The Head of the Table
With the maids’ help, Elizabeth changed her clothes. Mikhail had recovered some of the gowns she had ordered from the capital, so she was able to dress in something new. The ensemble made for early summer fitted her without a single flaw.
“It suits you wonderfully.”
Her old nurse breathed the words in open admiration. Another of Edenhurst’s maids chimed in at once, exclaiming over both the gown and Elizabeth’s appearance. Elizabeth caught the undercurrent of relief that ran beneath their praise.
That little strumpet is wagging her tail at Mikhail!
Catherine’s furious outburst from earlier that afternoon returned to her. There had been no need to ask who “that little strumpet” was—Anastasia. Foolish sister. Shouting such things in front of the servants—what did she think would come of it? Elizabeth ordered everyone out, then invited Catherine to sit.
“I saw her room. Do you realize she’s being treated exactly like us? No—she has even more clothes than we do. I saw them with my own eyes!”
“Speak a little louder. With just a bit more effort the entire household will hear you.”
Only then did Catherine realize how loudly she had been talking and shut her mouth. Her breathing remained harsh and ragged all the same; she was clearly seething.
“Calm yourself first. I’m afraid of what Mikhail would think if he saw you like this.”
“How can you stay so composed? I won’t let that girl get away with it.”
“And what exactly do you intend to do?”
“After everything I did for her—clothes, shoes, kindness—and this is how she repays me? I’ll shave her head and eyebrows, strip her naked, and throw her into the pigsty!”
Elizabeth almost laughed. That was the old Novgord punishment for an adulterous wife. It lingered only in remote villages now, yet it had never entirely vanished. Few ever carried it out—not because the penalty itself was too cruel, but because to do so was to admit the husband’s adultery in open court, and no wife willingly invited that shame.
“Catherine. That is the way of common folk. I would rather not see it practiced inside Edenhurst.”
“Then what are we supposed to do?”
This was Edenhurst, and she was a Lauderdale who carried the blood of Ils.
“I intend to reason with her.”
“…Oh, honestly.”
Catherine pressed a hand to her forehead and sighed. She clearly thought her thoroughly aristocratic sister was living in a dream, unable to grasp the reality of their situation. Elizabeth only smiled faintly at the despairing sound. Passages from the Scripture she had read and reread countless times rose in her mind. Elizabeth was one of those who already knew how the serpent’s story ended.
“Magnificent.”
The Countess regarded the completely transformed dining room with genuine admiration. She had lived her entire life as a noblewoman; even if Edenhurst had begun its long decline after her husband’s death, the aesthetic sense cultivated over decades did not vanish overnight. Everything had been arranged in a style she had never seen before, yet every detail was refined and elegant.
When she entered, Elizabeth and Catherine rose from their seats. Though they shared the same house, she felt as though she were looking upon her daughters’ faces after a long separation.
Well, that is only natural.
For days she had done nothing but read and reread the one hundred twenty-two contracts Yury had left behind. The documents themselves were flawless. The only problem was that they offered the Lauderdale family nothing at all—and nowhere among them appeared the marriage she had so desperately wanted.
Truthfully, the Countess was exhausted beyond measure. Her husband had died; her son had been conscripted and then killed just before he was due to return. At the brink of ruin she had thought she had seized a lifeline in Mikhail Sokolov, only to discover she could not tell whether the rope was securely knotted or already slipping free.
“Sit.”
She spoke to her daughters while studying the place that ought to have been hers. Once she would have walked without hesitation to the head of the table. Now she stared at the long surface for a long moment before taking the seat beside the head, facing Elizabeth.
Elizabeth remained serene. Catherine looked bewildered, then bit her lip.
A short while later footsteps sounded at the entrance and Mikhail appeared. On his first visit to Edenhurst he had arrived earliest of all, accompanied by his secretaries. Now he was the last to enter. He walked unhurriedly, with easy, measured strides, straight to the far end of the table—the place of honor.
“Somehow it feels as though we have not seen one another in quite some time.”
No apology left his lips. With satisfied eyes he noted the seats the three women had chosen. These were the proper places.
Once Mikhail sat, the servants who until that moment had stood as still as furniture sprang into motion and began to serve.
“I feared my poor health would make me an unpleasant sight at table, so only now am I able to join you.”
Despite the bright greeting, none of the three women answered. A cold soup suited to the warming weather appeared, followed by dishes meant to sharpen the appetite. Catherine’s face tightened with confusion. The order of courses was not the Ilsian formal dinner she knew, but the Novgord style.
Just as the room itself had been remade, everything on the table had changed as well. An uneasy silence settled once more. No conversation filled the dining room; only the occasional clink of silverware broke the quiet. The silent meal stretched on for a long time, the mouths of those present serving no purpose beyond the taking of food. Just when it seemed someone might drown in that silence, Mikhail spoke.
“Once Saint Remigius’s Day is over, I intend to return to Sokolov.”
“…….”
The silence grew heavier. The Countess’s hand, which had been moving with difficulty, stilled. Catherine held her breath, waiting for whatever came next.
“It is a bustling city, yet it possesses charms quite different from Edenhurst. I hope you will all enjoy yourselves there.”
Catherine released the breath she had been holding. The Countess’s fork slipped from her fingers. Elizabeth alone kept her lofty composure and allowed a faint smile to touch her lips.
