IVAN BRAGINSKI'S POINT OF VIEW
It was about six in the morning. Outside the window it was cold and wet a thick fog had covered the city, turning all colours gray and reducing visibility to almost zero.
Ivan Braginski felt no desire to leave the kitchen. Sitting on a wooden chair in front of a stained wooden table, the Russian with almost silvery, blond hair and purple eyes clasped his hands around his warm cup of coffee and sighed. Soon he would have to leave. As much as he loved his job, he valued staying dry and warm more. For a few more moments, though, he could just sit there, enjoying his coffee and the thought that he was lucky to have found the small flat, that stayed warm and dry exceptionally well considering the low rent, and didn't have to sleep in a doorway or on a bench in a park.
To someone looking in, the scene might have looked like a serene, gray-washed painting. There was something soothing in the simplicity of the kitchen, even though it lacked any decorations to make it cozy. The only flaw could perhaps have been the exceptionally tall man's nose, which was slightly too big. But, because no one saw, no one cared, and no painting was made depicting the Russian Ivan Braginski.
One hour later Ivan entered the company building. The company was called Helios, after the Greek god that drove around with the sun in his wagon. This was appropriate, as the company in question shipped letters, parcels and sometimes even larger shipments that were too important or urgent for the public postal service.
Ivan had been recruited by the company president because of his physique; surely no one would dare attack the tall, scary Russian, Ivan Braginski? Hence, the letters and parcels (larger shipments were handled by another branch) would be safe.
Apart from the early mornings and the occasional bad weather, Ivan liked his job. Mostly because it paid relatively well, but it was also nice to cycle around the city, looking for the destinations of letters and parcels, seeing who lived in which house and their reactions as long-awaited replies arrived, or, even better, watch faces light up as unexpected packages were placed in their hands.
Ivan quickly changed from his simple clothes – a plain brown jacket over an originally white shirt and trousers that had been miscoloured into a green nuance – into the uniform provided to him (it was basically the same, only made from better cloth and with the company logo), but kept his own, fur-lined hat, as it was warmer than the one the company provided.
A messenger bag had been prepared for him, filled with letters and parcels waiting to be united with their new owners. Checking the address list, Ivan noticed that several items were to be delivered to residences in the better parts of town.
Maybe I can finally put some faces to some often heard names? he thought, but doubted it. Usually the rich and nobles had servants to answer the door. But one can always hope.
After having only met one prominent person face-to-face, and having spoken to 23 servants, Ivan approached the 25th house, with little hope of seeing someone even remotely famous. His hopes were further diminished as he read the name of the person the last parcel was addressed to: Tiina Väinamöinen. It rang no bells.
Still, the address seemed familiar…
Ivan knocked on the door, and prepared to talk to another servant. And was pleasantly surprised as a young noble woman opened the door. He could easily tell she wasn't a servant by the quality and exquisite decorations of the dress she wore. The dress was a clear violet, much like her eyes, and blonde hair curled gently about her shoulders.
"Parcel for you, ma'am!" Ivan said, giving her his sunniest smile. "If I'm correct in assuming that you are Tiina Väinamöinen?"
The young woman smiled back, but Ivan could discern a certain tiredness in her eyes that people receiving parcels usually didn't have. Why was such a beautiful young woman in such a state, that she couldn't enjoy something so joyful?
TIINA VÄINAMÖINEN'S POINT OF VIEW
"Yes, you are correct."
Tiina Väinamöinen smiled politely, but couldn't muster even the slightest feeling of joy as she looked at the parcel the messenger reached her. She had recognized the hand-writing as the one belonging to one of her more persistent suitors, Berwald Oxenstierna, and had decided she did not want that parcel. However, it was not the messenger's fault, so she felt a bit guilty over making him wait, not making a single move to take it.
"Ma'am..?" The messenger cocked his head slightly to the left. "Is something wrong?" His eyes – an interesting shade of purple – searched her face for an answer.
"I do not want that parcel," Tiina declared. The messenger's eyes widened in surprise.
