The Ruined Chapel

The path Anastasia ran was not one people used, but a track worn by the beasts that lived in the forest. Because of that, the thorns of underbrush grown as high as a person's chest snagged on her clothes.

A soft tearing sound rose as the thorns caught her thin, worn fabric and ripped it free, but she had no mind left to care. All the while she fled, rough leaves and thorns scored fine cuts across her bare hands and face, forcing their way between the layers of clothes she wore.

After running a long while she saw, between the trees, the place she sought. It was a small chapel that had collapsed in on itself. When Anastasia first found it, the forest keeper who worked there then had told her it had stood in the woods long before Edenhurst Manor ever existed.

She scrambled over a heap of bricks smothered in wild-rose vines and dashed into the half-ruined chapel. There she curled herself small and hid beneath a moss-choked stone bench.

Her breath came sweet and raw from the mindless flight. She needed to catch it, yet she clamped a hand over her mouth and killed every sound. It was the thing she did best. Forcing down the chest that hammered for more air, her breath choked and the world swam dark at the edges. Still she did not take her hand away.

I must not be found. I must not make a sound. If I do, they will hate me even more…. Then I will truly be driven from this place….

Her shaking body swallowed the terror. For a very long time. Alone.

Anastasia's consciousness sank slowly into the dark.

When Anastasia opened her eyes again, the sun had shifted far across the sky. The slanting light of late afternoon struck the stained glass of the half-standing chapel. Filtering through the thick panes, it painted the faded, cracked words of scripture across the stone floor.

She blinked slowly, gazing at the dazzling glass, until memory returned. The stream. The strange man.

A soft rushing of leaves rose as the cooling wind of sunset stirred the trees. No unfamiliar sound threaded among them. Anastasia let out a slow breath and accepted the relief her familiar place offered. No one had followed. This sanctuary, too, remained undiscovered.

This abandoned ground was the only space within Edenhurst that belonged to her. She had a room in the manor basement, yet sometimes goods that would not fit the storerooms were piled there, and she was ordered to shift to an entirely different warehouse chamber; she could never truly call it hers. She was merely lodged there for a while, like any other piece of luggage.

Having confirmed that nothing had changed from yesterday, Anastasia finally thought of the man.

Who was he?

The villagers nearby knew well that this was Edenhurst land and never set foot here. In the five years she had come and gone through the forest she had never once met a soul from the village. He was certainly no villager.

She recalled the blue eyes that had looked straight at her, then shook her head. What did it matter who he was? She would never meet him again.

The forest hid it from easy view, but Edenhurst Manor stood not far off. He must have wandered a little and found it. Tomorrow she would simply pass another quiet, peaceful, unchanging day here as always.

While she thought, the sky changed color with startling speed. Darkness settled swiftly over the woods. Anastasia smoothed her crumpled hat and clothes. Seeing the hems flutter where thorns had torn them, her heart grew heavy.

I have so few clothes left now.

She looked down at her own body, layered in garment after garment, with resentful eyes. A deep breath made her chest feel uncomfortably tight. For years there had been no real change; she had believed her growth had stopped. Why, then, was she suddenly becoming larger this year? At this rate she would not be able to wear even these clothes much longer.

If luck favored her, Catherine might toss her one discarded dress. But she could not simply wait for fortune that might never come. Wondering whether she ought to slip out at night and salvage even a worn-out maid's uniform if one appeared, Anastasia rose. The moment she took a step, a throbbing pain lanced through the soles of her feet.

She looked down. Dried blood streaked her pale skin here and there. Bending, she examined the soles and found torn wounds. How had she failed to feel the pain until now, looking like this? As she worried how long the injuries would take to heal, an important fact struck her.

They're gone!

Even loose shoes would have spared her this. Where on earth had her shoes gone? Had they fallen off while she ran? Then she remembered: she had taken them off with her hat and left them beside the stream.

"No…."

Those were the only shoes she had left.

Anastasia limped forward. Each step reopened the wounds; fresh blood welled. Her face went whiter still.

The many layers of skirt would hide her feet from any eye, but if blood stained them—if it left marks on the manor floors or carpets—the servants would notice at once. And if that tale climbed from the housekeeper to the Countess…

The mere thought drained the blood from her body. She hurried toward the place she had left the shoes. The wounds tore wider with every step. When the soft murmur of the stream reached her, she halted.

He must have gone by now.

