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Chapter Text

I used to believe the world was made of silk and snow.

When I was a child, I imagined life would unfold as softly as the garments my mother sewed by hand — each stitch deliberate, each thread carrying warmth from her fingers. She used to hum when she worked, a melody without words, something like a lullaby to the clinking of her needle. My father would return home covered in coal dust, his eyes bright with exhaustion. He told me once that the world was not cruel, only indifferent. I was too young to understand what he meant, though I suppose I do now.

My name is Mei Chen. I am twenty years old, a Chinese girl far from home — a ghost wandering through the chill corridors of Saint Petersburg. The air here always smells faintly of snow and iron, and no matter how many years pass, I still cannot grow accustomed to the cold that slips through the seams of my dress.

Tonight, I am to dance Swan Lake.

It is February 14th, 1883 — my debut, they call it. A grand evening at the Mariinsky Theatre, attended by the finest of Russia’s nobility. They say even a military officer of high standing is among them, one who always wears a mask to conceal his scars from the war. The girls whispered of him all week — that his face was so ruined he frightened horses, that his voice was like gravel breaking glass. I told them not to talk so cruelly about someone they’d never met. Still, even as I said it, a quiet curiosity took hold of me. I wonder what it is to hide behind a mask.

Mrs. Vasilyev would scold me if she knew I was thinking of such things before a performance. She says my mind wanders too much, that I lack discipline. “A ballerina must be pure precision,” she often reminds me, the tip of her cane striking the wooden floor in rhythm with her words. “You are fortunate I took you in, Mei. Remember that.”

I do remember. Every day.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

The orphanage was cold, colder even than the Russian winter that pressed against its frost-streaked windows. After my parents died — my father in a quarry collapse, my mother soon after from fever — I remember sitting in silence among rows of other forgotten children. I had no one to claim me, no family to write letters to. Then one day, a woman arrived — tall, perfumed, her face powdered like porcelain. Mrs. Vasilyev. She had been promised a stipend for every orphan she trained for the ballet, a charitable act, they called it.

But charity is not kindness.

She kept the gold for herself and fed us only scraps. The other girls — fair-haired, well-born, their families paying handsomely for their tutelage — mocked me for my accent, my black hair, my eyes that slanted differently from theirs. They called me Китайская девушка — “the Chinese girl.” Sometimes they said it with laughter, other times with venom. I learned early that silence was safer than protest.

Yet when the music began, I forgot them all.

Ballet was the only language I could speak without shame. My body learned what my tongue could not say — each pirouette a word, each arabesque a sentence, each leap a cry no one could hear. And Mrs. Vasilyev, though cruel, was not blind. She saw something in me — talent, perhaps, or simply a tool for her ambition.

“You will be Odette,” she told me last month, after years of background roles and corps de ballet parts. “Do not disappoint me, girl. Remember who gave you this chance.”

The Mariinsky glows tonight like a palace of fire and glass. Carriages line the street outside, their wheels crunching over snow as men in fur coats and women in velvet gowns step out beneath the gaslight. I arrive through the servant’s entrance, shivering as I clutch my worn shawl tighter. The backstage corridors are alive with motion — costumers scurrying, dancers whispering prayers, the scent of powder and candle wax mingling in the air.

In the dressing room, I stand before the mirror and almost do not recognize the girl staring back. White feathers crown my head; a bodice of pale satin wraps tightly around my ribs. Beneath the stage light, my skin appears ghostly, translucent. I trace the curve of my cheekbone and wonder if my dearest mother would have been proud to see me like this — not as her daughter, but as someone reborn.

A knock at the door startles me. “Five minutes,” a stagehand calls in Russian.

I nod, though he cannot see me.

When I glance toward the cracked window, I can just make out the street below — the glow of the lamplights reflecting off the frozen canal, and a line of carriages waiting like black beetles in the snow. The wind hums faintly through the glass, carrying with it the sound of distant bells. Somewhere among those rows of seats, the audience gathers — nobles, officers, patrons. And perhaps, the man in the mask.

The first act passes in a blur of white and sound. The orchestra swells beneath me like an ocean — Tchaikovsky’s music a current I cannot fight, only surrender to. Every turn, every leap is automatic, shaped by years of repetition, pain, and perfection. My toes burn, my lungs ache, but I dare not falter.

When I dance, I am not Mei.

I am Odette, the enchanted swan, condemned to sorrow until love sets her free.

The spotlight follows me across the stage, and I feel its warmth pierce the cold that lives in my chest. My arms spread wide like wings, trembling with the effort to appear weightless. I hear the gasps from the crowd — faint, distant, like echoes underwater.

And then, between one movement and the next, I see him.

A figure seated in the upper gallery, apart from the rest. His uniform catches the faintest glint of the chandeliers — black, with silver epaulettes. A mask of burnished steel conceals his face, only his eyes visible beneath the shadow of his hat. He does not move. Does not applaud. Does not blink.

For a moment, my foot slips on the polished stage, and my heart stutters. I recover quickly, but the image of him lingers — a silhouette carved from iron. I feel his gaze follow me until the act ends, when the curtain falls and the audience bursts into applause like thunder.

I bow. I smile, though my lips tremble.

And when I rise again, the masked man is gone.

After the performance, the corridors are chaos — laughter, congratulations, the rustle of skirts and uniforms. Mrs. Vasilyev appears in a rush of perfume and silk, her smile painted on.

“Well done, my dear,” she says, though her tone is more possessive than proud. “They adored you. Even the officers were whispering about the ‘foreign swan.’ Imagine that!”

I lower my eyes. “Thank you, Madame.”

Her hand, gloved and cold, touches my chin, lifting it just enough to force my gaze to hers. “Do not forget who made you what you are,” she murmurs. “And do not think the attention of powerful men will save you. Beauty fades. Discipline does not.”

“Yes, Madame.”

She releases me and turns away, already basking in the praise of others. I stand there a moment longer, surrounded by laughter that does not belong to me.

Later, when the guests have departed and the stage lies silent, I slip out into the night.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

The streets of Saint Petersburg are half-buried in snow. My breath clouds before me as I walk, the echo of my footsteps the only sound. Gaslights flicker along the canal, casting halos of gold on the frozen water. Somewhere a carriage wheel creaks; somewhere else, a drunkard sings to himself in the dark.

I should feel proud. Grateful.

But instead, I feel hollow.

The performance is over. The applause fades, the lights dim, and I am just Mei again — the orphan girl from far away, lost among strangers.

As I turn down the narrow street toward the boarding house, I catch sight of a figure standing beneath the bridge. Tall, broad-shouldered, unmoving. The lamplight glints faintly off what looks like a mask. My pulse quickens, though I cannot say why. He does not speak, nor approach. For a heartbeat, I think perhaps I imagined him. Then a gust of wind sweeps past, scattering snow between us — and when it clears, he is gone.

I linger there, staring at the empty bridge. The silence of the city presses in around me, heavy and endless.

I do not know it yet, but that was the first night our worlds brushed against each other — a dancer and a soldier, both haunted, both wearing masks of our own.

Back in my small attic room, I light a candle and sit before the cracked mirror once more. The paint from the stage still clings to my cheeks, the feathers scattered across the vanity like fallen snow. I take a deep breath and study my reflection.

My eyes are tired, rimmed with red, yet within them I see something — a flicker of defiance, faint but real.

Perhaps my father was right. The world is not cruel. Only indifferent.

But I am still here.

And tomorrow, I will dance again.