"Why not?" he asked, as if he couldn't even fathom a reason for not wanting a letter or parcel. "Aren't you happy, that someone thinks of you, and treasures you highly enough to send you something?" His eyes locked onto hers, as if he could find the answer there. Tiina envied him his naivety. She could come up with many reasons for not wanting a letter, or indeed a parcel.
No, I'm not happy. And I do not want that parcel.
She crossed her arms over her chest.
"No. I do not want that parcel, so please return it to the sender."
"But shouldn't you consider the feelings of the sender? Please, take it!"
Tiina sighed exasperatedly. Why is it so important to him?
"Fine!" she snapped in a very un-lady-like way, and grabbed the parcel. As she did, her fingers brushed over the messenger's hand, and she noticed that his hands were without gloves, and very cold. "Your hand is freezing!" she exclaimed.
Again, surprise. Did he not notice how cold he was?
"Oh," the messenger said, lifting his hand so he could examine it, and let it fall to his side. "This is nothing," he said with a shrug and a smile, "In Russia it was colder."
Tiina shook her head, the anger had vanished, and she pitied the messenger and felt ashamed over her own behavior. "That simply won't do. I'll go see if I can find any gloves for you. Would you like to come in while you're waiting?" It's the least I can do to excuse myself…
The messenger's eyes widened again, in such a child-like expression this time as if he couldn't believe such kindness existed. On any other adult man it would have looked ill-placed, but somehow it suited him.
"Oh, I couldn't possibly accept such a generous offer..!" he began, almost stuttering.
"Please, I insist," Tiina felt herself smile. "It's not like me to behave so rudely, allow me to do this for you." It's not like I have anything else to do, anyway. She was already sick of embroidery, she couldn't seem to get the piano, and she had already read all the books that seemed interesting, and that were written in a comprehensible language.
"Well…" the messenger hesitated, and then smiledshyly. "If you insist."
IVAN BRAGINSKI'S POINT OF VIEW
Ivan timidly followed Tiina into her house. As she turned around to close the door behind them, she seemed startled by how tall he was (outside, he had been standing three steps below on the stairs, so he'd been approximately at eye-level for her), and then she mumbled an apology for being rude once again.
"It's okay, I'm used to it," he tried to assure her, but she shook her head frantically, her blonde hair getting unsettled.
"It's not okay! I'm terribly sorry…"
Ivan didn't really know what to say, usually people just tried to avoid him, that someone actually apologized was new to him, so he simply nodded.
The house wasn't as heavily decorated and boastful as noble-owned houses usually were, but there was still enough gold, silver and expensive textiles for Ivan to request he sit in the kitchen instead of the sitting room. Tiina looked relieved.
"To be honest, I prefer the kitchen, too," she said, smiling broadly now. Ivan was glad that she seemed to have gotten over his height, and even happier that he'd said something right.
The kitchen was cluttered in a cozy way, in the middle was a heavy wooden table with chairs around, a large fireplace dominated the northern wall, and a cooking area the western. The southern wall was covered in vegetables hanging to dry and shelves with jars filled with spices and jams and more vegetables. In the roof hung long poles with large rye breads, and wherever there was space hung cooking utensils. The smell was very strong, mixed with the smoke from the burning logs (the bad weather kept the smoke from rising properly into the chimney), but Tiina didn't seem to notice it. Kicking some sacks with potatoes into a corner, she freed a stool which she placed in front of a cupboard so she could reach the already ground coffee-beans.
"I'm afraid I don't have any tea," she said, motioning for Ivan to sit, "I hope coffee will do Mr..?"
"Ivan Braginski." Ivan nodded. "Coffee would be great," he said, and meant it. Now that the rest of him had warmed up, he could feel how cold his hands were, and longed to hold a warm cup.
"Sugar? Milk?" Tiina asked, without slowing down in her preparations, a pot was already filled with water and hung to boil over the fire.
