As the forest fell away and the horses pulled them along a gradual arc suggesting of a road beneath the snow, Alina's breath caught. Above, the moon was huge and bright, its face beaming down upon a great frozen lake. It dwarfed Trivka's pond that she had skated upon as a child and glinted ferociously under the cold, clear sky.
Growing on the horizon as they rounded the lake rose a house, cut like a silhouette against the moonlight. It was wrought of wood, tall and spindly from the angle they came upon it, the rest of the structure swept to the back like a cloak blown long in the wind. The troika stopped a distance from the front walk, just at the edge of where the snow sat all but undisturbed. The Darkling climbed out first, before putting a hand out for her as she clambered onto the step herself. Resolutely not looking in Ivan's direction, Alina took it and as their palms touched, she felt the warm wash of his power, the calming sensation threading through her from her arm. She was unsure if it was her imagination that his grip tightened for a bare second before he let go. Alina occupied herself with brushing her kefta unnecessarily to rights, before gazing up at the manor house.
Elaborate carvings ran below the eaves and around the windows, fretted and painted. At the front, like the prow of a ship, a tower with a gable roof jutted forward and upon the little porch it sheltered, she thought she glimpsed a figure gazing down at them, before deciding it was a trick of the shadows.
It smacked of Keramzin, only even more so. Duke Keramsov's estate had many an empty, dusty room, in spite of the orphans and war widows littering its halls. But there was no denying it was occupied. Here, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. Few lights gleamed in the windows. Where they did, their light was hushed, as if within, flames huddled close about their wicks. In the glow of outside lamplight, the paint looked sun-worn and hazy, the structure it enrobed an exhausted ghost of a thing. A part of her felt apprehensive about venturing over the threshold, as if the entire building might collapse upon their heads.
A single figure hovered near the double doors before them, a man garbed in servant's fashion. He bowed nervously at their approach and Alina thought of the picture they must make: the Darkling melting out of the evening in his black kefta, the oprichniki with their unsmiling faces, the smattering of Grisha. An oprichnik moved to engage the servant on the matter of stabling, while the Grisha themselves proceeded for the manor's entrance.
Peering over her shoulder, Alina saw David shuffling along behind Ivan, the sole member of the party garbed in Materialki purple. She felt his presence like a brand whenever he was near. The finest Durast in the Darkling's service, it was he who would craft the amplifier. Her amplifier. She wondered if other Grisha had their amplifiers wrought so immediately as was the plan for the stag, but suspected they did not. The Darkling intended to waste no time on this matter it seemed. And with an abrupt flash of unease, she wondered if that in turn meant they would be bound straight for the Fold after this, if he expected so powerful a. . .a miracle.
They stepped into a foyer suiting the exterior of the house: rather narrow, but deep. A staircase arced down from landings above on either side, meeting about halfway down and continuing, unified, a generous span back from the door. An erratic spray of people dotted the marble, but it was the one clambering slowing down from the bottom steps that arrested Alina's attention.
For a moment, she thought this was who she had seen gazing down at them from above, a pale, wispy figure as it was. But that covered porch must have been three stories above and this woman looked as though any hurrying was years, if not decades, beyond her. It could be no one but the Countess Timurova: an old woman who looked fragile enough to snap in a middling wind. A cane was gripped uncertainly in one hand, skin taut and rumpled in turns over tendon and bone. She was tall and thin as a rail, garbed in an ivory fluttering fabric. Her hair was paler yet, bundled high on her head and frizzing about with great enthusiasm. It looked like nothing so much as some great cobwebby kokoshnik.
As she came off of the last step, a man hastened over, his livery suggesting some sort of man at arms.
"Welcome! Welcome to my home!" the old woman declared, waving a blue-veined hand through the air and nearly clipping the guard in the face.
Alina was hardpressed to keep her jaw from dangling, the scene was so surreal. The Darkling seemed to take it all in stride. He gave a small bow. "Countess Timurova, our apologies for disturbing you so late in the evening."
Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by the Countess flapping her hand again and skimming the tip of her cane on the floor. Alina had the impression she would have waved that too, had she the strength to lift it from the floor. "When you are as old as I, you sleep when the urge takes you. And it is a fickle thing indeed, my boy."
Alina almost snorted at that - as spindly and faded as the Countess was, the Darkling was older yet, however much he did not look it. Did the old woman even realize who it was she was addressing?