Morning in Saint Petersburg is always gray.

The light here never seems to wake fully — it lingers in the half-world between dawn and dusk, casting the city in a colorless hush. Through the frosted windows of the rehearsal hall, I watched snow fall like sifted ash, each flake melting before it touched the glass.

The air inside was sharp with the scent of resin and sweat, and the steady rhythm of pointe shoes striking the floor echoed like raindrops against a roof. We were all rehearsing the same routine — arabesques, pliés, spins. Again and again. The repetition dulled everything into monotony until I could no longer tell one movement from the next.

“Posture, girls! You are not swans — you are sacks of potatoes!” Mrs. Vasilyev’s voice cut through the hall, sharp as the crack of her cane.

“Mei! Back straighter. Chin higher. You are Odette, not a frightened servant.”

I obeyed without a word.

The other girls exchanged glances — smirks, small and poisonous.

“Perhaps the swan has forgotten how to fly,” one whispered in Russian, low enough for only her friends to hear. Another stifled a laugh. I pretended not to notice. Pretending had become an art of survival.

The wood beneath my toes creaked softly as I moved into position once more, the muscles in my legs trembling with fatigue. I counted each beat in my head: one, two, three, four — the same numbers that had governed my life since childhood. There was comfort in the repetition, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

Outside, the church bells began to ring. It must have been near midday when Mrs. Vasilyev’s voice suddenly rose again, slicing through the murmurs of the room.

“Mei. Come here.”

Her tone was unusually calm, which only made my stomach twist tighter.

I turned, half expecting to hear about my imperfect form — my arm too low, my expression too plain, my every fault dissected and displayed. But when I crossed the hall toward her, the first thing I noticed wasn’t her cane, nor her frown.

It was him.

The man standing beside her.

At first, he seemed almost like an illusion — a shadow made solid in the dim light. His coat was dark, military in cut, the silver of his buttons dulled by the cold. A leather glove rested loosely on the handle of his walking stick, though he didn’t lean on it. And then there was the mask — metallic, expressionless, reflecting the gray of the morning.

The same mask from last night’s audience.

My breath caught before I could stop it. The hall seemed to shrink around us, every whisper fading into silence.

“Mei,” Mrs. Vasilyev said, gesturing toward him with a flourish that bordered on theatrical, “this is Colonel Andrei Volk. You may recall that he attended the performance yesterday evening.”

He inclined his head slightly, though the gesture carried weight, as if even his smallest movement commanded the air around him. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured, with that particular clipped cadence of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

“I was in the audience,” he confirmed. “Your performance was… exceptional.”

The words should have sounded flattering, but they fell like stones into the quiet. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks and lowered my gaze instinctively, unsure whether to thank him or apologize.

He extended his hand — gloved, steady. “Andrei Volk,” he said again, though I already knew.

I hesitated, the seconds stretching too long between us. His hand did not waver. Finally, I reached out, my own fingers trembling as they brushed the cool leather of his glove. His grip was firm — not cruel, not gentle, but weighted with something unspoken. I felt small beneath the steadiness of it.

“Mei Chen,” I managed to say softly.

His eyes — pale gray, almost colorless — regarded me through the narrow slit of the mask. It was impossible to read what he thought, but his silence pressed on me all the same, like a question I didn’t know how to answer.

Mrs. Vasilyev’s laughter broke the stillness. “Our little Mei doesn’t often receive such attention, Colonel,” she said, her words sugary but false. “You flatter her — and me — by visiting our humble rehearsal hall.”

“I only wished to express my appreciation,” he replied. “And to make a request.”

Mrs. Vasilyev’s brows lifted. “A request?”

“A private performance,” he said simply.

The air shifted. I felt every eye in the room turn toward me.

He continued, “Your pupil’s portrayal of Odette was… arresting. I would like to see it again, without distraction. Tomorrow was my original intent, but Mrs. Vasilyev suggested it could be arranged today.”

I glanced between them, confusion prickling beneath my skin. A private performance? Alone?

Mrs. Vasilyev clapped her hands together, her smile widening. “Of course, of course! Mei will be honored. She will prepare at once.”

I opened my mouth to speak — to ask if this was necessary — but her glare silenced me before the words could form.

“And straighten your posture,” she hissed under her breath. “You stand like a frightened child.”

My shoulders locked, my chin lifted. The familiar shame settled like a weight in my stomach.

Andrei Volk said nothing. His gaze remained on me — not hungry, not even admiring. Simply watching. As though he were examining the structure of a painting, not the person within it.

“Very well,” Mrs. Vasilyev announced. “The pianist will accompany. We’ll make it brief.”

                                                                                       ・・・・・

The rehearsal hall emptied quickly, the other girls filing out with a flurry of whispers. Their envy hung in the air like perfume. I could almost hear their thoughts: The orphan girl gets her own audience with a colonel?

I changed in silence, slipping into the familiar white dress that had become my second skin. The feathers along the bodice brushed softly against my collarbone. I fastened the ribbons of my shoes with trembling hands.

The pianist, an elderly man with fingers bent from years of playing, took his seat in the corner. His eyes met mine briefly — a wordless kindness there — before he began to play.

The first notes of Swan Lake filled the hall.

I stepped forward.

The wooden floor was cold beneath my feet, the faint echo of the keys wrapping around me like a memory. I began to dance — slowly at first, then faster, the music rising and falling like the tide. My movements were automatic, shaped by muscle and survival.

But it felt different this time.

There were no gaslights, no audience, no thunder of applause. Only him.

He watched without moving, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. His presence filled the space more completely than the music itself. Every turn, every leap felt sharpened by it — as if the air around him drew me in, demanded something I didn’t understand.

I could feel my pulse in my throat. For a moment, I imagined that mask watching from the edge of a battlefield, not a theater. The same silence. The same intensity.

I thought of what the girls had said earlier — that men only ever sought what beauty could give them, not what it cost. I braced myself for the same gaze, the same expectation. But it never came.

There was no hunger in his eyes. Only stillness.

As I moved through the final steps, I felt something unfamiliar stir in me — not pride, not fear. Something in between. Like standing at the edge of a frozen river, feeling the ice tremble beneath your feet but not yet break.

When the music ended, I froze mid-pose, chest heaving.

Silence.

Then, slowly, he began to clap. Three measured, deliberate strikes of his hands. The sound echoed in the empty hall.

“You dance,” he said quietly, “as if the world were watching even when it is not.”

I bowed my head, unsure if that was praise or pity. “Thank you, sir.”

He approached — not close enough to frighten, but close enough that I could see the faint scarring that trailed beneath the edge of his mask. The candlelight caught on the metal, casting his shadow long against the floor.

“I would like,” he said, “to invite you to dinner. Tomorrow night, or the following, if that is preferable.”

The words startled me. I must have looked confused, because he added, “Merely to speak. To know the person behind the performance.”

No man had ever asked me to dinner before. Men looked at me, yes — some with disdain, others with something worse — but none had asked. Not like this.

I heard Mrs. Vasilyev’s warning echo in my head: Do not think the attention of powerful men will save you.

And yet, there was something in his voice — not command, not charm, but sincerity. A quiet gravity that made refusal feel almost dishonest.

“Yes,” I said before I could stop myself. “I would be honored.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Tomorrow, then.”

Andrei Volk turned to leave, his boots clicking softly against the floorboards. The door closed behind him with a muted thud, leaving me alone with the pianist and the fading echo of music.

