A Nightmare of Guilt
“C-Count…”
“Hurry.”
At the impatient voice, Anastasia forced her trembling body upright. A red floor filled her vision—the same carpet she had always known, the stains, the depressions left by furniture. This was the Count’s chamber, the room to which she had been summoned once a month. She could not lift her head; she stared only at the floor.
“You haven’t forgotten what you must do, I trust.”
“…….”
She knew perfectly well. On the final day of every month, no matter how far he had wandered, the Count always returned to Edenhurst and called for her. The single task he demanded each time. Anastasia’s shaking hands clutched at her clothes.
“Hurry.”
At the renewed command she tried to force strength into fingers that would not obey. They remained as rigid as if nailed in place.
“Anastasia.”
The Count called her name again, urging. Yet she did not want to do what he ordered. She looked down at the dress she wore.
A beautiful garment of soft, clean fabric. It was not a gift from the Count. He preferred her in the same plain things and never gave her fine clothes. It was not from her father either; he had taught that luxury and vanity were sins of man. Then who had given her this dress?
One thing was certain… the cloth was warm, plush, and gentle against her skin.
“Anastasia.”
Hearing her name spoken once more in that commanding tone, she forced her lips open with difficulty.
“I… don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Father… the Lord… said not to bare a naked body. S-so… I won’t do it….”
Looking back, it was from then that she could no longer meet people’s eyes. Whenever gazes met, she felt certain they all knew what she had done the previous night in the Count’s room—that they all knew her sin….
The Count had told her it was not her crime. And he was right. He had done nothing. He had merely sat and watched while she stood there. That was why she had believed he must have gone to Heaven. He had committed no sin. The sin was entirely hers….
Heaven?
In that instant Anastasia raised her head. Yes—the Count was dead. He had died just before the “time” he always spoke of could arrive. Then who was the man sitting before her now, issuing commands?
The moment her eyes fell on the chair the Count had once occupied, she swallowed a sharp breath. The person seated there was not the Count. Platinum-blond hair, blue eyes, the face of an angel….
“Edward….”
Her choked whisper made the boy smile sweetly. Edward opened his mouth.
“Come here, sister.”
He stretched out a hand toward her.
“Father is dead. I’m the Count of Lauderdale now. I’m the master of Edenhurst. So….”
Still wearing that beautiful smile, Edward rose from the chair.
“Get down on your hands and knees and crawl to me, Anastasia.”
When he took a step closer she took a step back.
“What’s wrong? It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”
“No….”
“Don’t lie. I saw everything.”
Edward giggled. The sound was pure and childlike, yet gooseflesh rose over Anastasia’s entire body.
“No. The Count never ordered anything like that. He just… just… made me stand still….”
“Stand still? And do what?”
“…….”
She could not answer. As though he had expected her silence, Edward spoke again.
“The game where you become the doll named Chloe?”
Anastasia bit her lip. The first time she had been brought here she had not even understood what she was doing. The master of this beautiful paradise was the Count; obeying him had seemed only natural. Yet instinct had sensed the strangeness even through ignorance. That was why she had come to dread the once-a-month summons.
In the deep of night, when the silent maid led her to the Count’s room, she would tell herself over and over: the Count only sits on the sofa. He does nothing. He merely watches.
Edward stepped closer still. This time she could not retreat. He laid a hand on the crown of her head and pressed down hard. She collapsed onto her knees before him with a soft thud.
“Let’s play it with me too. I’ve always wanted to try. So first—will you take that dress off?”
“…No.”
Understanding what he intended, Anastasia shook her head violently.
“Why not? Because of Mikhail Sokolov?”
At the sound of Mikhail’s name her mind snapped sharply awake. At the same moment everything around her began to blur. Edward could not know that name. Edward had died before Mikhail ever arrived. Therefore this was….
“A dream.”
The figure of Edward standing before her grew hazy as well.
“Yes, I’m a dream. But the sin you committed isn’t a dream, is it?”
At those words Anastasia screamed.
“It wasn’t me! It was your sin!”
The crime belonged to Edward, not to her—on the day the Count died. Why, then, did he call it hers? When she cried out, Edward gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
“But you saw everything and never said a word, did you?”
“…….”
“Anyway, Anastasia.”
He leaned close and whispered.
