Storm's Embrace
"Lady Anastasia?"
The servants of Sokolov turned their heads in shock once more. Yet the rain poured with such fury that Anastasia's figure, vanishing into the garden, blurred and vanished almost at once.
"You mustn't! If you go out now…."
Natasha scrambled to find an umbrella nearby when a low rumble rolled across the sky like a massive boulder, and a searing light flashed without warning.
Crash!
A deafening blast shook the entire mansion.
"Ah!"
"Kyaa!"
Screams erupted throughout the house; somewhere glass shattered. Cold air rushed in through the broken panes, carrying a strange, sharp scent—the smell that lingers when lightning strikes far too close.
"Lady Anastasia!"
Natasha, who had crumpled to the floor, scrambled up and stared outside. The great tree at the garden's end lay split clean in half, sprawled across the ground. Lightning had claimed it. Her face drained of color as she peered through the driving rain for her mistress. Halfway down the garden path a white shape lay collapsed on the earth.
"My lady…."
Had the lightning struck her? Natasha's mind went blank—then, mercifully, the fallen figure stirred and struggled to rise.
I have to catch up to her.
But as she moved to step outside, another deep rumble rolled through the air.
Again!
The flash came sooner than anyone expected. Instinct drove every soul to squeeze their eyes shut, clap hands over ears, and curl tight. Even knowing she must go, Natasha froze—until a voice cut through the storm.
"Anastasia!"
Someone shouted her name and sprinted out into the rain.
"Ugh… ah…."
Sprawled on the ground, Anastasia could not gather her scattered senses. Sound clanged endlessly inside her skull; the world that had blackened at the flash of light refused to return. She blinked hard several times before the surroundings slowly swam into focus. Shattered pieces of the tree lay scattered about, still hissing and smoking even beneath the relentless rain.
"Hic…."
A choked, tear-roughened sound slipped from her throat at the unreal sight. Overhead the sky growled again like some great beast. Anastasia clamped her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes shut, and pressed herself flat against the earth.
I'm so scared.
Thunder and lightning terrified her beyond reason. The vibration and the blinding glare always stripped her mind bare in an instant. Even locked in the basement room she had stuffed the blanket into her mouth and screamed whenever the thunder rolled. Once Catherine had called for her and seen her like that; the mockery had lasted for days.
"Got some sin on your conscience?"
She forced her eyes open again and stared at the splintered wood before her. People said the guilty were struck down by lightning. If that were true, she was surely next.
If she wanted to live she ought to scramble back to the mansion this very second and hide under the bed. Instead she groped across the waterlogged ground, searching for the path that led into the forest.
Rain lashed her body like a whip; she could see scarcely an inch ahead. Her indoor clothes, already soaked through, clung to her skin and dripped steadily. Water ran in cold rivulets down her limbs, stealing her warmth in moments.
"Cold…."
No summer rain should feel this icy. For days she had lain abed. Igor insisted nothing serious ailed her, yet every night fever rose and her body shook. Meals went uneaten; the strength drained from her until she could barely rise.
Her teeth chattered violently. She knew she must return to the house—yet still she wiped rain from her face and sought the direction of the trees.
I have to bring it back.
She thought of the ruined chapel deep in the forest—more precisely, of the space beneath the stone bench in its farthest corner.
If only it hadn't been for the sleeping draught, I would have gone days ago.
Nightmares plagued her whenever she slept, so she had fought to stay awake until her body weakened and every nerve stood raw. Even the smallest sound made her start; in the end Igor had prescribed the draught again. When she closed her eyes the sky had held only heavy cloud. When she opened them, thunder and a deluge had already claimed the world. The sight of water pooling across the garden had driven her outside before thought could form.
My shoes.
The pair Mikhail had given her still waited inside the chapel.
Rain had scarcely fallen for weeks. This season at Edenhurst was meant to be the driest and brightest of the year; she had kept putting off the walk to the chapel. Besides, whenever she was not with Mikhail she had buried herself in books. Just a little more reading, she had told herself, only a little longer—never imagining a summer storm of this violence would descend without warning.
Wind howled so fiercely it was impossible to tell whether the rain fell from the heavens or rose from the earth. The familiar garden of Edenhurst became a featureless gray; she could no longer distinguish forest from mansion. She clung to the long line of hedge and forced her feet forward. Direction no longer mattered—only movement.
Rain this heavy will soak them through.
