The Ruined Chapel
The summer storm raged on for two more days after that. Fortunately there was no more thunder or lightning after the first day, yet the wind and rain still lashed with such fury that the people of Edenhurst had no choice but to remain shut inside the mansion.
At last, two days later, a brilliant sky appeared as though the weather of the past several days had been nothing but a lie. The household, moved by the clear heavens and the radiant sunlight they had finally been granted, ventured out to survey the wreckage of Edenhurst.
“It’s truly dreadful.”
The gardeners looked the most stricken. A tree in the corner of the garden had been split clean in half by lightning—headache enough on its own—and the shattered pieces had been flung by wind and rain across the entire grounds. Worse still, every carefully tended summer flower had withered beneath the cold downpour.
Next in misery were the kitchen staff.
After suffering through a string of unreliable provisioners, the kitchen had finally secured a diligent supplier from another village. The man had always delivered groceries by cart every three days; once the storm abated he arrived alone on horseback, begging for help because he could no longer cross the wooden bridge into Edenhurst.
“Apparently the bridge leading here was damaged in several places by the floodwaters. Cart traffic is forbidden for the time being. We’ll have to haul our own wagon across and fetch the goods ourselves.”
Full repairs would not be finished before autumn, so until then they would have to endure that extra labor every three days.
The third person wearing a long face was Anastasia.
“I think I’m quite all right now.”
She spoke in a pleading tone to Igor, who had come to examine her.
On the day the storm broke, Anastasia had recklessly dashed out into the garden while lightning still cracked overhead. Mikhail had carried her straight back, plunged her into warm water, and tended her, yet her body had already been weakened; there was no chance she would escape unscathed.
By the next day she had caught a cold and was forced to spend several more days coughing in bed.
“Still, it’s a mercy you’ve been eating properly lately. For a while you barely touched your food… Did something change your mind?”
The question was aimed at Anastasia, yet Igor’s eyes rested on Mikhail. He already knew the answer. How could he not? From the morning after Mikhail brought her in from the garden, the man had scarcely left her room.
What on earth happened?
One day Mikhail had simply stopped seeking Anastasia out. Meals were taken alone again, and afternoons no longer found him in the study. Igor and Yury had exchanged looks.
He’s finished with her.
He’s cleaned house.
Not long before, when Igor had told Mikhail that if he meant to keep agonizing he should simply send Anastasia away, Igor had met that chilling stare for the first time in years—the same predatory gaze he had seen when they first met, a look Mikhail had grown far too skilled at concealing. Had Igor said another word that day, he was certain several neat holes would have appeared in his skull.
Obsession of that intensity had convinced Igor that Mikhail would never let her go. Yet Mikhail had abruptly cut her loose. Igor did not know what had occurred, but he had thought it for the best—that Mikhail had finally come to his senses.
Then the man had plunged into the storm after her, brought her home, and refused to leave her side for a single hour.
I give up.
Igor decided to stop concerning himself with their affairs. Mikhail could manage his own mess. Yet from that day forward, the slightest cough from Anastasia meant Igor was hauled over without fail.
“If this is how it’s going to be, hire a proper physician! My actual profession is secretary! Do you not see the mountain of paperwork?”
When Igor finally refused and flopped down in protest, Mikhail glared as though demanding he rise that instant.
“How am I supposed to trust some random bastard?”
The words sounded casual, yet their meaning ran deep. Igor had earned his medical license precisely because the people who had to be protected could never be left in unknown hands.
That meant every patient Igor examined was one of the very few Mikhail truly valued.
The Countess keeps her own physician, after all.
The Countess, forever dosing herself with one medicine or another, already had a doctor who came and went freely. Mikhail had never once ordered Igor to look at her; she simply did not matter enough.
Yet with Anastasia he glued Igor to her side every single day—something he had never done even for Elizabeth, whom he had once claimed he would marry!
Worse than that.
