ESP 48

chapter 48

Before dinner, Dmitri approached his master with a grave expression and made a request.

“My lord, someone will be coming to Undine Isle tonight. …I’ll make sure no one sees them. May I ask that you allow them to stay just one night?”

Keith raised an eyebrow.

“Judging by the way you ask, this must be someone important?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then it doesn’t matter whether it’s for a night or a week.”

That was all Keith said. He didn’t even bother to add something like “Just make sure Briony and my aunt don’t find out.”
It was precisely this trust that made Dmitri respect his young master so deeply—and the very same reason he sometimes felt tormented by it.

Keith’s refusal to ask questions meant one thing: whoever the visitor was, if a problem arose, the responsibility would fall squarely on the master of the house. Keith Dalmore was too kind for his own good.

After Keith went to bed, followed by Lady Dimsdale, Briony was the last to leave the hall. Before she did, she turned to Dmitri with gentle concern.

“Dmitri, is something wrong?”

“Why do you ask, miss?”

“You just look… worried. …Forgive me if I’m meddling.”

“Not at all, miss. Thank you for your concern. It’s probably just the weather affecting my mood.”

When she smiled, it was as if the dim corridor suddenly brightened. Dmitri could now understand why Keith was so fond of her. She herself seemed unaware of it, but the butler who watched over his master every day knew well enough.

“Then you should go rest soon.”

“You as well, miss.”

But instead of resting, Dmitri quietly made his rounds on the first floor, checking every door and window. After leaving only a few lights burning, he climbed upstairs to inspect the other floors as well.

Undine Isle had been neglected for years; several window locks were broken. Making sure no rain would seep in even if a window swung open, he drew every curtain tight before returning downstairs.

Outside, the storm raged on. The fire in the hearth was nearly out. Dmitri sat alone in the empty hall, listening to the roar of wind and rain, watching the dying embers fade into ash.

Then—his keen ears caught it: a faint, deliberate knock.

It came from the side door—the same one Briony and Myrtle had used on their first day here. The house was silent. It was well past one in the morning; everyone must be asleep.

Without asking who it was, Dmitri opened the door.

A figure stood there in a raincoat. Dmitri pressed a finger to his lips and ushered them inside.

He shut the door without a sound, and the person behind him moved just as quietly. Dmitri knew exactly which steps creaked on the staircase, and he avoided them perfectly. His guest followed in his exact footsteps, matching his silence. The moment brought back an old, vivid memory.

…He had once walked through the darkness with this same person.
No—run. They had run until their lungs burned, fleeing desperately.

“Faster—run faster!”
“I can’t… go on. Leave me, Olga!”

Blood poured from his leg wound. He could no longer feel the pain—only the weight of shock and blood loss that kept his limbs from moving.

He had been a boy of fifteen then. In one hand, a sword; in the other, the hand of a sixteen-year-old girl pulling him forward.

Her red hair had blazed even brighter under the flames devouring the distant manor. Her eyes shone like fire as she looked back at him.

“Listen well, Dmitri Vladimirov. From this moment, your life is not your own. If you die here, the House of Rostov ends tonight.”

But the House of Rostov was already finished.
Half his body was drenched in the blood of his parents and siblings. He would never forget the slaughter he had witnessed—and had not expected to survive.

The only reason Dmitri Rostov lived was because of that red-haired girl—the same woman now standing before him, soaked from the storm on Undine Isle.

Neither spoke as they climbed to the study.

The study, lined wall to wall with books, was the most soundproof room in the mansion. Thanks to Briony’s frequent visits, it no longer felt cold and lifeless. Even after closing the door, Dmitri stood still, listening for any sign of movement. Only after confirming absolute silence did he light a candle.

The visitor pulled back her hood, and crimson hair spilled out in waves—so bright it seemed to flicker like living fire even in the dim light. Her eyes gleamed dark as jet as she looked at him.

“Mitya.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Why did you leave Ebony? Was it because of me?”

“There are too many watching eyes in Ebony. It never hurts to be careful.”

“So it was because of me.”

Olga—Olenka Alexeyevna—smiled faintly.

“Give me your raincoat. You’ll catch a cold wearing that.”

“You really sound like a butler when you say things like that.”

“That’s because I am a butler.”

“Imagine that—Lord Rostov serving as a butler in the Count of Algonquin’s household.”

“Olenka Alexeyevna…”

She handed him the coat and dropped into the nearest chair.
Her outfit was neither a riding habit nor a lady’s travel dress, but rough leather trousers and a hunter’s coat. If one were to talk about inappropriate occupations for their rank, hers would be far worse than his.
Dmitri at least had a fair and generous master, a safe house, and stable employment. Olenka Alexeyevna had nothing.

“You’re cruel, Mitya. You won’t even call me Olga anymore?”

“…I am no longer the Duke of Rostov.”

Unbothered, she beckoned him closer as one might call a beloved pet.

“Come here, Mitya. Let me see how much you’ve grown.”

Dmitri was twenty-six now; Olenka, twenty-seven. Though their birthdays were only ten months apart, she had always played the older-sister role—and Dmitri had always let her.