The chapel still had part of its roof, and the shoes rested under the stone bench; she had sheltered there herself on rainy days. Yet a downpour like this might flood even that refuge. Leather shoes nestled in a velvet-lined box could never survive.
She had never even worn them once—had only treasured the thought of them. She could not leave them to ruin. Anyone who knew what she risked her life for would have laughed. Everything she owned, beginning with the annex room itself, had come from Mikhail. To abandon all of it and race into the forest for a single pair of shoes seemed absurd.
But those shoes were different. They were the very first thing he had given her—given out of concern. She meant to keep them forever, so that the happiest hours of her life would never fade.
Crash!
"Ah!"
Lightning struck without so much as a breath of warning. Anastasia dropped to the ground and finally broke into open, helpless sobs. Her soaked body and limbs chilled at terrifying speed; though it was summer, her hands stiffened as if plunged into midwinter snow, too rigid to obey.
"Cough!"
She coughed up a mouthful of freezing air. Sound, light, and cold were stripping her consciousness away. Unable to rise, she tried only to curl smaller—then thunder rolled again. She thought she would lose her senses completely.
Crash!
Something wrapped around her an instant before the thunder could reach her ears.
"What the hell do you think you're doing!"
The roar drowned even the storm.
"Are you trying to get yourself killed? Lightning is falling and you run straight into the forest!"
"Ah…."
A face she had not seen for days hovered above her. Eyes bluer and sharper than lightning itself glared down. Mikhail.
His pale platinum hair was darkened by rain; water streamed along the clean line of his jaw. She felt the drops striking her face—then realized that because his body shielded hers completely, the rain no longer touched her.
He must have rushed out the moment he heard. No umbrella, no coat—only the same thin indoor clothes, soaked through. Through the wet fabric the heat of his body pressed clear and solid against her.
"The shoes…."
"What?"
"In the forest… the chapel… the shoes you gave me then are still there. I have to get them…."
Tears mingled with rain; warm drops fell against his skin. Mikhail, ready to snap that she was talking nonsense, fell silent at the pleading look on her face. He steadied himself, then asked quietly,
"Why go after those?"
"…."
"You sent everything else back. Why those? Do you want to return even them? Fine. I'll consider the gift already accepted."
He lifted her into his arms and turned toward the house. Anastasia twisted and fought to free herself.
"N-no!"
"Why not?"
"They're precious to me!"
"Then tell me why they're precious."
His tone said he truly meant to carry her straight inside and leave the shoes to the storm. Words left her before she could think.
"Because I like them!"
"…."
"Because I like you, Lord Mikhail! So the first thing you ever gave me… I wanted to keep it safe…."
The confession tore out of her in a rush; she sobbed and gasped until her body went limp. Mikhail gathered the trembling girl closer and ran for the mansion without another word. The moment he crossed the threshold, servants surged forward with towels, blotting water from them both.
"Prepare a warm bath—now!"
"It's already ready!"
Natasha's voice answered at once. She had seen Mikhail race out after Anastasia, ordered another maid to fetch towels, then flown to the kitchen to have the ever-ready boiling water carried upstairs.
Mikhail followed her deeper into the house—not to the annex, but to his own rooms in the main wing. The adjoining bathroom already held a tub filled to the brim with steaming water the servants had prepared in frantic haste.
"Give the lady to us… we will see to her."
"No. Enough. Everyone out."
When the maids reached for her, Mikhail shook his head. They recognized the finality in his voice, stacked clean towels nearby, and withdrew, closing the door behind them. He tested the water with one hand, then lowered Anastasia straight into the bath.
"Ah…."
Even the heat could not still her shivering. Her lips had gone blue. Mikhail rubbed her hands and arms with fierce, relentless strokes.
After a time she drew a long, shuddering breath and opened her eyes. Consciousness had returned. Seeing it, Mikhail began to ease his hands free—only for her small fingers to close around his, refusing to let go.
She had returned his books and pen and kept her distance for days; now she clung to him as though drowning. He looked down at those desperate hands and spoke.
"Anastasia. Answer me honestly."
"…."
"When you said you liked me—did you mean it?"
No evasion, no soft approach. She nodded. The truth was already spoken; there was nothing left to hide. All she asked was that he not laugh. She lowered her head, dreading his reply—then his fingers caught her chin and lifted it.
"Mmph!"
His mouth claimed hers without hesitation, bold and deep.