That evening, I walked home beneath a sky heavy with snow. The lamps flickered dimly, their light swallowed by the fog. My reflection followed me in the shop windows — pale face, hair pinned in a loose bun, a single feather still caught in the thread of my coat.

The city was quiet. Even the canals seemed to sleep beneath their ice.

I replayed the day in my mind — the handshake, the sound of his voice, the way he watched without looking through me. It unsettled me more than cruelty ever had. Cruelty I understood; silence I did not.

In him there was something unreadable, like a poem missing half its lines.

At the boarding house, I climbed the narrow stairs to my attic room. The walls there were thin; I could hear the soft hum of life below — laughter, the clatter of dishes, a baby crying somewhere in the distance. I set the candle on the windowsill and watched the snow drift outside.

Tomorrow night. Dinner with a man whose name carried weight, whose mask hid both history and intention.

I should have been afraid. Perhaps I was.

But beneath that fear was something else — small, fragile, persistent.

A flicker of anticipation.

Maybe, I thought, not all masks are worn to conceal ugliness. Some are to survive it.

I touched the feather still caught in my coat and smiled faintly to myself.

Whatever tomorrow brings, I will face it as I have faced everything — quietly, gracefully, and without complaint.

And if he looks at me the way he did today, perhaps, for the first time, I will not look away.

Chapter Text

The morning light came dull and gray over Saint Petersburg, a thin fog wrapping itself around the frozen city like old lace. From the rehearsal hall’s narrow windows, I could see the faint outlines of carriages passing by — silhouettes of wealth I’d only ever watched from afar. Inside, the air was heavy with chalk and the sound of shoes scraping against the wooden floor. Mrs. Vasilyev’s voice cut through the air with its usual sharpness, commanding, correcting, reshaping us into things of precision.

I went through my exercises mechanically. My body knew what to do even when my mind drifted elsewhere. The dinner. The thought of it trailed me like a shadow — tightening and loosening around my chest in uneven intervals. I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the way the boards flexed under my feet, the faint squeak of rosin beneath my slippers, the cold bite of air that crept in through the drafty hall. But the thought of him — Andrei Volk — refused to leave.

When Mrs. Vasilyev barked my name, I straightened instantly, arms raised in perfect fifth. She eyed me as if searching for a mistake to seize. “Better,” she said curtly, though I could tell she’d noticed my distraction. “Keep your focus, Mei. Discipline, not daydreams.”

“Yes, Madame,” I murmured, keeping my gaze on the mirrored wall where the faint ghost of my reflection watched back — a figure too still, too careful.

It was after morning drills, in the cramped dressing room, that I realized I wouldn’t be left in peace. The air was thick with perfume and gossip, the kind of feminine cruelty that disguised itself as laughter. I was sitting quietly, unpinning my hair, when I noticed two of the girls whispering near the mirrors — one tall and pale, the other shorter with ribbons in her hair, both looking directly at me.

“Well, look who’s glowing,” the tall one, Katarina, said. “Our little Mei finally has an admirer.”

Her tone made the word sound dirty. The others giggled softly.

“I heard it was a soldier,” another girl said, brushing powder onto her cheeks. “No, not a soldier — a commander. Imagine that. He probably thinks her eyes are exotic.”

A round of laughter. The kind that lingers, waiting for a reaction.

My fingers fumbled over my laces. “He’s… he’s not what you think,” I said quietly, but that only seemed to amuse them further.

Katarina stepped closer, her perfume sweet and suffocating. “Don’t be shy. We all saw how he watched you. It’s no wonder he wants you to himself — some men prefer the foreign type.”

The shorter one smirked. “Maybe she’s tired of dancing. Maybe this is her new performance — a private one.”

I felt the room shrinking, my breath caught somewhere between my ribs.

Katarina tilted her head. “Face it, Mei. Men like that don’t dine with girls like us. They use them. You should be grateful. It might be your only chance to be useful for once.”

The words hit harder than any slap. The others laughed — soft, cruel laughter that dissolved into the faint hum of conversation as they lost interest.

I sat still long after they’d left, my hands trembling slightly as I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders. Their voices still echoed faintly from the corridor. “Poor thing… doesn’t even know what she’s walking into…”

When the door finally shut, the silence felt enormous.

For a moment I just stared at my reflection in the mirror — my hair loose and tangled, eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion. The edges of my vision blurred as tears rose unbidden. I pressed my hand over my mouth, sinking slowly to the floor. The wood was cold against my legs. I curled up, the sobs coming quietly, careful not to let them echo too loudly in case someone walked in.

I thought of the years I’d spent trying to be perfect, trying to erase every trace of what made me different. The pale skin I could never have. The soft accents that turned my words strange. All the while pretending I didn’t notice when the others whispered chink behind their palms.

By the time my tears dried, the hall outside had grown silent. My eyes stung, and I felt hollow — but determined. I couldn’t let them see me falter again. Not tonight.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

I returned home as the daylight faded, the city steeped in its evening chill. My room was small, the walls bare except for a faded print of a ballerina mid-pirouette, yellowed at the corners. I lit the single lamp on my desk, its weak glow pooling across the wooden floor.

My chest tightened with panic as I opened my wardrobe. Most of my clothes were plain rehearsal dresses or worn skirts, patched over from years of wear. Nothing remotely appropriate for dining with a man like him.

Then I remembered the spare gown Mrs. Vasilyev kept for special occasions — for patrons, donors, or visiting dignitaries. It hung behind her office door, untouched for months. I had returned it once before after a small performance dinner, cleaned and pressed, but she’d waved me off. “Keep it,” she’d said then, distracted. “It may serve you again.”

I lifted it from its box now, careful not to tear the lace. It was a muted sapphire color, the hem trimmed with cream frills, modest but graceful. I paired it with a fur-lined overcoat — slightly too large at the shoulders — and a pair of borrowed gloves. My hair, still damp from a hurried bath, I twisted into a low chignon.

When I finally stepped outside, the sky was deep blue and faintly silvered with snow. My breath came out in soft clouds. I waited near the curb, heart pounding, until the sound of hooves broke the stillness.

The carriage that arrived was far grander than I’d imagined. Polished wood, brass fixtures, the faint insignia of the Russian military glinting near the door. The coachman stepped down first, opening the door with a stiff nod.

Inside, Andrei Volk sat poised — black uniform trimmed in silver, gloves folded neatly in his lap. His mask was absent tonight, though his expression was still unreadable, the sharpness of his features softened only by the lamplight filtering through the glass yet marred by whatever scars disfigured his face during his line of duty.

“Miss Mei,” he greeted quietly, standing as I entered. His voice was low, even — not warm, but not unkind.

“Good evening,” I managed, bowing my head slightly before taking the seat opposite him. The interior smelled faintly of leather and smoke, the silence between us filled only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves.

He regarded me for a long moment, then spoke. “I trust your practice went well today.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir. As well as it could.”

“Good.” He looked out the window briefly before adding, “You seem… tired.”

I hesitated, unsure whether to admit the truth. “It was a long day.”

He said nothing after that. Yet his presence filled the carriage — not with menace, but with something dense, weighty, like the quiet before a storm.

The restaurant was in one of the wealthier districts — the kind of place where chandeliers glowed like frozen suns and the air smelled faintly of wax and roasted chestnuts. Andrei stepped out first, offering his gloved hand to help me down. The streetlamps cast him in shades of gold and shadow, his gaze unreadable but steady.

“Stay close,” he said simply as we entered.