"Please avail yourselves of our abode as you need. We need little enough of the space in this rambling old place, my flock and I." The visible part of said flock consisted of a kitchen girl, parts surly and spooked in expression - maybe she realized who had come to visit - the man that hovered ineffectively at the Countess's elbow, a couple of more fellows in servant's garb, and several others who looked like guards.
Was that it? It really was a small number of people for such a house, even as small as it was compared to the Grand Palace. Keramzin had echoed with the sounds of many, though perhaps it would have been as empty if not for the Duke's charity. Standing there, Alina found herself chafing her fingers against one another and stopped, feeling a rise of embarrassment. But it was cold, even with the door now shut fast behind them. To look at those before them, one would think only the kitchen girl felt the same - she was huddled into her drab coat, hands out of sight where they were stuffed as deeply into the pockets as they would go.
Logistical details beyond those already imparted beneath her notice - or perhaps the conversation simply no longer interested her - the Countess shuffled her way along toward a corridor to the right, a pacific look on her face. . .and her path aimed right at Ivan. Already astonished by the abrupt departure, from the Darkling's presence no less, Alina watched the dotty old woman's progress with a sort of wonder. Ivan was caught by the same sense of disbelief, leaving to the last minute a dart to the side before they had the pleasure of seeing whether the old woman would have rolled right over him.
The Countess's staff dispersed themselves as though dancing to unspoken orders, one murmuring something about rooms and mounting the staircase. Alina fell in with the rest of the Grisha in the Darkling's wake. His expression was unreadable as he ascended the steps, though he did glance - briefly, but notably - to Ivan, who in turn underwent a minor facial contortion as the Darkling turned away. Sudden insight blossomed.
"Were you the one who arranged our accommodations?" Alina murmured to the Heartrender.
Circumstances dictated he couldn't even snap out a "Shut up, Starkov," forcing him to settle for a glower so covert it was a wasted effort. Feeling herself avenged for his smirks days prior, Alina sailed on her way. And she did not think of the stag.
The Timurova estate had all the welcomeness of a tomb in the morning; it took but short residence to feel like a sufficient authority on that point. She had yet to see the Countess before noon, nevermind what the old woman had said of sleeping only when the urge took her. Urges apparently had a more consistent schedule than Alina had supposed.
For her own part, she might have liked to lie abed longer than she had, if for no other reason than that it would be a warmer prospect than wandering the halls. Alina had not been employing her powers for so long a time that extended periods without calling light did not let a chill start leeching into her bones still. There were times in the Little Palace when it was simply too warm to wear one's winter kefta inside. But here, clad in one appointed with extra care for the hard journey in Tsibeya, she could scarcely dream of taking it off. How the old Countess did not freeze away into nothing in her fluttery gowns was beyond her.
But no Grisha in the Darkling's entourage would be whiling away her day in bed, and so Alina extracted herself, bundled up, and roamed the halls. Again and again. The manor reminded her of the Little Palace, after a fashion. Older, more intimate, not the garish overwrought grandeur of the king's winter home. Yet even more than the Little Palace, it felt like this place and its denizens had never left the past, as if a lost princess from a story might suddenly round a corner any moment or a vodyanoy lumber forth from the lake. But thus far the reality had only been Sveta, the waifish kitchen girl, tramping around with empty water buckets for filling, or oprichniki on patrol.
She did not spend all of her days wandering about, for that would have been as peculiar as hiding away in her room. Socializing was not in her nature however and even if it were, one did not chatter aimlessly with the oprichniki.
Or Ivan. Or David. Or the Darkling.
The other Etherealki had been unknown to her prior to the start of their journey, for they were already active in the Darkling's service, not from among those Grisha at the Little Palace on extended studies. They knew her true identity, but that was not something to manufacture instant closeness. She spoke with them now and then, and did not pick up a sense that they wished her elsewhere, but she likewise felt no urge to linger.
There was an old library on the premises and David was to be found within its confines pretty much whenever anyone bothered to check. Alina would have thought there was little enough to hold the attention of someone with the resources of the Little Palace at their fingertips. Upon making occasion to remark this to David himself - for Genya's sake, she had steeled herself and attempted interaction - the Fabrikator had diverted into a extended litany on the merits of the Timurova collection. Apparently there were some very rare tomes housed in this unlikeliest of venues, for all the cobwebs she spied during the course of the (very one-sided) conversation.
On this particular day however, Alina Starkov had a more concrete goal in mind. She marched herself down a hall on the east side of the manor, closed doors running ahead of her like the tide. It was an apt simile, for so much of this place was a sea of mystery. But the door she sought now was well flagged, the charcoal-clad figure of an oprichnik stationed before it. Her step hitched only for a breath and she told herself it was before the man had set his gaze upon her, that he did not see.
