a later addition built separately from the main house—and far more comfortable. Even her father and mother had kept rooms in the main building only for appearances; they had spent most of their time in the annex.

Come to think of it, Mother has stayed only in the main house lately.

Ever since Mikhail’s return she had shut herself in her rooms, staring endlessly at thick documents. Sister Elizabeth, as always, maintained her lofty composure and did nothing.

They had almost reached the corridor leading to the annex when the nanny suddenly seized Catherine’s sleeve.

“My lady—there.”

“……!”

Hidden beside the curtain, the nanny pointed through the window toward a corner of the garden. Anastasia and Mikhail stood there together.

Mikhail and Anastasia’s walk that day had not been planned. Watching Anastasia follow a few steps behind him, Mikhail recalled the morning’s events.

At first he had offered to teach her table manners—partly to rebuild her strength, partly to keep her near him longer.

Even proper noble houses spend months on it.

It was never simply a matter of memorizing the order and names of utensils. The grip changed with each dish; the method of eating was prescribed; even the sequence in which foods were taken was fixed. Plenty of nobles still drew disapproving stares at dinner for failing to master it. Mikhail had expected the lessons to last at least a month.

Yet today, only a week later, he realized how badly he had miscalculated.

I never thought she would learn it perfectly.

On the second day Anastasia was already reproducing every movement he had shown her the day before. At first he assumed she was merely a clever mimic. But from the start of the meal to its end she was nearly flawless. The few small mistakes she made vanished the moment she watched him carefully and adjusted.

Intrigued, Mikhail gradually raised the difficulty—dishes that required the hands, or fish courses that demanded awkward knife work rather than simple cuts. Anastasia struggled at first, yet once he demonstrated she followed with startling speed. And today, a full week later, Mikhail had to admit there was nothing left to teach her about dining etiquette.

It was rather inconvenient. He had counted on keeping her at his side every morning for a month; he had never imagined the lessons would end so soon.

In the end he turned his eyes outdoors.

In two weeks his loyal servants had restored Edenhurst’s ruined garden to perfect order. Satisfied, Mikhail proposed a walk in the garden to Anastasia.