The maître d’ recognized him instantly, bowing low before leading us to a secluded booth curtained by heavy velvet. It was so quiet there that I could hear the faint ticking of my own pulse.

Menus were placed before us. I tried to hide my nerves behind polite silence, scanning the foreign names of dishes I could barely pronounce. He seemed to notice, leaning slightly forward. “If you prefer, I can order for both of us.”

“That would be… fine,” I said, grateful.

When the waiter left, we sat in a silence that felt fragile but not uncomfortable. The candle between us flickered softly, casting shifting patterns across his face. He seemed to study me the way one might study an unfamiliar language — attentive, patient.

It wasn’t until the food arrived, steaming and fragrant, that he spoke again.

“I heard you were being mistreated.”

The fork in my hand stilled. “What?”

“At the academy,” he said, tone measured. “Mrs. Vasilyev is not as discreet as she believes. I heard certain remarks made about you. I wanted to know if they were true.”

My first instinct was to deny it — to protect myself through silence, the same way I always had. “No, sir. It’s nothing. Just—”

“Miss Mei.”

My eyes lifted to his. His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried authority, the kind that brooked no evasion. “I don’t ask out of idle curiosity. I’ve seen it before. The quiet ones are often the ones trampled first.”

Something in his tone disarmed me — not pity, but recognition.

I looked down, tracing the rim of my glass. “They don’t like me. They never did.”

He waited.

“I try not to give them reason,” I continued softly. “But sometimes I think… even if I danced perfectly, it wouldn’t matter. I wasn’t born the way they were. I don’t belong in their world.”

The words left me before I could stop them. For a heartbeat, I regretted saying anything at all. But when I glanced up, he wasn’t smirking or frowning — only watching with that same inscrutable stillness.

“Belonging,” he said after a moment, “is a luxury, not a right. Few of us have it.”

His words settled between us like dust, strange and heavy.

The rest of the dinner passed in muted tones. He asked about my training, my background. I told him about the orphanage after my parent’s death, about the first time I’d seen a ballet and how I’d thought the dancers looked like they were made of light. He listened — truly listened — his gaze unwavering.

When the meal ended, he rose and gestured for me to follow. The night outside was cold, the kind of cold that burned the skin. The carriage waited once more, lanterns glowing faintly in the mist.

The ride back was quiet. My thoughts swirled — fragments of his words, the look in his eyes, the strange ease that had crept into my chest despite my fear.

When we stopped before my building, he stepped out first, offering his hand again. I hesitated only a moment before taking it.

“You have talent,” he said quietly. “And resolve. Both are rare.”

I managed a small smile. “Thank you, sir.”

He reached into his coat, producing a small card. “If you ever need anything — protection, assistance — contact this number. Day or night.”

I took it with both hands, unsure what to say. “Why… why me?”

He regarded me with that same impassive calm. “Because you remind me of someone who once needed help and never received it.”

Then he inclined his head, almost a bow. “Good night, Miss Mei.”

“Good night,” I whispered.

As the carriage disappeared down the fog-veiled street, I stood beneath the faint glow of the lamplight, the card clutched tight in my hand.

Inside my room, I laid it gently on the desk, tracing the neat print of his name — Andrei Volk. The silence pressed in again, softer now, less lonely.

I sat by the window, watching the snow begin to fall. For the first time in a long while, I felt something fragile stirring in my chest — not quite hope, not yet, but something close enough to make me breathe a little easier.

And somewhere deep inside, I wondered what kind of man he truly was — this soldier with eyes like winter, who spoke of belonging as though it were something one could live without.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

The morning after the dinner felt strangely suspended — as though the city itself had paused to draw breath. The usual sound of carriage wheels on cobblestone came muffled through the frost-laced window, and the rehearsal bells at the Mariinsky did not toll. For the first time in months, there were no practices, no performances, no voices calling my name.

Mrs. Vasilyev had granted the girls a day of leisure, a rare mercy meant to mark the end of a grueling season. The others greeted it with shrieks of delight, already chattering about new gloves, imported perfumes, and the promise of fresh gossip at Nevsky Prospekt. Their laughter had echoed through the corridor as they dressed in velvet and fur, the scent of powder trailing after them like smoke.

And I — I lingered behind, pretending to tidy my things though there was little to arrange.

Once they left, the house fell silent.

The stillness settled over me like a shawl. I didn’t mind it; silence had long been the closest thing I’d had to company. I carried my breakfast upstairs — a heel of bread, a small cup of milk — and sat by the attic window, where the faint winter light spilled across the floorboards. From this height, I could see the rooftops of Saint Petersburg, each one capped with snow that glittered faintly under the weak sun.

The city looked so vast from here, yet it always felt distant — unreachable, as though a pane of invisible glass separated me from it.

I traced my finger against the frosted glass, leaving streaks where the warmth of my skin melted the thin crust of ice. My mind wandered back to last night — the dinner, the quiet clinking of porcelain, the glow of the candlelight reflected in Andrei’s eyes. I could still feel the faint weight of his gaze, that peculiar mixture of authority and… something softer.

He had spoken little, yet each word lingered long after he’d said it.

“Belonging is a luxury, not a right.”

I’d thought about that sentence again and again until it began to sound like truth.

Perhaps it was.

After breakfast, I lay down on my narrow bed. The attic’s wooden beams groaned faintly as the wind pressed against the roof, and the faint smell of dust filled the air. I closed my eyes, pulling the thin blanket to my chin. I told myself I’d only rest for a little while.

It must have been late afternoon when the knock came.

At first I thought I’d dreamt it — a soft, deliberate sound that seemed to come from far away. But then it came again, firmer this time, and I sat up quickly, blinking the sleep from my eyes. My heart began to race. No one ever visited me.

I hurried down the creaking stairs, the floor cold against my bare feet.

When I opened the door, I froze.

Standing there in the pale winter light was Andrei Volk. His presence filled the narrow doorway — tall, composed, immaculate in his dark uniform. The silver of his insignia glinted faintly beneath his greatcoat, and the familiar mask concealed his face once more, its polished surface reflecting the weak sun.

In his hand, a bouquet of winter flowers — pale hellebores and a few sprigs of evergreen — a strange, beautiful contrast against the gray afternoon.

I realized, to my horror, that I was still in my sleep clothes — a worn nightgown and a shawl thrown hastily over my shoulders. My hair was unpinned and loose, falling in tangled strands around my face.

“I— I didn’t expect— ” I began, my voice catching.

He inclined his head slightly. “Forgive the intrusion. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, of course not,” I said quickly, though my pulse felt like thunder beneath my skin.

He didn’t comment on my disheveled state, nor the narrowness of the hall behind me. His gaze — or what I imagined to be his gaze behind that mask — swept briefly across the interior before returning to me.

“May I come in?”

I hesitated, only for a second. “Yes, please.”

I stepped aside. He entered without a sound, the door closing softly behind him. The faint scent of smoke and winter air clung to his coat. For a moment he said nothing, simply looking around — at the modest walls, the faded wallpaper, the faint traces of dust that gathered where the light did not reach.

Then his voice came, calm and measured. “Where are the others?”

“They went out,” I said. “Shopping, mostly.”

He nodded once. “And you did not join them?”

“I— No. I… don’t usually go with them.”

“Why not?”

The question was simple, but the answer knotted in my throat. “We’re… not close. I suppose I’m not very good at making friends.”

A pause. Then, quietly, “Or perhaps they are not very good at keeping one.”

I blinked, startled by the unexpected warmth of the remark.

