❝ Anitchka, Anitchka, will you not invite me in? ❞
In which a girl is indebted to a wintry demon for saving her life, and the gold from her fingertips is a magic whose price she must repay tenfold. Unless she guesses his name first.
| loosely based...
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ANITCHKA HAS FALLEN ASLEEP in the room under the stars, and she wakes to Dmitri's wide grin. "Good night, Bones?"
The bat-like creature peers at her, teeth bared as though keeper of a secret she knows but will not admit. He hops beside her, and she notices the Count's form; all deep ridges and wintry presence. She isn't sure when but the distance between them has closed. If it wasn't for Dmitri precariously standing next to her, Anitchka's arms would be touching the Count's. He is facing her, lashes casting the softest of shadows against his cheekbones.
She gulps. Bracing and arm underneath, she stirs awake. "Has it been long?"
"A night has passed," Dmitri says carefully. "We were looking everywhere for the Count and you."
"We lost track of time–"
"That I could see even if I had lost my eyes."
Anitchka rises when the Count's hand reaches out to clasp her wrist, tugging her forward. She stumbles, catching her breath. The rest is an incoherent clash of her pulse and his heart-stopping words, "You're leaving, Anna?"
Dmitri lets out a low whistle.
Blood rushes to the tips of her ears, the drumming impossible to ignore. "I should go."
"Where?" He hasn't opened his eyes yet, sleep still mistress to his skin and bones.
"I have to meet the Tsar."
His movements are quick, and he composes himself, shock registering at the sight of his fingers skimming her wrist. He drops it immediately, looking away from Dmitri. "You shouldn't."
She clasps her hands behind her back, narrowing her eyes at Dmitri's constant staring. "I have to. You know that, Count."
Anitchka steps further and further away, not looking back, for then she would never be able to leave.
Walking past the doors, and through the stairs and hallways, she finds herself in her room. Olga and Helga have already laid out attire appropriate for the era ongoing in the living world. It is a far cry from the lace trimmed extravagance of the ages before. Bleak and roughly spun cotton dyed a deep grey with rounded cream collars. A strip of black ribbon flays to be fastened around her waist. Women, it seems, have begun to prioritise comfort. As she dons it, Anitchka understands why. Olga helps her with a thick navy coat, and Helga reaches to prop a netted hat over her head.
It is icy outside, and she shivers despite the warmth of her attire. Her clad feet have sunk deep into the snow, the skies hidden in the entanglement of clouds and hail. Anitchka feels the chill till the end of her fingertips. It lashes ruthlessly, mocking her with a death she had asked in the land of the living. She breathes in, looking overhead. Had the Tsar sacrificed more people to the cold for it to be this stormy today? She catches sight of the Count from the window high up in the tower of stars. His gaze is trained on her, following her until she disappears through the tunnel. She doesn't turn until she steps into the coach, no, the car that awaits.
