His Bedroom, Not the Academy
Mikhail left the hotel at once and crossed to the opposite side of the street. Beyond the display window stood porcelain figures. They were being imported in great numbers from Ils of late, riding the wave of popularity that had swept Novgorod. High on the shelf sat the very object that had kept catching his eye from inside the hotel.
“Just as I thought. The Academy.”
Porcelain was no longer limited to human or animal forms. At first the imports had been simple doll substitutes, but fashion had shifted; now models of famous foreign buildings—or entire cities—were all the rage. The piece before him belonged to that newer fashion.
Imported from Ils, it had been cast after the Academy of Ils, yet it differed little from Novgorod’s own Academy. After all, Novgorod’s Academy had been built as a faithful copy of its Ils counterpart to begin with.
Gazing at the porcelain Academy brought Anastasia back to mind. How could one person be curious about so many things in the world?
When we reach Sokolov, I’ll have to engage tutors for her.
These past few days he had spent more hours holding Anastasia than attending to business. Work had consequently piled up, forcing him to travel alone for days at a stretch. If it was already like this at Edenhurst, life would only grow busier once they returned to Sokolov. There would be no more leisurely afternoons spent simply listening to her talk.
He had already let drop that he would find her teachers once they settled in Sokolov. Anastasia herself seemed fascinated by the Academy, yet he had no intention of ever sending her there. The place she belonged was his bedchamber, not some lecture hall.
Mikhail stepped into the shop. The proprietor’s face lit up the moment he saw him.
“Welcome, sir. What may I show you?”
“That.”
Mikhail pointed at the Academy model.
“Wrap every last one.”
The owner’s eyes brightened; he hurried to lift the pieces down from the display. He had stocked them, true, but they were so costly he had expected them to gather dust until the founding festival at earliest. And now the entire set was being bought at once. While he packed with frantic care he kept stealing glances at his customer.
An unfamiliar face. Yet the man’s bearing and dress proclaimed extreme wealth. Hands still flying, the proprietor ventured conversation.
“Choosing the Academy, sir—you must have a child with scholarly leanings.”
“……?”
Mikhail’s cool stare made the man flush and scramble for an excuse.
“Is that not the case? These days such models are often given as gifts to young ones.”
Mikhail thought of Anastasia and gave a soft snort of laughter. Scholarly zeal she certainly possessed—but she was no child of his.
Though I could father one.
For a fleeting second an image he had never once imagined in his life flashed through his mind: someone standing at his side, and between them a tiny hand clutching his own…
“Sir? Which boxes would you prefer?”
The shopkeeper’s voice shattered the daydream. Mikhail glanced once more at the models on the counter, then asked,
“Do you have any buildings from Ils or Flanders as well? Entire cities will do.”
The proprietor’s expression grew positively ravenous; he ushered Mikhail deeper into the shop. Much later, back at the hotel, Mikhail spoke to Yury.
“There are a good many things to take to Edenhurst. Hire a second carriage.”
“What? What on earth did you buy?”
Mikhail offered no answer. He simply returned to the sofa and the waiting documents. He needed to finish this work quickly and return to Edenhurst.
“This is the central square. Right beside it stands Saint Freya Hall, the very first building erected at the Academy. It is where the law students gather.”
Ilya pointed to the middle of the rough map he had sketched on paper. Anastasia lifted her pen and carefully wrote Saint Freya Hall in the indicated spot.
“How large is it?”
Having finished the name, she looked up at him. The gaze held nothing but pure curiosity, yet Ilya turned his face away. His cheeks, as they had done for days now, burned scarlet.
“At least ten times the size of Edenhurst Manor, I should think.”
“Ten times?”
Anastasia’s eyes widened as though such a structure could not possibly exist; beneath Freya Hall she noted Edenhurst ×10. Watching her, Ilya said,
“When you visit later, I shall make certain to guide you myself.”
Anastasia’s face lit with a radiant smile.
“Mr. Mikhail has promised to take me, so I shall rely on you then.”
Ilya managed a strained smile of his own.
Mikhail Sokolov…
For the first time in his life Ilya discovered it was possible to dislike a man he had never even met. His thoughts drifted back to the conversation with Catherine three days earlier.
Three days ago Ilya had listened to Catherine in growing confusion. She had spat that Anastasia was a creature born with a whore’s nature, that the entire household had struggled to curb that vulgar instinct, only for the girl to seduce Mikhail—the very man who had come to marry Elizabeth—and share his bed.
“She deliberately went out in thin clothes on a rainy day and flaunted herself. Heavens, it is mortifying even to speak of. She does things the lowest scullery maids would never dream of, luring innocent men into her arms without a shred of shame. She is cunning beyond measure, Ilya—do not be fooled.”
