Chapter Three
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Mishka is honestly impressed. Though he has only been at the manor for a day, he’s already been sucked into the gloomy atmosphere that pervades the dusty interior. And yet tonight, you never would have imagined it. Peasants have been brought in from the local countryside to bolster the help, the grand ballroom has been thrown open, and he has to wonder where all these candles and lights were earlier today.
And the people! There must be some that left not long after he did. How else can you explain the sheer number of nobles and other guests of distinction that now jabber and flutter around the enormous room? Mishka takes a mental image, for he has a feeling he may never see another scene like this again.
“It doesn’t happen often, but when Tasha does throw a party, she tends to go overboard, just a little.” Ivan must have noticed him standing frozen in the doorway, for he sidles up next to Mishka and chuckles.
This, of course, causes Mishka to jump, as he’s still expecting Ivan to come at him with a knife at any second. But it seems that even after spending many hours staring at each other in an incredibly old-fashioned carriage, Ivan still hasn’t recognized him. He actually seems somewhat friendly. Fine, until it’s time to do the deed he came here to do, it’s probably for the best that they be on good terms.
“This is all highly impressive,” Mishka admits.
A hint of a smile appears on Ivan’s lips, perhaps a little pride shining in his eyes. “Yes, I suppose it is not a terrible ball, despite how far out in the country it is. Though you haven’t been to a grand ball in St. Petersburg, have you?”
Mishka shakes his head. What peasant would?
“Ah, it is truly a sight to behold,” Ivan explains. “Rooms full of women in the most beautiful ballgowns, gardens that seem to stretch on for miles in the dark. And the food! Why, there is more of it than you could eat in...”
He breaks off suddenly, and as Mishka follows his gaze his eyes land on Natalya, who has just emerged from the crowd. She looks beautiful; her hair pulled off of her long, slender neck, light blue embroidery around her low collar enhancing the color of her eyes. These facts seem to have not gone unnoticed by the several men that surround her. One of them is kissing her hand, and while she’s smiling politely, it is clear that she is not interested in this man’s company.
“Excuse me,” Ivan clears his throat as Natalya looks over, noticing them. “I believe my sister needs something.” The smile has dropped off his face entirely.
Bowing his head, Mishka watches Ivan stride over and shoo away the unwanted suitor with his mere—though admittingly large—presence. He speaks to Natalya in a low voice, close to her ear, and she nods, perking up slightly. It is clear that the two care for each other immensely, something that Mishka doesn’t fail to take note of. When they met briefly, all those years ago, Mishka never would have guessed he had a softer side to him. Even now, he’s sure, that part of it is performative, as Mishka has seen what must inevitably lie just under that affable surface.
Alas, as much as he prefers it, Mishka knows that the longer he stands out here, the more suspicious he looks. With a steadying breath inward, he forces his feet forward and into the ballroom ahead.
Between the candles flickering on the grand chandelier overhead and the lamps turned to full power on all the walls, the room is stunningly bright. Mishka nearly has to squint as he pushes through several layers of people. Within, the crowd mills around the edges of the floor, while some look down from the galleries above. The center is reserved for the dancers, of which there are many.
Against the back well, a modest orchestra plays waltzes and other music which Mishka assumes must be pretty common dance affair. Many happy couples seem to be enjoying the music, laughing together as they sweep over the floor. At least, that’s how it looks at first glance.
Behind that veneer, there are dynamics, powerplays behind the scenes. Couples trade off frequently, men vying for a position with the most desirable woman, while some of the more homely among the desired sex are attempting to keep a partner at all, to maintain their place on the dance floor. Mishka finds that far more intriguing than the dance itself. It is so easy to identify the social pecking order. For instance, Natalya has only joined a few brief dances, and yet even with those very few, she’s had a different partner for each. It could be because of the sheer number of men who desire to dance with her, but there seems to be a strange sort of distance to the way they pass her off, like she’s an interesting piece to behold but not one to keep. Come to think of it, Mishka wonders why a woman possessing her beauty and wit has become a spinster.
He isn’t left to ponder this for long, however, as his attention is quickly drawn elsewhere. Along the side of the room, pressed as close to the wall as she can get, is Maria. It appears she has recovered from her illness earlier in the afternoon, at least somewhat, though despite her improved color she still stands far off to the side of the festivities, head down and deep in thought. At least that’s how it appears to Mishka. Unlike her sister, Maria’s dress is comparatively modest, with a higher neckline and longer sleeves, but the off-white color makes her stand out in the crowd.
