❝ 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...
Ups! Tento obrázek porušuje naše pokyny k obsahu. Před publikováním ho, prosím, buď odstraň, nebo nahraď jiným.
"PLEASE DON'T FALL for his words, Anna," the name slips through his lips easier in his land. "You know he trades souls to save his."
She sighs, the back of her head resting against the window. The room he lounges in is coldly beautiful, as always, lined with books in elegant shelves. The Count snaps his fingers, inviting the fire for its warmth. Helga jumps suddenly. "You should not trust the Tsar, Mistress Bones."
Anitchka raises an eyebrow, and the goblin shuffles her feet. "I – picked it up from Dmitri!"
"Please, Bones finds it endearing," the bat-like creature adds, soaking by the fireplace.
"Sister, the fly is disrespectful. Why would you listen to him?" Olga rolls her green rimmed eyes from behind the mask.
Dmitri gasps. "Fly?"
In spite of the grim events looming over them, Anitchka laughs, loud and clear and genuine. And the Count drinks the sound of it until it settles uncomfortably on his skin, as though it is a moment he can touch. "I haven't heard you laugh in a long time."
Anitchka stops then, picking at the fabric of her dress. "As in, since you met me the second time or the first?"
"Both." He crosses his arms, gulping. "It would be wonderful to listen to it again."
She sits herself down on a plush, floral patterned chair, sinking into the velvet cushioning. Dmitri's beady eyes flit from her to the Count, jagged little teeth splitting in a knowing grin. Olga and Helga playfully braid her hair, flicking and undoing the strands. "If flowers could survive outside the woods, we would pluck and weave them into your pretty head. Then you would look like Spring."
It dawns on her that she had nearly forgotten about Spring stolen and hidden in the forest. "I would love that."
"Do you intend on accepting the Tsar's invite?" The Count clears his throat, avoiding looking at her. "He has been living off of the lives of all the soldiers he sends in the harsh cold, and the peasantry that starves from paying the high dues."
"But can you not stop winter?"
He shrugs, pacing around the room. "If I could, would I remain the Collector or would I die because the deal between our lands will be broken?"
That is when her breathing hitches, heart stopping; all against her will. It is a feeling that chills her more than winter ever has. She thinks of the girl that peered through the window and met a man in the snow. "There is a chance that you'll die?"
"I don't know, Anna," he trails his words slowly, "I haven't been a Collector for too long. But should it matter?"
She stands up suddenly, surprising herself. "Death isn't something to speak of so lightly." Her feet move towards him, skin burning as Dmitri continues to grin wickedly. "Is that all you think as you wave your hands and take lives?"