“Be careful not to let Mikhail Sokolov find out.”
“Hah…!”
“Miss!”
A familiar voice reached her. Brilliant sunlight stabbed painfully into her eyes; she groaned and squeezed them shut again.
“Miss, are you all right? I called you so many times and you wouldn’t wake—I was worried.”
“Natasha…?”
The person gripping her hand with a startled face was Natasha. Anastasia pressed a palm to her own forehead. Cold sweat streamed down her neck, sticky and unpleasant. Her breathing was ragged, her heart hammering wildly. For a long while she simply sat dazed, then realized that everything she had just seen had been a dream.
“Heavens, look at all this sweat. What kind of dream did you have? Wait just a moment—I’ll fetch wash water and a change of clothes right away.”
The sound of Natasha hurrying out reached her ears. Anastasia looked around the room. It was the familiar chamber in the annex.
She rose from the bed and searched urgently for water. Thankfully the bottle Natasha had left on the table the night before was still there. She snatched it up and tried to pour into a cup, but her hands shook so violently that little liquid made it inside. With difficulty she managed a swallow, then another. Gulp. Gulp.
The cup emptied in an instant, yet she poured again and drank, as though trying to rinse something filthy from her mouth. Even after draining the entire bottle the foul taste remained. It was always like this on mornings after dreaming of Edward.
In the past she had only been afraid when she woke. Today she was angry. Filthy creature. Despicable creature. Continuing his threats even in dreams….
Tears surged up. Her already swollen eyes stung. She had cried until she fell asleep the night before; of course they hurt.
On unsteady legs she approached the window. The main house where Mikhail and the Lauderdale mother and daughter stayed was visible. Her gaze sought the windows of Mikhail’s rooms. Perhaps because the sky was still the dark of early dawn, a lamp burned there.
Mikhail was there. Merely confirming that fact brought her a measure of calm.
Anastasia admitted it to herself. She liked Mikhail.
She remembered the meaning of the name she had read in a book. Among the angels recorded in Scripture, the archangel closest to God. The one who casts down God’s enemies. The one most like God. The greatest fragment of God. The strongest of God’s warriors. A name that suited perfectly the man who had saved her the moment she prayed—and the master of this paradise.
She wanted to remain at his side. Yet she knew full well she could not. He would become Elizabeth’s man and leave this place.
She wondered what method might allow her to stay with Mikhail in the future. Shamelessly, what she desired was perfectly clear. She wanted to be his wife.
“…Impossible.”
What did she possess that would let her dare aspire to such a place?
The more she learned to read and the more she came to know the world, the clearer her own station became. An orphan adopted into a noble house yet granted none of its privileges, sold off to a grocery merchant—a useless thing.
She had never properly learned any trade, so she could not even perform household chores for others. She farmed nothing, traded nothing; she was nothing more than a lucky parasite that had clung to life until now.
A truly wretched, pitiful existence. If she and Elizabeth stood side by side, anyone would choose Elizabeth. And already… had Mikhail not chosen Elizabeth?
Anastasia’s shoulders sagged.
She had woken from the dream. Therefore the wretched snake had to crawl back to her proper place.
She looked past the main house to the distant sky. Black storm clouds were gathering.
“She’s still unwell, I take it.”
“Yes.”
At Mikhail’s low, subdued voice Natasha bowed her head as though every fault were her own. Anastasia had not left her room for three days. According to Natasha, after the nightmare she could not even bring herself to leave the bed.
“What did Igor say?”
“Lord Igor said there is nothing particularly wrong with her body, but she is mentally quite weakened, so for the time being she should simply rest thoroughly.”
“…I see.”
Mikhail found himself doubting whether Igor truly held a medical license. Quack. Wasn’t a proper physician supposed to examine mental afflictions as carefully as physical ones?
“And the young lady asked me to return these to you, Lord Mikhail.”
Natasha drew the handcart she had brought up in front of him.
“These?”
“Yes. She said she no longer has any need to keep them.”
At Natasha’s words Mikhail stared in disbelief at the load on the cart. It was every book Anastasia had borrowed from the library so far, including the dictionary. Had it been only the books, he might have accepted it.
“…….”
His face hardened as he looked down at the cart.
Not merely the books, but the pen, the ink, and the paper as well. All the things Anastasia had received with such pure joy were piled there.