Occasionally, someone comes over, generally a young man, and she speaks to him politely, but then he quickly wanders off. Mishka would like to say that he only does it because it’s best to get as close to her as possible, but in reality, he’s really just curious. He begins making his way through the crowd towards her.
How could someone with a sister like Natalya be so quiet? Well, of course he knows why, living with someone with as domineering a personality as Natalya would lead someone to be relatively mouse-like in comparison. Yet they are still sisters. It is hard to picture them as such when they are such opposites.
Maria looks up, and appears surprised to see him. “Oh,” she whispers, so quietly that he almost can’t hear her over the general cacophony, “Monsieur Borozov.”
“Please,” he says. “I’m not your tutor, no need to be so formal.” It makes him exceptionally uncomfortable, in fact, but that he doesn’t say. “Just Mikhail is fine, or even Mishka will do.”
“Um, Mikhail then,” she smiles, just a little.
He can see why all the potential suitors left as an awkward silence falls, but nevertheless, he pushes forward. “You could have some very attractive company if you’d like,” he says.
That may have been too sudden a phrase, because Maria looks back up at him suddenly and blushes. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, really,” Mishka tugs at his collar, embarrassed. “There have just been a lot of very nice-looking lads that have been trying to talk to you all night. And you’re around that age, right? Where you should be finding a husband.” He didn’t know why he is suddenly talking to her about this.
“Oh, I... I hadn’t even thought about that...” she admits. “I know it’s strange, but Natasha never... and we’re so isolated out here usually... and my poor health...”
“Would you like to dance?” he asks suddenly, quite surprising himself, let alone her.
“I... um...” the pink sheen on her cheeks darkens into a vibrant red. “I don’t think that would be considered very proper.”
“I may not be your tutor,” Mishka admits. “But I am still a tutor of the Volkov house. Have you ever learned to dance, mademoiselle Marie?”
“Once years ago, but—”
“Well then, I see it as my job to teach you. No young noble lady can get through life without knowing how to dance, after all.” This is a bluff, and a huge one.
Yet she doesn’t seem to catch it. Maria looks down at the floor, and mumbles so quietly that her words are almost lost again. “Then I would like that very much.”
For the first time all day, he sees the tiniest smile cross her face. Mishka holds out an arm, which she takes. He can feel her shaking a little as many pairs of eyes dart over to follow them. But inside, he’s just as nervous as she is. He’s terrible at dancing. As expected, Maria is no genius either, but somehow, they begin to muddle through it together.
~~ o ~~
Ivan is standing next to Natalya, right in the middle of the bright ballroom. Etiquette states that a young, unmarried woman should always be accompanied by someone, and so here he is, being present as she purposefully makes her way around the room, singling out the most eminent of her guests. Underneath the smiles and the bubbly vivaciousness that she conveys to each person in turn, he knows that she dislikes this nearly as much as he does. They must maintain at least some outward appearance of normality, however, and so she undertakes the task with an ease that he never could.
Even just the lights are a little overwhelming for him, but the noise makes it so much worse. The idle conversations increase exponentially in volume as everyone is trying to be heard over everyone else, and it all blends together into an intense whine in his ears. Every once in a while, one of the waiters will pop a bottle of champagne and Ivan flinches. He tries to calm himself down by breathing deeply and keeping the vodka coming. Luckily, when you have Natalya to talk to, why would you ever notice what Ivan is doing?
Natalya has always been popular, especially among would-be suitors. Ivan has seen a lot of them come and go over the years, but they’ve never stayed. She is destined to remain a spinstress, but as unfortunate as it is that she will never leave this house, be able to do something different with her life, Ivan likes having her around. As long as she’s here he can just nod and look like he’s interested in these tedious conversations and nothing more is expected of him. Some head of the family he’s turned out to be. More of a mutt than a wolf.
He really hates nights like this, when Natalya is right there yet so distant, almost as if the foot between them is a thousand miles. The crowd pressing in on him from all sides makes him feel the isolation all the more acutely, bringing back unpleasant sensations that threaten to paralyze him from the inside out.
Just when he thinks he might pass out, or hit something, he feels a squeeze as Natalya grabs his arm, just for a second. She doesn’t even break eye contact with the man she’s talking to, a minor duke of someplace, and it appears he hasn’t even noticed Ivan slowly unraveling next to him. But Natalya did. The world comes back into focus as Ivan recognizes that for the last minute or so he’s been holding his breath.