He looked down at the bouquet in his hand, then extended it toward me. “These are for you. A small token of thanks, for agreeing to dinner last night.”

The flowers were lovely — fragile petals trembling against the chill. I accepted them carefully, not trusting my voice. The gesture felt far too gentle for someone of his stature.

“Thank you,” I managed, pressing the bouquet close to my chest.

“You’re welcome,” he said. His tone remained even, yet something softened at the edges of it.

An awkward silence settled between us, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock in the next room. I became acutely aware of the shabbiness of my surroundings — the threadbare carpet, the uneven floorboards, the faint smell of dust and soap.

Then Andrei spoke again, almost casually. “Would you show me where you live?”

My heart skipped. “Here?”

He nodded. “I’m curious. You mentioned before that your quarters were in the attic.”

My face flushed hot. “It’s nothing impressive, sir. Truly, there’s nothing to see.”

“I’d still like to see it,” he said, his tone not demanding, merely steady.

I tried to deflect. “It’s very small, and I haven’t had time to tidy— ”

“Please,” he said simply.

And there it was — the quiet authority that made refusal impossible.

I swallowed hard and turned toward the staircase. “This way.”

The climb to the attic felt endless. I could feel my pulse in my throat as I reached the top, fumbling with the latch before pushing the door open. The little room greeted us with its usual dim light and faint smell of wood and linen.

I hurried ahead, lighting the small oil lamp on my desk. Its glow cast long shadows across the slanted ceiling. The space looked even smaller with him standing there — his figure filling the narrow room, his presence too large for the frailty of the space.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, turning to face him. “It’s not much, but it’s— home.”

He stepped inside quietly, ducking slightly beneath the low beam. His gaze drifted across the few objects I owned — a small mirror, a worn pair of slippers, a stack of practice sheets, a tiny porcelain figure of a dancer I’d found at the market years ago.

“It suits you,” he said after a moment.

I let out a small, nervous laugh. “That’s kind of you, but it’s hardly suitable for anyone.”

He glanced at me. “You’re wrong. It’s simple. Honest. It reminds me of my first quarters — the kind given to young cadets. Barely room to breathe, but enough to dream.”

The comparison caught me off guard. I’d never imagined him — a man of such discipline and stature — as someone who had once lived in small rooms like mine.

“I can’t imagine you ever being anything but…” I trailed off, unsure how to finish.

“But what?” he asked, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.

“But composed. Certain.”

He turned away, studying the frost gathered at the edge of the window. “Certainty is a mask, Miss Mei. Not so different from this one.” He touched the edge of his mask lightly, as though it were a habit.

I lowered my gaze, the words striking deeper than I’d expected.

Silence filled the room — not awkward this time, but heavy with unspoken things. I became acutely aware of how small I must have looked, sitting there barefoot in my nightclothes, clutching the flowers like a child.

The shame of it welled up inside me before I could stop it. My throat burned; my vision blurred. I turned away, pretending to adjust the lamp, but my hands trembled.

He noticed.

“What troubles you?” His voice was quiet now, stripped of command.

I shook my head quickly. “It’s nothing. I just… I’m sorry. You shouldn’t see me like this. The others — they live downstairs, in proper rooms, and I— ”

I couldn’t finish. The words tangled into a sob.

To my horror, tears spilled over. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to hide, but the harder I tried, the more they came — silent, helpless tears that burned with humiliation.

For a moment, neither of us moved. Then I heard the faint creak of the stool as he sat down.

“Mei,” he said quietly. Just my name, spoken in that low, steady tone that somehow anchored the air itself.

I drew a shaky breath.

“There is nothing here to be ashamed of,” he continued. “I’ve seen far worse, from people with far greater means.”

I looked up, my vision still blurred. “You don’t have to pretend—”

“I’m not pretending.” His voice held no sharpness, only quiet conviction. “Comfort doesn’t measure worth. Nor does wealth. You live honestly. That’s more than I can say for most.”

I wiped my eyes with the hem of my sleeve, unable to find an answer.

He leaned forward slightly, the lamplight catching the edge of his mask. “I came only to see how you were faring. That is all.”

I nodded weakly. “I’m fine.”

“Good.”

A pause. Then he rose, adjusting his gloves. “I won’t keep you. But I’m glad I came.”

He moved toward the door, and for a brief moment I wished he wouldn’t. The room felt fuller with him there — steadier, as though his presence alone kept the world from slipping apart.

At the threshold, he turned back to me. “Keep the flowers near the window,” he said softly. “They’ll last longer in the cold.”

“I will,” I whispered.

Then he inclined his head and stepped into the stairwell, his footsteps fading down the creaking steps.

I sat there long after he left, the bouquet resting in my lap. Outside, the sky had turned the color of iron, and snow began to fall again — soft, soundless flakes that gathered along the sill.

The lamp flickered. I could still smell the faint trace of his cologne in the air, sharp and clean like smoke and pine.

For the first time in a long while, the quiet didn’t feel empty. It felt… protective somehow, as though he’d left something behind — not his presence, but the echo of it.

I set the flowers in an old glass jar, just as he’d said, and placed them by the window. The petals trembled faintly in the draft.

Lying back on my bed, I watched the snow drift past the glass and thought of the strange man who wore a mask even in daylight — a man who spoke like he was both warning and comforting me all at once.

I didn’t know what he wanted, or why he’d come. But beneath the uncertainty, something fragile began to stir — a thread of warmth woven through the cold.

And for the first time, I allowed myself to believe that perhaps I wasn’t invisible after all.

Chapter Text

I knew something was wrong the moment Mrs. Vasilyev called my name.

The rehearsal hall had just emptied of its laughter and chatter, leaving only the echo of pointe shoes across the polished floor. I had been finishing my stretches, sweat dampening my collar as I repeated the same plié for the hundredth time that morning. My legs trembled faintly — not from fatigue but from unease. Mrs. Vasilyev rarely summoned anyone to her office unless it was serious, and never with that clipped tone that sliced through the air like a blade.

“Mei,” she said. “A word.”

Every girl within earshot turned to look at me. I could feel their stares like pins against my back, the curl of amusement in their lips, the anticipatory gleam in their eyes. I rose slowly, smoothing my skirt and bowing my head in acknowledgment before walking past them. The sound of my slippers scuffing the floor felt too loud.

I tried to steady my breathing as I approached the office door. The wood was old, painted white but yellowed by time, the brass handle cold beneath my fingertips. When I knocked, her voice came from within — crisp, restrained. “Enter.”

I stepped inside.

The office smelled faintly of varnish and old paper, a place heavy with discipline. Mrs. Vasilyev stood near the window, her back turned to me, the morning light slicing across her silhouette. She looked almost statuesque like that — still, commanding, the folds of her dark gown sharp as if cut from stone. Three of the girls were there already, standing side by side. Their arms were crossed, expressions arranged in polite indifference that couldn’t quite hide the satisfaction flickering beneath.

My stomach dropped.

“Sit,” Mrs. Vasilyev said, turning toward me.

I obeyed, folding my hands in my lap. My palms were slick with sweat.

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked, her tone smooth, almost unnervingly so.

I hesitated. “No, ma’am.”

For a moment she said nothing, only studied me as if dissecting every twitch of my expression. “Then perhaps you should enlighten me,” she continued, “as to whether or not anyone visited you yesterday.”

My throat went dry. I forced a small smile. “No, ma’am. I—I was alone all day.”

Her eyes narrowed.