In Catherine’s telling, Anastasia was the filthiest of whores, someone one should never even consider associating with. Throughout dinner those words circled endlessly in Ilya’s mind.
Perhaps Elizabeth noticed his distraction. She asked the Countess to assist Catherine, then, once the two of them were alone in the drawing room, she spoke with careful embarrassment.
“Did Catherine say something to you?”
In the end Ilya repeated every poisonous word Catherine had poured out about Anastasia.
“Is that true? Then I must—”
He felt personally insulted. A younger sister who stole her elder sister’s intended! Even an adopted daughter had no right to such treachery. Yet he could not quite believe Catherine. The Anastasia he had observed for hours simply did not seem capable of such behavior. Slowly his anger turned instead toward Mikhail Sokolov.
Even if Anastasia were everything Catherine claimed, a man who had come to marry Elizabeth had no business acting so. Adopted or not, the girls were sisters. To reach for the younger while marriage talks with the elder were still under way—
Elizabeth interrupted his thoughts.
“Do not believe everything Catherine says.”
“…What do you mean?”
“Anastasia is… a pitiful child. I do not wish to blame her for any of this.”
The greatest victim of the scandal was defending the girl. When Ilya looked at her for explanation, Elizabeth invited him to sit and began to speak.
Her account differed sharply from Catherine’s. Anastasia, she insisted, was simply an innocent child; Mikhail Sokolov, for his part, had committed this outrage against the Lauderdale name without the slightest remorse. Then she added,
“Poor Anastasia… In the end Mr. Mikhail will leave her behind.”
“What? You mean he will not take Miss Anastasia with him?”
“Exactly. As you know, Mr. Mikhail intends to marry me for the sake of a title. Unfortunately Anastasia is only a temporary diversion. You have seen enough of capital society to know that the affairs of wealthy men rarely draw real censure.”
“…….”
She was right. How many mistresses did the nobles and rich men of the capital keep? And Mikhail Sokolov was not even married yet.
“I have no desire to fault the child. Ilya, please do not take Catherine’s words to heart and treat Anastasia coldly. Pity her, and be kind.”
“Of course.”
His answer was firm, yet his mind reeled—and at the same time a strange relief settled over him. His anger had found a proper target at last.
Elizabeth then begged him not to speak of the matter to anyone else—it was nothing to be proud of—and above all not to confront Mikhail Sokolov. If Ilya made a scene, her own position would become impossibly awkward.
“Should this grow into a larger scandal, the marriage talks themselves could collapse… Please do not make things difficult for me.”
When Ilya still hesitated, she added with a note of regret,
“If your heart remains uneasy, then be a friend to Anastasia while you are at Edenhurst. If she wishes it later, I suppose I shall have to send her somewhere far away.”
The conversation ended there. That night Ilya slept poorly. He pitied Elizabeth, forced into silence, and he hated Mikhail Sokolov. As for Anastasia… she was merely pitiable. A poor young lady who would be toyed with by a base man and then discarded.
So from the next day onward he behaved exactly as Elizabeth had asked, grateful he had not acted on Catherine’s poison alone.
Even had he believed Catherine, Ilya doubted he could have been rude to Anastasia. Nothing about her suggested such a nature—especially not when her eyes sparkled with curiosity the way they did now.
“Ilya, what is this place?”
Her soft call snapped him back. Anastasia’s slender finger pointed to one corner of the Academy map.
“Ah—that is Sokolov Hall…”
He bit off the rest of the sentence, but it was already too late.
“Sokolov Hall?”
At the familiar name her whole face brightened; her eyes shone even more brilliantly. Ilya’s chest tightened. This girl had no idea what fate awaited her, and yet she followed that shameless man so trustingly. Perhaps a gentle warning would be kinder. He opened his mouth.
“Anastasia, there is something I must tell you—”
“Anastasia?”
“……!”
The voice from behind made both of them jump and whirl around. Mikhail stood there; neither had heard him enter.
“Mikhail!”
Anastasia cried out in pure delight and rose from her chair. But Mikhail’s face was set hard. He held out his hand toward her and said,
“Anastasia. Come here.”
Without a moment’s hesitation she left Ilya behind and went to him. The instant she reached his side he pulled her into his arms without ceremony. Then—
“Did you have a good journey? Why were you so la—mmph!”
Mikhail bent his head and claimed her mouth. Anastasia, never expecting such a thing in front of another person, startled and tried to squirm free, but his arms only tightened, crushing her against him. Ilya, staring blankly, finally understood.
While Mikhail kissed her, his eyes were fixed on Ilya with cold, murderous warning.