“Of course, a wonderful party as always, Mademoiselle Volkovna,” the duke takes a shallow bow. “Now I must see where the missus has gotten to... good evening.”
He scurries off into the crowd, and Natalya’s shoulders relax. She turns to Ivan, and as she gazes up at him, a small smile crosses her face. “You look ill.”
“I’ll be alright,” he lies. “I just need a minute outside of this infernally hot room.”
The smile falls just a bit, she knows it’s far worse than that, but she doesn’t attempt to call him out on it. “I’m going to retire upstairs for a few minutes, I think, and just watch. Care to join me?”
“In a bit, perhaps,” he shrugs, and before she turns away completely, adds: “It really is a nice party, Tasha.”
She curtsies, and disappears into the crowd. Ivan goes in the opposite direction, eyes on his destination: the open archway. Luckily, the crowd has a tendency to part as he passes, being as tall as he is. Something catches the corner of his eye, however, and he turns briefly to note with surprise that Maria is on the dance floor, smiling, laughing even. But who is her partner? As they turn, Ivan frowns. It’s the new tutor.
Maria should know better than that. It’s a bit lacking in propriety, like dancing with a servant. And besides, he probably won’t be around for very long, she knows this. But Ivan doesn’t step in. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen her smile like that. Constantly living in this gloomy house, she deserves to have a little fun. So, he moves on, finally making it to the archway and the quiet darkness beyond.
There are a few people wandering out here, but if he walks on a little, towards an open window, it’s too cold for mingling. Ivan’s never minded the cold. He was born and raised here, after all. Biting chill is in his very bones. Hanging his head out into the piercing night air clears his vision a little. The initial buzz from all the alcohol he’s consumed is starting to wear off, but this is at least delaying the inevitable drunken stupor that awaits him. Well, perhaps that is a slight exaggeration. Ivan never really finds himself that far gone. But not by much.
He briefly considers going back to find Natalya, but he’s probably just a hindrance to her, just another thing she has to worry about, so he decides to distance himself from the whole party affair for the time being.
Ivan starts thinking that perhaps he should patrol the corridors for a little while, to redirect any wandering guests. There are a lot of things in this house that are not fit for mortal eyes, let alone noble ones. He doesn’t get very far, however, for as he turns the corner, he stumbles upon a scene which produces such a deep sigh from the furthest interior of his chest that he’s a little afraid his soul might just float out with it.
A partygoer has seemingly collapsed against the wall, from too much champagne, no doubt, judging from the bottle still clutched in his hand. The infuriating part, however, is actually Katya, dressed only in her white nighty, who is squatting over the man and poking him with a stick.
“Little one,” Ivan groans. “What in the name of the almighty are you doing out of bed?”
“Marie said you shouldn’t take the lord’s name in vain,” she says, not looking away from her victim.
Ivan chuckles at her cheek, just once. “Well, Marie is a good girl. I am not, and neither are you, apparently.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Katya finally starts to explain. “You’re all being too loud. So, I thought I’d amuse myself until they all went away.”
“Terrorizing inebriated souls is not the way to do it,” he crouches beside her, gently grabbing the stick. “Where did you ever get this, anyway?”
“Pulled it off a tree in the courtyard.”
He wants to ask just how long ago that was, but knowing Katya, she may have been keeping it in her room for weeks.
Sighing, Ivan shakes his head. “You’re just lucky that Tasha is still back at the party.”
“You don’t have to tell her, right?” Katya gazes up at him, batting her eyelids. “It can be our little secret. Why don’t you just go back to the party and we can both forget you ever saw me?”
“And what would you do if I just ‘went back to the party’, hmm?”
The child turns back to the unconscious man. “Try to figure out what might wake him up. If the stick doesn’t work, I’ll probably get a lighter...”
Ivan rolls his eyes as she goes in to poke him again. “I don’t think so, little one. I don’t have to tell Tasha, but you can’t be left to terrorize the guests. Come now, let’s go back to bed.” He grabs her around the middle and easily pulls her away from the man.
She protests, of course, squirming and kicking. At one point she even tries to bite him, but Ivan is far bigger than she is, and more used to this sort of behavior from her than he’d like to admit.
One thing has become clear to him, at least. He needs another drink.