He did not stop interrupt her as she lifted a fist to knock. She wondered if he would have permitted so cavalier an approach at home, before her focus was diverted by thinking of the Little Palace as 'home'. Was that what it was to her? Alina jolted back to the moment when she heard the Darkling's voice, easily recognizable despite the thick old wood between them, and pushed into the room.
It was as time-worn as the rest of the manor, as over-large and under-filled. Perhaps it had once been a study in earnest - there was a desk at its center like an island, its top scarred and blurred with age - and not simply playing at one for the present. The Darkling was seated behind the desk, focal point of a scene that was antithetical to that presented in the war room. A series of windows, tall and broad, spanned the space along the far wall. Tired drapes obscured a good expanse, but they were peeled back in the middle to allow light to infiltrate and the sun obligingly beamed in. Dust motes danced through it and cast it all as a midmorning daydream, a deep black kefta a curiously intense point to it.
The Darkling stood as she approached, executing that small bow he so often made toward her. It struck her in a way it had not before, the spectre of the fete continuing to tint every little interaction with over-analysis. She felt flush with a pleasant sort of feeling and the shiver of uncertainty all at once, for that fundamental question still lingered: what happened next?
"Alina. Please." A long-fingered hand indicated the smattering of chairs before the desk and she perched in one, stacking her hands in the lap of Sofya Volkova's kefta. The Darkling reseated himself and for a moment they looked at one another across tidy piles of reports.
"How are you finding this little respite? A welcome break from classes?"
Half expecting to have been promptly chivvied to the point of her visit, Alina had to backpedal mentally, the perfect recipe to reply before she had really thought out of her words.
"It's. . .different." Lonely. "I've never had so much free time to myself before." That she could remember. Be grateful: the eternal whisper of Keramzin - they had been put at chores promptly after arrival, had the orphans. Before. . .before was a lost thing.
He cocked his head and studied her. His hand came up, then settled on a stack of papers, fingers slightly tented. Alina imagined he had been about to reach across the desk, but the distance would have made it awkward, had he meant to touch her. Her heart thumped faster.
"Free of any excitement though I know." A half smile. "Not that that is always a circumstance to regret." She felt sure he had almost said something else, as she had felt sure he nearly reached out the moment before.
"There was something you needed?"
"Yes. Ah. I wanted to ask your advice."
The Darkling leaned back in his chair and let his hand drop to his leg, but said nothing, waiting.
"I've been thinking about what happens when we find the stag. How that. . . works. That is, I can't perform the Cut. I know it's a rare ability, so I assume it's not needed to claim an amplifier. But, I'm not clear what is needed. I've been reading the theory books," she hastened to add, flushing lightly. "But they're really vague on the practical side of things on this point."
"The Cut is indeed unnecessary," the Darkling said. "One needn't even use Grisha abilities at all. A knife will do well enough. Or a rifle."
He must have read the mild panic that dawned on her face at that. If success hinged upon her ability to take down a mythical creature with a rifle, particularly from a distance or, Saints save them, a knife, then. . . . Mal was accounted an extremely good shot in their regiment. Alina, well, suffice to say that she had finally found more aptitude as a soldier of the Second Army than she ever had as one of the First.
"Don't concern yourself over it." The Darkling's expression was serene and she wished she could have such confidence that she was not about to further doom all of Ravka. "The Grisha who will wield an amplifier must make the killing blow, but that doesn't mean no aid can be rendered. You won't be sent out alone on the tundra to deal with the stag, I assure you."
Alina tried to imagine Ivan or Zoya having needed others to bring their quarry down for them and failed completely. Shame clenched at her belly, but she tried to force it away. This was not about her, but Ravka. She must remember that. What had to be done, would be. "I know how important this is. I just don't want to make a mistake."
The Darkling smiled and it was a full one this time, his quartz eyes glinting at her through the daydream sunlight.
"I won't let that happen, Alina."
As the door clicked gently into a latched position - the notion of thumping it shut with the Darkling on the other side didn't seem right - Alina paused a single step down the corridor. From somewhere, she thought she caught the distant strains of music echoing. It was so faint as to not be a sustained sound, fading in and out as she listened, the instrument not even discernible. The oprichnik by the door showed all of the reaction of a statue when she glanced at him.