"No thank you." Ivan had never gotten used to the idea of putting something sweet in the beverage. Tiina nodded, and put the sugar back onto a shelf. She then opened another, smaller cupboard and gave up a triumphant "Aha!" as she found a half-eaten cake. She quickly cut it into slices to make it look more presentable, and less like something that had been forgotten in a cupboard for God knows how long.
"It should still be perfectly edible," she said, smiling apologetically. Ivan wondered how long it was since he had eaten cake, could it really be five years?
"It looks great."
"Let's hope it tastes as good as it looks," Tiina joked, and took the pot off the fire. Soon two cups of steaming coffee were on the table, and Ivan gratefully picked his up, but didn't drink as he was afraid he'd get burnt. He looked at the parcel that lay forgotten on the table.
"…Shouldn't you open it?" he asked carefully, afraid to ruin the nice atmosphere.
"Well, Mr. Ivan Braginski," Tiina said, "That would usually be the logical course of action." She sipped her coffee. "But I already said that I did not even want that package. And I feel even less inclined to open it, seeing as it was forced unto me."
"…May I ask why you do not want the parcel?"
Tiina picked up a piece of cake, ate some, and spent an excessive amount of time chewing it before finally resigning and answering.
"It was sent by Berwald Oxenstierna," she begun.
"The duke?"
"The very same. We're engaged," she continued, sadness filling her voice. "Against my will. I also live here, against my will, and wear these fancy dresses, against my will." She sighed. "It's not like he's been mean to me, really, but I can't bring myself to like him. He's too silent, too scary, he always sort of hovers over you. Well, you might be taller than him, actually, but you get the idea."
Ivan did get the idea. Although Tiina was in no way short, especially considering she was a woman, if Berwald was about Ivan's height, he could imagine how intimidating that could be.
"Couldn't you live with your parents? I mean, you aren't married, after all…"
"They live in Finland, and Mr. Duke thought that was too far away, and sent for me to come live here. Father says this could be a great opportunity for the Väinamöinen family and supports the marriage, so he sent me here, together with Eduard."
Ivan looked inquiringly at her.
"My servant and best friend," Tiina explained.
"Who does not approve of his master's loose behavior," a stern voice said behind Ivan. "Really now," a blond, bespectacled young man reprimanded, "How could you even think of doing something so stupid as to invite a total stranger – a man, no less! – into your house when you're alone?"
Tiina frowned. "Eduard, you know full well I can take care of myself."
"When you have a gun, yes. I see no gun."
Tiina grineed, and pulled out a drawer. It was full of knives of different lengths and blades. "These are more than sufficient."
Ivan leaned back discretely. He did not want to be within reach of the young noble woman, now holding one of the bigger knives, nor her servant with a look of severe disapproval on his face. "Killing isn't good," he said, and took the knife away from her. He then turned to Ivan. "I apologize that you had to see that."
"No… Umm…" Ivan didn't know what to say anymore, this had probably been the weirdest mornings in his entire life, so he chose to stay silent.
"Do you want some coffee, Eduard?" Tiina asked, and Eduard nodded.
"After that, I do believe I need some coffee."
Since both Tiina and Eduard proceeded to drink their coffee and nibble some cake, and since none of them seemed to have any further objections to Ivan's presence, Ivan decided he might as well finish his own cake and coffee before excusing himself.
"So, what is he doing here anyway?" Eduard asked, more curious than hostile now, waving a spoon in Ivan's direction.
"Oh, he delivered that package, and he looked cold so I invited him in for coffee. Oh, that's right; I was going to look for some gloves, too!" Tiina bounced up from her chair and disappeared out of the kitchen.
Eduard looked from the empty doorway to Ivan.
"You know," he said slowly, "I haven't seen her this happy in a while. A very long while. As her servant, I cannot approve of you, but as a friend, I think it was good you came by."
Ivan, yet again at loss for words, looked down into the table and said nothing, trying to keep from smiling. Luckily, he didn't have to say anything, for Tiina entered the kitchen again with a pair of good gloves for Ivan, who excused himself and went back to the office, a silly grin on his face all the way back.