The silence stretched long enough for me to hear the ticking of the wall clock — each second dragging against my nerves. Then she spoke again, voice colder now, brittle around the edges.

“Do not lie to me, Mei.”

I flinched. “I’m not lying, I—”

“Enough!” The word cracked through the air like a whip. I bit my lip and looked down, heart thundering. The three girls smirked faintly, their gazes shimmering with quiet triumph.

Mrs. Vasilyev turned to them then, her expression still composed but her voice sharp with accusation that wasn’t for them. “These young ladies have informed me that they saw a visitor yesterday. A man — older, dressed formally — leaving through the front gate. They claim he was seen stepping into a carriage, and that flowers were later spotted on your windowsill.”

My stomach lurched. So they had seen.

I opened my mouth, fumbling for words that would sound believable. “He only came to—”

But before I could finish, one of the girls spoke — Anastasia, the leader of their little circle, her voice dripping with false concern.

“It’s really quite strange, Madame,” she said, glancing at me. “I suppose Mei has… other ways of getting attention. Ballet doesn’t seem to be enough anymore.”

The second girl — Irina — gave a mock gasp, feigning sympathy. “Oh, but can you blame her? A general, wasn’t he? Or some kind of official? One can only imagine what an invitation like that entails.”

The third girl, Tatiana, leaned forward slightly, her tone hushed but cutting. “She’s probably given up on being a dancer. A man like that can buy her all the silk dresses she wants.”

They giggled softly among themselves.

I sat frozen, the blood draining from my face, humiliation burning behind my eyes. My nails dug into my palms beneath the table until they left crescents in my skin.

Mrs. Vasilyev didn’t laugh. She didn’t even move. She simply waited until the last giggle faded, then looked at me again — a gaze that stripped me bare.

“So,” she said quietly. “You will maintain this story — that no one visited you?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her expression hardened. “Lying only deepens your shame.”

“I’m not—”

“Enough.”

The word silenced me.

She turned to the other girls. “You may go.”

The three of them exchanged pleased glances and curtsied before gliding toward the door. As they passed, Anastasia leaned close enough to whisper, “Enjoy your extra lessons, foreign girl.” The faint scent of her perfume lingered as the door shut behind them.

The room felt smaller after they left — airless, oppressive.

Mrs. Vasilyev moved toward her desk, hands clasped tightly behind her back. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then, very calmly, she said, “You will stay after practice today. I believe some additional training will help you remember where your priorities lie.”

I knew better than to argue.

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

“Good. Dismissed.”

                                                                                       ・・・・・

By the time evening fell, the others were long gone — laughter echoing down the hallways as they disappeared into the winter dusk. I remained. The rehearsal room felt cavernous in their absence, the mirrors reflecting only my own weary form again and again until I no longer recognized myself.

Mrs. Vasilyev stood by the piano with her cane in hand, tapping it against the floor rhythmically, like a metronome. “Begin.”

I obeyed.

Plié. Arabesque. Pirouette.

Each movement blurred into the next, my body trembling with fatigue. The wooden floor bit into my soles, the cold air stinging the exposed skin of my arms. She offered no corrections, no praise — only the steady tap of her cane.

“Again.”

I did.

“Your arm — no, higher. You move as though your limbs are made of lead. Grace, girl. Grace.”

I tried to breathe evenly, to keep my form precise even as my muscles burned. The mirror caught the image of my flushed face, strands of hair sticking to my neck, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“Again.”

I obeyed until the edges of my vision blurred. My knees buckled once, twice, before I forced myself upright. Sweat pooled at my collarbone. My breath came ragged, shallow.

“Are you so fragile,” Mrs. Vasilyev said quietly, “that a few hours of discipline breaks you?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Her footsteps echoed across the wooden floor until she stood behind me. I tensed, every nerve taut. The cane struck lightly against my shoulder — not hard, but enough to jolt my composure.

“Do not look at the floor,” she hissed. “No one admires a coward’s posture.”

I lifted my chin, blinking back tears.

She circled me like a hawk. “You think yourself special because some man noticed you. Because you were pitied. But let me tell you this — men like him do not rescue girls like you. They use them, discard them, and forget their names by morning.”

Her words cut deeper than the strike had. I bit down hard on my tongue to keep from crying out.

“Again,” she said.

So I danced.

Until my calves screamed. Until my fingertips went numb. Until my reflection no longer resembled a person but a shadow carved from obedience.

The cane struck the floor once more. “Enough.”

I collapsed to my knees, unable to hold myself upright. My breath came in ragged gasps, my chest aching. I heard her sigh — an impatient sound — before turning away.

“You will arrive early tomorrow,” she said coldly. “You need correction, and I intend to see it through.”

I managed a faint nod, barely audible.

When she left, the silence that followed was unbearable.

I stayed there for a long time, kneeling on the cold wooden floor, my sweat cooling against my skin. My body trembled uncontrollably — not from pain alone, but from something hollower. Shame. Loneliness. That same familiar sense of being small and unseen.

Somewhere, in that haze of exhaustion, my mind drifted to Andrei. His voice — low, deliberate — asking if I was mistreated. The way his gloved hand had lingered just long enough to steady me when I’d stumbled outside the restaurant.

I remembered the faint glint of his mask under the lamplight. The impossible stillness of him. And though I knew I shouldn’t, I clung to the thought — that if he had been there, he would have said something, anything, to stop this.

But he wasn’t.

He existed only in the echo of my imagination — a distant light I could almost see if I closed my eyes hard enough.

So I stayed still, breathing slowly, until the trembling subsided. Then I forced myself to stand.

When I finally made it back to my attic room, night had swallowed the city whole. The streets below glowed faintly under the frost-bitten gas lamps. I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, letting my body slide down until I was sitting on the floor.

My entire body ached — not sharply, but with the dull, throbbing ache of overuse. My toes were blistered, my arms heavy, my head pounding. I reached for the small tin basin near the bed, poured what little water remained inside, and splashed it against my face. It was icy, a shock that made me gasp.

In the mirror above my dresser, I caught my reflection — pale, exhausted, eyes rimmed red. I almost didn’t recognize the girl staring back.

The bouquet of flowers Andrei had given me sat on the table beside the window. Some of the petals had begun to wilt, curling at the edges, but the color still lingered — faintly alive, stubborn. I brushed a finger against one of them.

It was foolish, maybe, to see them as anything more than a polite gesture. Yet something about them — their quiet persistence despite the cold — felt like a promise I couldn’t quite name.

I sank onto the bed, wrapping the thin blanket around myself. My muscles screamed when I moved, but I ignored it. Through the small attic window, I could see flakes of snow beginning to fall, catching the faint orange of the lamplight outside.

For a long while, I just sat there, listening to the muted hum of the city below. The ache in my body softened, replaced by something gentler — exhaustion, yes, but also defiance.

They could strip me of dignity, grind my pride into dust beneath their polished heels, but I would not break.

I closed my eyes and whispered into the quiet, the words barely audible even to myself.

“I’ll keep going.”

It wasn’t a vow of strength, not really — more of survival. The fragile, trembling kind that keeps you breathing when all else fails.

The image of Andrei’s gloved hand, the faint sound of his voice, flickered through my thoughts like a candle behind fog. I let it linger there — a small warmth against the cold.

Then I lay down, the flowers’ faint scent mixing with the dust and the chill. My eyelids grew heavy. The city murmured softly outside, indifferent yet alive.

And before sleep claimed me, I thought — just once — that perhaps tomorrow would hurt a little less.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

I awoke to the taste of iron in my throat and the ache of fever behind my eyes.