Olenka Alexeyevna Pavlova—the eldest daughter of Grand Duke Pavlov—had once stood at the pinnacle of nobility. When her father passed his title to her, she was to become Duchess Orlov.

…If the civil war hadn’t happened.

As in the old days, Dmitri knelt before her. Olenka cupped his face with both hands and studied him for a long time.

“A year, isn’t it?”

“About that long. I’m glad to see you in good health.”

Olenka rarely sent word. She never said where she was or what she did, and Dmitri never asked—it was what she wanted.
Though still beautiful and vibrant, her hands were calloused, and her face thinner from a rough life unfit for one of her birth.

Moved by pity, Dmitri unconsciously laid his hand over hers.

“You must be cold. I’ll stoke the fire and bring you some tea.”

“There are others in this house, aren’t there? Then it’s best not to risk waking them.”

“How did you get here?”

“I rode to Vernon, then took a boat the rest of the way.”

“Alone?”

“I had companions in Fanshaw. But, Mitya—about that Orlov corpse you asked me about…”

It was the body found outside Fanshaw’s walls last winter. When Keith had been wrongly accused of colluding with Orlov, Dmitri had secretly contacted Olenka to ask if there had been any recent incidents related to that family. She had sent back word of that corpse.

“I’m still grateful for that. Thanks to you, we—”

“It wasn’t an Orlovian.”

Dmitri blinked.

“Not an Orlovian? But there was a noble crest sewn into the clothes—”

“Yes, there was. That’s probably why the Fanshaw guards assumed he was one. But my colleagues and I examined the body ourselves—we’d been looking for the youngest son of the Voronin family, and thought it might be him. But the crest… I’d never seen it before. Completely unfamiliar.
So why did the Algonquin authorities fake it as an Orlovian corpse?”

Dmitri fell silent, thinking.
Everything about that case pointed to a simple runaway carriage accident. If someone had gone out of their way to falsify the body’s nationality, the only motive he could imagine was to frame Keith Dalmore as a spy.
And indeed, that false lead had caused Keith’s every movement on December 24th to be scrutinized down to the minute. The scheme had served its purpose perfectly.

Then who… and why target the Count like that?

If the corpse had truly been Orlovian, suspicions about the young Count’s reclusive lifestyle might at least make sense. But if it wasn’t… Keith was utterly uninvolved.

“That’s… strange. Was there nothing else to identify the body?”

Olenka rummaged in her cloak.

“I drew it.”

Dmitri took the sketch from her. The details were gruesomely accurate, but he didn’t flinch. He’d seen more than enough corpses eleven years ago—seen men still breathing turn into mangled flesh in seconds.

“This man has no fingers.”

“Right. And it looked like he’d lost them long ago. The Voronin boy had all his fingers.”

How odd. Even if someone had tried to frame Keith, why use a corpse for such a thing?

But Dmitri had no intention of speaking further about his master to Olenka. That was something he would have to discuss with Keith himself. So instead, he asked—

“Why were you searching for Mikhail Vasilyevich of the Voronin family?”

Her eyes gleamed. Though she hadn’t spoken his name aloud before, Dmitri knew the family well—every Orlov noble did.

Leaning close, Olenka whispered:

“We’re going to strike Nijinsky.”

Dmitri flinched so hard he nearly hit her chin. Without even apologizing, he shook his head firmly.

“That’s impossible.”

“That’s why I came—to ask you to join us.”

“Olenka Alexeyevna…”

She gripped his hand tightly—astonishingly strong. Every descendant of Orlov was raised as a warrior, and the Grand Duke’s daughter was no exception.

“Don’t you want revenge for your family?”

“On who, exactly? The man who killed my family was my uncle—my father’s dearest brother.”

“Then you should hold the one who started the war accountable.”

Her voice was fierce—so fierce, so righteous, it almost sounded reasonable.
But no single man, not even Nijinsky, could have caused such a catastrophe alone. The Primrose Civil War had pitted hundreds of thousands of Orlovians against each other—killing and dying on both sides.
To take revenge would only mean creating that many more dead.

“It’s too dangerous. Nijinsky’s army is powerful. The opposition’s been purged—”

“Not all of them. Mitya, there are over a hundred of us now. Dozens are hiding here in Algonquin just like you. I’m finding them, one by one. We’ll start small—a single province at a time. Our old lands first. Everything’s coming together.”

Her certainty was almost radiant. And dangerous—dangerous enough to drown Orlov in blood again.

“The Sea of Blood of Som La.”
He couldn’t help recalling that mistranslated title Keith had once mentioned. Som La—the land Grand Duke Pavlov had ruled—was a breathtaking place.
Summers so short yet dazzling, the city glowing green and blue like crystal; winters of transparent ice and white snow that no painter could ever capture.

Dmitri looked into her jet-black eyes.

“Olenka. Please… reconsider—for my sake.”

“You sound like a lover.”

She brushed her fingers against his cheek.

…Perhaps, in another life, they could have been lovers.
The House of Rostov had produced Orlovian dukes once every few generations, and their lineage had long been bound to the Pavlovs by marriage.

But that, too, was a dream now.

Dmitri gently took her hand and pushed it away. Olenka didn’t look disappointed. She only smiled and said softly—

“I’ll give you time to think.”