There was no reason the man she had met that morning would still be there at sunset. Even so, fear of finding him kept her from drawing near. Darkness was already gathering among the trees. In the end she forced herself to go on.

Approaching her earlier spot as silently as she could, Anastasia felt relief. Of course the man was gone.

"Ah…."

The moment she understood, a long sigh escaped her. She clamped her mouth shut in surprise. That had not been a sigh of relief. That was….

Am I disappointed?

That the man was no longer here?

She had fled like a mad thing the instant he reached out, yet now she felt a pang because he was gone. The contradiction baffled her.

People still terrified her. Men most of all. Why, then, the disappointment?

She looked at the place where he had stood. His figure had vanished, yet the blue eyes that had watched her remained vivid in memory. A gaze free of contempt. That look, the first of its kind she had ever known, stayed clear and bright.

They were beautiful.

Joy stirred at the thought that one more lovely thing now lived in her memory. She searched for her shoes. Fortunately they lay exactly where she had set them down. But….

"Huh…?"

Anastasia picked one up in confusion.

There should have been two. Only one remained.

"Where have you been without a word!"

The instant Mikhail stepped into the inn, a man wearing glasses bellowed from the second-floor landing. The ear-splitting volume made Mikhail frown as he climbed the stairs.

"Shout a little louder and the whole village will hear. Put your back into it, Igor."

Igor had been about to roar Lord Mikhail! again when he noticed the people on the ground floor staring. He shut his mouth, shook his head, and turned away. Mikhail walked into the room he was using.

He had expected little of a country inn, yet it proved better than he had hoped. Intricately carved wooden panels fitted the ceiling. The silk wallpaper was faded but clearly fine, the bedding delicately embroidered, the mahogany furniture the work of skilled hands. It would not have looked greatly out of place beside a hotel in the capital or in Sokolov. Everything was old, true, yet the innkeeper's careful diligence kept every piece so well tended that the age scarcely mattered.

Which means the place once thrived.

No doubt the travelers who once called at Edenhurst Manor had lodged here. Even if that estate was now sliding into ruin.

Mikhail kept the thought to himself, sat on the sofa, and stretched his long legs onto the stool. Mud and clinging leaves dropped from his boots.

Igor followed him in, shut the door, and only then spoke his name.

"Where on earth have you been, Lord Mikhail? I turned the whole village upside down looking for you."

"I went to Edenhurst Manor."

"Why go ahead to a place we mean to visit soon? More to the point—why alone! This is not Sokolov! What if you met agents the Empress Dowager sent?"

"What else? Kill them."

At the indifferent answer Igor closed his mouth. He knew better than anyone that the words were no joke.

He regarded his superior, who had sunk deep into the sofa with an expression of pure weariness.

Mikhail Sokolov.

The man who bore as his surname the name of Sokolov, currently the second-wealthiest city in Novgorod after the capital, Borok.

Sokolov meant falcon in the Novgorod tongue. That small port once known for its sea eagles had swollen into a rich harbor almost overnight, and the growth was Mikhail's doing alone. Even if another hand had laid the first stones, without him Sokolov could never have reached its present scale.

Those who met him for the first time were startled that the famous Mikhail Sokolov was only twenty-eight, and startled again by how closely he resembled Count Vorontsov. The second surprise was less surprising, really. He was the child born to a woman the count had taken while drunk.

Though the talent seems entirely different.

Igor thought of the former Count Vorontsov, who had gambled and drunk away the family fortune and now waited for death in a small capital hospital.

While the count sold off the estate piece by piece, the son he had cast aside built harbors, bought ships, and steadily enlarged his share of Novgorod's trade. In time he became a great merchant with free access even to the imperial palace.

Then the count had written without cease—letters that began My proud son—wanting Mikhail's money in exchange for recognition and the title.

Mikhail had received one such letter, discarded it without a flicker of feeling, and given the order:

"Time to erase a count's house."

So the man who called himself his father would stop sending bothersome letters.

Destroying the house had been almost childishly simple. He fed the count's gambling until the debts became monstrous, then made it known that any heir who took the title would inherit every last coin of that debt. The other claimants promptly renounced their rights. A letter went to the count himself: apply for the abolition of the house at the palace and a hospital bed for your remaining days will be provided.

The former count, who that very day could not even find bread, accepted his son's terms. And so one count family vanished.

"What are you staring at?"

"Nothing."

Roused by Mikhail's voice, Igor reached for the papers he had left on the table, then saw what rested in Mikhail's hand and asked in an incredulous tone,

"What is that?"