The attic room spun gently around me, blurred by the thin sunlight that seeped through the frost-rimmed window. Every bone in my body ached as though I had danced through the night and not slept at all. My chest felt tight, my breaths shallow and ragged; when I swallowed, it was like dragging glass down my throat.

For a moment, I thought perhaps I could stay like this — wrapped in the quiet ache of illness, unseen, forgotten. But the clock downstairs struck six, and the sound snapped me from my wishful daze.

I was expected at practice.

I tried to rise, but the effort made the world tilt again. The room smelled faintly of wilted flowers — Andrei’s bouquet still sat on my bedside, half faded now, their perfume thin and sweet like a memory that had begun to decay. I stared at them for a long time before pressing my palm to my forehead. It was burning.

Still, I dressed.

I put on my pale blue rehearsal skirt and wrapped my shawl tightly around my shoulders. My reflection in the small mirror was pitiful — lips pale, cheeks flushed from fever, eyes swollen from the night’s restless tossing. I looked like a ghost, and for a fleeting moment, I wished I could vanish like one.

By the time I descended the stairs, my legs trembled beneath me. Mrs. Vasilyev was already in the hallway, clipboard in hand, her gaze sharp enough to make my stomach twist. I bowed slightly.

“Mrs. Vasilyev,” I began softly. “Please forgive me, but I’m ill. I don’t believe I can dance today. I just need a day’s rest.”

Her eyes slid over me — the flushed face, the trembling hands — and what I saw in them was not concern but disdain. A cold, brittle sneer curved at the edge of her mouth.

“You should have known better,” she said, each word deliberate, poisonous. “Running around and inviting strange men into this establishment. Perhaps you’ve caught something from that, hm? This is what you get, Mei, for thinking a man like that would ever pay you a second glance.”

I froze, her words sinking deep. I wanted to defend myself, to say that it hadn’t been like that at all — that he had only shown me kindness, that there was nothing improper. But the words tangled in my throat, strangled by shame and fever alike. All I could manage was a small whisper.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned away, dismissing me with a flick of her hand. “Then get to the hall. You’ll dance regardless.”

And so I did.

The rehearsal room was suffocatingly warm, the air thick with sweat and dust. The other girls were already lined up at the barre, their pale necks straight, their hair perfectly slicked back. When I joined them, they gave me a collective glance — that faint, mean-spirited smirk I had learned to recognize too well. One of them whispered something under her breath, and a soft ripple of laughter followed.

I ignored them, focusing on the piano. The keys struck their familiar rhythm, each note echoing like a command.

First position. Second. Third.

I tried to keep my arms aloft, but they trembled. My breath came short; my chest felt as though it were being cinched by an invisible corset. My reflection in the mirror was a pale blur — my movements sluggish, ghostlike compared to the others. I blinked rapidly, but my vision only darkened at the edges.

“Higher!” barked Mrs. Vasilyev.

I tried. God, I tried. But my muscles wouldn’t obey.

A bead of sweat slipped down my temple. The world spun once, twice — and then the floor rose up to meet me.

The sound of the piano stopped abruptly. A chorus of gasps followed, soft but sharp. My knees hit the wood first, then my hands, and for a moment I stayed there, swaying slightly, breath shallow and hoarse.

I heard the sharp tap of Mrs. Vasilyev’s cane approach, the sound dreadful and rhythmic like the ticking of a clock counting down a sentence.

“Get up,” she said.

My throat was too dry to answer. I tried to push myself upright, but my arms gave out halfway. I shook my head faintly. “Please… I can’t— I’m not well.”

Her voice turned glacial. “You will stand. Now.”

“I—” I swallowed hard, tears stinging my eyes. “Please, just today. I need to rest. I’ll make it up tomorrow.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any shout.

Then I heard the cane whistle through the air.

It struck my shoulder with a crack that wasn’t hard enough to bruise but enough to sting. My breath caught, a choked sound escaping me. The humiliation hurt more than the pain — the way the other girls watched, unblinking, as though seeing something they had longed for.

“Pathetic,” she said coldly. “You disgrace the name of this school.”

And then, before she could lift the cane again — before the world could crumble further — the door opened.

The noise of the hinges seemed louder than thunder.

All heads turned. Even the pianist’s fingers froze over the keys.

Standing in the doorway was Andrei Volk.

He wore his dark military coat buttoned high, the silver insignia on his shoulder catching the pale light. The mask covered half his face as before, its expression unreadable — but his presence alone shifted the air, as though the room itself had forgotten to breathe.

For a moment, he said nothing. He simply stood there, his gaze sweeping the room — over the stunned faces of the ballerinas, over Mrs. Vasilyev’s rigid frame, and finally settling on me, still on the floor, trembling beneath the weight of shame and fever.

Then, in that calm, low voice of his, he spoke.

“Is this,” he asked slowly, “how you train your dancers?”

Mrs. Vasilyev stiffened. “Sir Volk—”

He stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood was measured, deliberate. “Tell me,” he continued, his tone colder now, “is this the method by which you teach them grace? By striking them when they fall sick? By breaking them until they cannot stand?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

He took another step, closing the distance between them. His height alone seemed to cast her into shadow. “Do you treat all your students this way?” he asked, his words deceptively soft. “Or is this cruelty reserved only for Mei?”

The silence stretched, suffocating. Mrs. Vasilyev’s hand trembled slightly around her cane. The girls stood frozen, their faces pale.

“I— I assure you, sir,” she stammered. “It was a matter of discipline, nothing more—”

“Discipline,” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. “I see.”

He took one last step forward, close enough that she instinctively backed away. Then his gaze flicked down to me.

I watched as he bent — slow, deliberate — and extended a gloved hand toward me. For a moment, I hesitated. The sight of him here, in this place, felt unreal — like a vision summoned from fever. But his hand was steady, certain. When I took it, his grip was firm, grounding.

“Enough,” he said simply, turning his attention back to Mrs. Vasilyev. “She will not be returning to practice today.”

“She—she cannot simply—”

“She can,” he interrupted, his tone flat but unmistakably final. “In fact, she will be resting for the remainder of the week. And if you have any objections,” — he paused, his voice cooling to something like steel — “I suggest you write them to the Ministry of Culture. I’ll be certain to read them personally.”

The room went dead silent.

No one moved. No one dared.

He turned back to me, his expression unreadable behind the mask. “Go pack your things,” he said quietly. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

I could only nod.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

The rest passed in a feverish blur.

I barely remembered leaving the building, only the sound of the snow crunching beneath our feet and the low murmur of the city beyond. The air outside was sharp with winter, biting at my lungs as Andrei guided me toward a black carriage waiting by the curb. I climbed in, half-dazed, the warmth of his gloved hand lingering faintly on my arm.

Inside, the carriage smelled faintly of leather and smoke. The cushions were soft, the curtains drawn against the wind. I sat across from him, clutching my shawl around me, unsure if I should speak.

He broke the silence first.

“You’re unwell,” he said, not as a question but as fact.

I nodded weakly. “It’s only a fever.”

“You should have been resting,” he replied. His tone wasn’t scolding, only weary, as though speaking to himself more than to me. “She had no right.”

I looked out the window, the city blurring past — the spires, the rooftops dusted with frost, the figures of passersby wrapped in furs.

“She’ll be furious,” I murmured.

“She’ll manage,” he said simply.