Igor eyed the high collar Anastasia wore despite the season. Each time she moved, a flash of red vanished beneath the fabric. He sighed and looked at Mikhail.
You’ve been parked here from dawn to dusk, haven’t you.
Biting and sucking to your heart’s content, I see.
Back in Sokolov, Mikhail had seemed so indifferent to women that one might have wondered whether his reproductive organs even functioned, or whether desire itself was absent. He had continued reading documents with perfect calm while would-be mistresses deliberately stripped and threw themselves at him. Here he behaved like a man frantic to keep his lover in his arms.
For the first time Igor saw the twenty-eight-year-old youth in him. Of course the impression vanished the moment Mikhail shot him a look that clearly ordered him to get on with the examination.
Igor produced his stethoscope. Anastasia, already familiar with the routine, lifted the hem of her blouse. He placed the cold disk against her stomach and beneath her breasts. Mikhail, seated beside her, watched with open displeasure.
A moment later Igor removed the instrument.
“You’re perfectly fine now. No labored breathing at all.”
Smiles appeared on both Anastasia’s and Mikhail’s faces. Wondering why they both looked so absurdly pleased, Igor was packing the stethoscope away when Mikhail spoke.
“Leave that here.”
“Pardon?”
“Leave the stethoscope.”
“…Have you taken up medicine?”
Why on earth the stethoscope? Then Igor recalled the thoroughly disapproving stare Mikhail had fixed on him throughout the examination. Surely not…
“Suit yourself.”
Igor set the instrument down with a look of pure disgust, told them not to summon him for a good long while, and fled. Once he was gone, Anastasia approached Mikhail.
“He said I’m completely better. Then, as we promised…”
“I know. We’ll go to the forest.”
At his answer she dashed into the adjoining room.
“Natasha! Natasha! I’m going to the forest!”
Watching her scurry off in high spirits to change, Mikhail smiled. He had promised her: once the storm passed and her body recovered, they would go to the forest together.
“This way.”
He had expected the ground to be thoroughly soaked after so much rain, yet the forest floor was surprisingly firm. The air, however, still carried the clean scent of rain. Drawing that moisture-laden freshness deep into his lungs, Mikhail followed Anastasia beneath the trees.
The ruined chapel.
For the past several days he had remained long hours in her room. They took meals together; he read to her while she rested, or told her stories of his own. He did most of the talking; she mostly listened.
Yet sometimes she spoke of herself as well.
“When I’m well again, I want to fetch my shoes. I left them in the chapel in the forest.”
“A chapel?”
“They say it stood there long before Edenhurst was built. No one knows of it now except me.”
Seeing his interest, Anastasia brightened at having something of her own to share and described the place in detail—when she had first discovered it, how utterly ruined it had been, how she had slowly put it to rights…
She spoke with lively pleasure, yet Mikhail’s heart was not easy. In her stories the ruined chapel was both home and refuge. How unbearable must this mansion have been that, save for winter, she spent nearly all her time there?
In her telling the broken chapel was her impregnable fortress and her safest haven. She had placed the gift he gave her in its deepest recess. That pleased him deeply—she had set what was his inside her most secret sanctuary.
And so he had promised: the moment her body recovered, they would go together to the chapel in the forest. This was her invitation.
Once they entered the trees, the storm’s damage became visible—branches broken and strewn everywhere. Walking at her side, Mikhail cleared every obstacle so she would not be hurt. They had gone deep into the woods when her voice rang out, bright with joy.
“There it is!”
The ruined chapel she had spoken of appeared before them. Anastasia hurried to the doorway, gathered her skirts with pretty care, and offered him a small curtsy.
“Thank you for coming to my chapel, Mikhail.”
It was a greeting fit for children’s make-believe, yet he did not smile. He knew that in all the years she had kept this place, he was the only soul she had ever invited.
The single person she had chosen to let inside. That person was him.
“Thank you for inviting me, Anastasia.”
Mikhail returned the greeting with complete sincerity.