It was difficult to imagine a denizen of this particular household picking out a piece of music in the midst of the day - or ever - and the novelty of it drew her down corridors, the sound growing stronger, continuous to her ears now. A piano.
Locating the likeliest of rooms, Alina found the door ajar but pulled to. Hesitating for a moment, she reached out and pushed with a light touch. With a creak of the hinge, the tune stopped and an empty room stood revealed. Empty of any person at least.
The furnishings and design suggested it was a ballroom, the silvered surfaces of mirrors lining the walls. On the far side, near fretted doors that opened onto snow-shrouded gardens, was a piano. A sheet had been pulled over it at one point, but currently lay half on the floor like a drift that had crept its way inside. The floor itself looked to be in some of the best condition she had seen here, but that was likely due to sheer lack of use: dust furred it as thickly as a dog's coat. And through this, Alina could see a distinct lack of any footprints traversing the room, for all that it seemed she could almost still hear the piano's strings lingering at the end of a note. She had heard the song. Where had the pianist gone, and how?
Feeling sudden pinpricks up her spine, she turned and nearly leapt from her skin at finding the Countess Timurova herself standing there gazing at her like a dazed owl.
Alina fumbled desperately for something to say, something other than 'sorry for wandering around your house poking into things', even if the Countess had gone on about her home being open to them. Finally, she stammered out, "I'm sorry, I thought I heard the piano."
"How delightful! You play? Why, it would be marvelous if you gave a performance after dinner."
"Uhh, no, I don't. I meant, I thought I heard someone else playing."
"Oh, I know. It's simply absurd. You have only to look at her to see it."
To that, Alina was left speechless at first. The old woman's gaze was unfocused, but her tone was as forthright as her words were nonsensical, leaving the Grisha taken aback. And there was something strange about her mouth, something edged lurking at the corners.
"My lady, ah, I'm not—"
"What's that, dear?" Clear as a blue sky now, the Countess's eyes, but vaguely fixed. Alina wanted nothing so much as to be somewhere else. She sketched a hurried bow, apologized for disturbing the other woman, and fled. As she plunged past other shut doors, she could not help but think of what she had spied at that last moment she peered into the ballroom - dust on the floor, thick and undisturbed, yes, but by the piano, she could have sworn she saw a swath where the half-fallen sheet had swiped a clear space. . .one that hadn't yet been covered back up.
"The Countess, play at the piano? She can hardly hold her tea glass with two hands. She's too old," Sveta scoffed and heaved a board of chopped turnips into a pot on the stove.
Under the circumstances, a seat by the kitchen grate was the warmest spot Alina had yet found in the manor. Given no one had any use for her at the present, she was perfectly content to perch here and soak up the heat.
Perhaps she even fit here more than she thought, in spite of her kefta. It was not so different from Keramzin in this particular room, save for it being much emptier of people and activity. And the fact Sveta had nearly leapt the length of the room, her wide eyes shocked and a little fearful when, on an earlier day, Alina had made to pick up a knife to help. At the duke's estate, the notion of being forbidden to help with chores would have been the most absurd thing of all. But except for that, the girl had accepted her presence - perhaps with resignation - and recent days had loosened her tongue. Perhaps too much but Alina had a feeling Sveta normally went long stretches of time unable to vent.
"Does anyone else play?" she finally ventured, sipping the tea that was her excuse for being here.
"I don't think so." Sveta frowned thoughtfully and shook her head. "Not much call for that sort of thing out here. And I've never heard it played."
Loose tongue or not, she apparently felt it impolitic to outright suggest Alina was hearing things. "But there's strange enough sounds around these parts regardless," she continued. "Strange enough happenings. Best not to. . .away, you!"
Alina had barely processed the tap-tap sound of something against the window frame before Sveta lurched forward to whip a dish cloth at the glass. A crow exploded from the sill outside in a burst of black feathers and disgusted cawing. Sveta turned back to Alina and to the Grisha's startled expression, said firmly, "Bad luck, that. Birds tapping at windows."
Ana Kuya had turned her nose up at peasant superstition - unless it was about Grisha, a small voice whispered at the back of her mind - and so Alina merely blinked.
"Why do you stay?" she asked suddenly, thinking all at once of cold halls, neverending work for a near-invisible mistress who was at the very least senile and quite possible insane, and the encroachment of 'strange happenings' and grip of superstition.
Sveta gave her a peculiar look. "Where else would I go?"
The Darkling found her that evening as she made her way toward her room. His expression was exultant and Alina's heartbeat began to skip and trip within her chest. She knew.
"We leave tomorrow."