Mikhail had just declared that he would take them all to Sokolov. The tedious contest of wills that had dragged on for months was finally at an end.
“Then… regarding the marriage discussion we spoke of earlier…”
The Countess no longer wished to fight; she meant to extract a clear answer at last.
“Of course I intend to proceed. However—”
Mikhail paused to draw a breath before continuing.
“I would prefer that everything take place after we reach Sokolov.”
“Why? Surely the betrothal itself could be sworn here.”
At the thought of remaining under this stranglehold until Saint Remigius’s Day, the Countess forgot all dignity and pressed the question in a rush. As she opened her mouth to speak again, Elizabeth restrained her mother.
“That is enough, Mother. Mikhail must have his reasons.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
Mikhail inclined his head slightly toward Elizabeth in gratitude. In truth she had surprised him most of all. He had expected her to take after the Countess; instead the Elizabeth before him was remarkably composed.
She was precisely the sort of woman he required—one who could bring him a title, who knew every nuance of aristocratic etiquette, who would never become a nuisance, and who was beautiful besides. On his first visit to Edenhurst she had looked at him with unmistakable interest, and he had worried she might pester him with talk of love once they reached Sokolov. Yet this time she remained quietly self-possessed—whether because she understood her position or had simply learned patience in the interval.
It ought to have been an attractive quality. Strangely, the fact unsettled him. Unable to locate the source of that instinct, he said nothing further.
Conversation flowed more freely afterward. The anxious Countess and the still-sulking Catherine both listened attentively once Mikhail began to describe life in Sokolov in detail.
“I mentioned it briefly during my last visit, but at the time it seemed improper to go into particulars. My estate on the western hill of Sokolov, including the gardens, covers approximately thirty-eight acres.”
“Thirty-eight acres?”
Catherine muttered the figure, unable to picture the size. Mikhail added a simple comparison.
“The whole of Edenhurst is fifteen acres.”
“…!”
Catherine’s eyes widened. Edenhurst was a rural estate. Sokolov was the second-largest city after the capital, and he owned more than twice as much land there?
“Two rivers run through the grounds. What is called Sokolov House consists of four separate buildings.”
“…That sounds more like a palace.”
“Some do call it that from time to time, though a man who is not of the imperial blood would be unwise to claim such a name for himself.”
There was a quiet barb in the words.
Mikhail continued, describing the scale of the estate, the number of servants, and the facilities within. Eventually the conversation turned to the stables.
“I have recently taken an interest in breeding racehorses—crossing bloodstock imported from northern Ils with the powerful wild horses of the central plains.”
“How many racehorses do you have?”
“More are being foaled even now, so I cannot give an exact figure, but fifteen are formally registered.”
Becoming the owner of a racehorse was no small matter. Thoroughbred racing had existed in Novgord for only fifty years, yet in that short span it had grown into a vast enterprise that fascinated everyone from nobles to commoners. Even a single horse registered with the Jockey Club was said to be an object of envy. Fifteen of them…
“Might I… try riding one of them?”
Catherine asked eagerly. The Countess’s face stiffened at once; the memory of her husband, killed in a riding accident, had risen unbidden.
“Forgive me, but I believe I shall retire early. Mikhail, if it is not too much trouble, perhaps we might continue over dinner tomorrow…”
“Of course. I shall look forward to seeing you at tomorrow evening’s meal.”
The Countess’s abrupt departure brought the dinner to an end. Under ordinary circumstances they would have moved to the drawing room for further conversation, but she had requested Elizabeth’s arm for support, leaving only Catherine and Mikhail behind.
Once her mother had gone upstairs, Catherine seemed almost relieved; she moved closer to Mikhail and began peppering him with questions about the horses.
“You appear to take a great interest in them, Miss Catherine.”
“Yes. Before the accident I owned two horses of my own—I loved riding. After Father died, Mother sold every last one.”
She muttered something more under her breath, most of it resentment toward her mother for disposing of her mounts. Then she sighed heavily.
“I suppose… even a quiet, clever horse like Dalby threw Father. She must have been afraid the others would be worse.”
“Dalby?”
“That was the name of Father’s horse. I heard he was an extremely expensive stallion.”
The name struck Mikhail as familiar; a moment later he remembered where he had heard it. The stallion Vinya in his own stables was Dalby’s son. Horses were terrifyingly honest creatures—intelligence and physique both passed down with almost perfect fidelity. Mikhail knew precisely what sort of animal Vinya was.
In pure intelligence Vinya stood head and shoulders above the rest of the stable. Trainers and jockeys alike marveled at him. The horse understood the rules of racing, remembered the quirks of every rival, and knew exactly when to make his move. He even adjusted his own pace according to the weight and habits of whatever jockey sat on his back.
And the sire of such a horse had thrown his rider? On ground he knew by heart?
“Even if Edward was furious, shooting him was too much.”
“Shot him…?”
“Would you have left the horse that killed your father alive? They found Dalby alone out on the plain later. He must have known he’d done wrong—when Edward came out with the gun he went wild trying to get away.”
Mikhail considered her words for a moment, then asked,
“So until Edward appeared, the horse remained perfectly still?”
Catherine seemed to cast her mind back.
“I think so. He kept tugging at my clothes and rubbing his face against me, as if he were trying to apologize.”