~~ o ~~
Maria had been nervous at first, her breath fast, muscles tense as Mishka had led her out onto the dance floor, but now she is relaxed, going with the rhythm of the music. Even if she’s not very graceful, and occasionally steps on his toes, she’s smiling. Mishka notices it suddenly, and it’s nice, that smile, the warmest thing he’s seen since he stepped foot in this cold, dark place.
Unfortunately, it is over in the blink of an eye. The music ends, and the dancers applaud as the band pauses before striking up a new tune. Mishka turns to ask if she’d like to continue, but before he gets a chance he receives a tap on the shoulder. Once again, Ms. Steel seems to have sprung up from nowhere, and this time he jumps just a little bit.
“The Mistress would like to have a word with you,” she intones, and upon her words, Maria steps back awkwardly.
Mishka glances back to her, and she dips her head. “Thank you very much for the dance, Monsieur Borozov.”
She turns and flees back to the corner of the room. Mishka is nearly sad to see the return of the small, awkward girl that had vanished for just a moment, but he turns reluctantly back to Ms. Steel.
“This way,” she beckons, and Mishka follows her out of the bright ballroom and into the quiet of the hallways beyond. The maid approaches a panel in the wall that for some reason is covered in much more ornate gold leaf carvings. She pushes on it, and reveals that it is, in fact, a door.
Beyond the threshold is a narrow passageway, with dusty, wooden stairs leading upwards at a remarkably steep angle. It doesn’t seem simple enough for a servant’s entrance, but clearly is not used very often. Mishka doesn’t quite know where she’s taking him, but gets his answer when the passage opens into one of the small viewing galleries above the ballroom.
This one seems to be higher up than all the others, and offers an ideal view of the room below. The people all the way down look more akin to dolls than real flesh and blood humans.
“Thank you, Ada,” comes Natalya’s voice from the darkness. “You may leave us.”
Ms. Steel nods and turns to head back down the passageway without a word. Mishka is now alone with Natalya.
“You seem to be enjoying the party,” she says with a wry smile from her place on a high-backed, velvet chair. He can barely make her out through the relative darkness of the box, which casts long shadows on her face. “I haven’t seen Marie smile like that in a very long time.”
“Ahh,” he rubs a hand through his hair, wondering if he stepped out of line. “She just looked... all alone in that corner.”
But Natalya doesn’t seem angry, just bemused. “Come,” she beckons. “Sit.”
He slides nervously into the velvet chair across from her. Now there is only a small, polished table in between them. He’s been worried that maybe she called him to chastise his conduct with her sister, but as she stares at him with her head cocked slightly, that doesn’t appear to be the case.
“Tell me,” she continues after a silence far too long for Mishka’s liking. “How are you getting along with the manor so far?”
Mishka hesitates. He gets the distinct impression that doing the polite thing would somehow be a misstep. Something in her eyes tells him she wants the truth. “It is very cold,” he begins, gauging her reaction. “And rather dark. But... I think we’ll get along alright.”
He holds his breath, but lets it out in a short burst as Natalya starts laughing. “My friend,” she says, wiping an eye with a handkerchief. “I have asked many people that question, and I think that must be the most accurate answer I’ve received.” She sighs and a few more chuckles escape from her well-shaped lips, but she quickly composes herself. “It is true that this house was constructed to withstand the climes of the tough north. Thus, it is filled with an unyielding atmosphere. It hardens people, this place. For instance, take my favorite vodka...”
From the tray next to her chair, Natalya takes an ornate bottle and sets it between them. “Did you know that there is a technique, very special, in which the distiller mixes miniscule particles of gold into the alcohol. The gold is too small to do any damage to the body but...” and here she pauses for but a brief moment, judging whatever expression is currently on his face. “But it is still metal, see? So the edges are jagged, and leave tiny tears in the lining of the throat.”
“Sounds painful,” Mishka cringes.
But Natalya simply shrugs. “It is too small to feel. However, the alcohol seeps into the bloodstream faster, and so you forget your woes all the more quickly.”
She uncorks the bottle, and begins pouring a glass. “This is only fit for residents of this manor, people hardened by hardship.” To Mishka’s surprise after that statement, she proceeds to pour a second glass. Natalya places it in front of him, but as he reaches for it she stops him.
“Wait one moment,” she intones, looking directly into his eyes. “This is a drink that is not to be taken lightly. I only offer it to those who need it, those who deserve it, perhaps. Is that you?”
For just a moment, he stares back at her, judging the depth of her icy gaze. Then, with a deliberate hand, he reaches down, and takes a drink.
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