The warmth in the carriage lulled me into a daze. My eyelids grew heavy, my body swaying slightly with the motion of the wheels. Once or twice, I felt the brush of fabric as he adjusted the blanket over my knees, though I was too tired to open my eyes fully.

When I next woke, the carriage had stopped.

We were in front of a tall townhouse near the river — elegant but quiet, the kind of place that belonged to people whose power didn’t need to be flaunted. He helped me out, his gloved hand steady beneath my arm.

“Where are we?” I asked softly.

“My home,” he said. “You’ll rest here until you’re well again.”

I blinked up at him, startled. “But I can’t— it wouldn’t be proper—”

“I didn’t ask for propriety,” he said. “I asked that you recover.”

There was something about the finality in his voice that silenced my protests. He led me inside, through a grand hallway of polished wood and oil portraits, until we reached a smaller sitting room near the back. A fire burned quietly in the hearth, its warmth a balm against my chilled skin. The furniture was minimal — bookshelves, a desk, a large window half-fogged by the cold.

“You can rest here for now,” he said. “The maid will bring you tea and something light to eat.”

I hesitated, hovering near the doorway. “Why are you doing this?”

For the first time, he paused. His gaze — sharp even behind the mask — softened, if only slightly.

“Because,” he said slowly, “someone should have intervened long ago. And because I intend to see that you can continue dancing — properly, this time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” he murmured. “I’m arranging a private tutor. One of the Mariinsky’s retired instructors — someone who can train you without… harsh tendencies.”

I stared at him, unsure if I had heard correctly. “You mean— you’d take me out of the school?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

He looked at me for a long time before answering. “Because what I saw there today was unjust. And because I believe you deserve better than that place.”

The words struck something deep within me — something fragile and buried. I lowered my gaze, the room suddenly blurring again with tears I hadn’t meant to shed. “No one’s ever said that before,” I whispered.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he crossed the room to the window, his back to me as he spoke. “Rest now,” he said. “We can speak more when you’ve regained your strength.”

I nodded faintly, too tired to argue. The heat from the fire and the hum of the city outside lulled me again into half-sleep.

Before I drifted off, I caught one last glimpse of him standing by the window — still as stone, his masked profile turned toward the pale winter light. For the first time, I noticed the faintest tremor of something beneath his composure — not tenderness, perhaps, but a kind of heaviness, as though he were carrying more than he wished to show.

I fell asleep to that image — the quiet sentinel in the lamplight — and for the first time in what felt like years, I did not dream of pain or failure, but of stillness. Of reprieve.

Chapter Text

When I woke again, it was to the soft warmth of morning light spilling across the room. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. No rustling of skirts, no echoing piano scales, no sharp voice cutting through the air — only the faint ticking of a clock and the murmur of snow falling beyond the windowpane.

I lay still for a while, cocooned beneath heavy blankets, the air faintly perfumed with lavender and beeswax. The fever that had gripped me yesterday had lessened to a dull ache at the back of my head. My limbs still felt heavy, but not unbearable. I turned my face toward the window. The sky was the color of milk and ash, a pale St. Petersburg morning, the kind that made the city seem suspended in silence.

It was only when I shifted to sit up that I realized where I was — not the small, drafty room above Mrs. Vasilyev’s school, but a large, well-appointed chamber. The bed beneath me was enormous, its sheets soft and finely embroidered, the duvet thick enough to swallow me whole. A grand wardrobe stood against the wall, and beside it, a mirrored vanity with gilded handles gleamed faintly in the light. There were framed sketches hanging neatly in rows — landscapes mostly, though a few were portraits in unfinished charcoal. Everything smelled faintly of tobacco and polished oak.

For a long moment, I simply stared, disoriented.

This was Andrei’s house.

My heart fluttered faintly at the thought.

I pressed my palms to my face, trying to remember the day before. I remembered collapsing at the barre, the sound of Mrs. Vasilyev’s cane slicing the air, and then — him. The sight of Andrei standing in the doorway like some grim apparition, his voice low and commanding, the heat of his hand when he helped me up. After that, only fragments — the carriage, his voice promising rest, the warmth of a fire, and the weight of exhaustion pulling me under.

Now, the world had returned in soft focus.

I exhaled slowly.

Just as I began to gather the courage to get out of bed, a gentle knock came at the door.

“Come in,” I called, my voice still hoarse.

The door creaked open, and in stepped an elderly woman dressed in a black uniform with a crisp white apron. Her face was kind and lined with age, her gray hair coiled neatly beneath a small cap. She carried a silver tray laden with covered plates, from which rose a faint, sweet aroma of butter and toast.

“Good morning, miss,” she said warmly, setting the tray on my lap as she helped prop up the pillows behind me. “You must be Miss Mei. The master told us to expect you.”

Her Russian had the rounded, gentle accent of someone from the countryside.

I blinked at her, trying to find my manners despite my fatigue. “Good morning… I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

She smiled, her eyes crinkling. “My name is Maria, miss. I’ve been looking after the Volk household since the master was no taller than your shoulder.”

That made me smile faintly. “You’ve known him since he was a child?”

“Oh yes,” she said, pouring tea from a delicate porcelain pot into a cup and setting it beside me. “He was a quiet boy. Always with his books and his fencing lessons. Never one for mischief, though he could be quite stubborn.”

Her tone was fond, as though speaking of a son.

She straightened the tray and gestured to the food — buttered rye bread, poached eggs, a small bowl of porridge with honey drizzled in the center. “Eat while it’s still warm, dear. The master left early this morning for business and asked that you be well taken care of.”

I hesitated, picking up the teacup between trembling hands. “He left?”

“Yes, miss,” she said, nodding. “Said he would be back this evening, in time for supper. He also left you a note.”

From the pocket of her apron, she produced a small folded envelope. My name had been written across it in a neat, deliberate hand — Mei, the ink slightly smudged at the edges. My stomach tightened.

I set the teacup aside and opened it carefully.

“You are to rest and recover.
You may explore the house as you wish, though my study remains private.
Maria will see to your needs.
Do not leave the house until I return this evening.
— A. V.”

The bluntness of it made me smile faintly — it was precisely the kind of note I imagined he would write. Short, commanding, but not unkind.

“Was he upset this morning?” I asked, folding the letter carefully and placing it on the nightstand.

Maria chuckled softly. “Upset? No. He was in one of his moods — the quiet ones. Spoke little but thanked me for preparing his uniform. You’ll learn he’s a man of few words, Miss Mei, but his heart is not as cold as people think.”

Her words lingered with me.

After breakfast, Maria insisted on helping me out of bed, despite my weak protests. “The master wouldn’t forgive me if you tripped and fainted on my watch,” she said with mock sternness. She guided me into an adjoining bathing room, its marble floor gleaming, steam already rising from a waiting tub. The water shimmered with soap bubbles, the faint scent of rose oil perfuming the air.

I hesitated, embarrassed by the luxury. “This is too much,” I murmured. “I can manage—”

“Nonsense,” Maria said, waving a hand. “You’ve been through quite a scare, poor thing. Now, in you go.”

It had been years since I’d bathed in anything warmer than a basin of lukewarm water. As I sank into the tub, the heat seeped into my skin, easing the ache in my limbs. I closed my eyes and let myself drift, listening to the distant hum of the household below — muffled voices, the clatter of dishes, the faint whistle of a kettle.

When I emerged, Maria had laid out a dress across the bed. I stopped short when I saw it.

It was unlike anything I had ever owned — a soft ivory gown with delicate lace cuffs and a pale blue ribbon tied at the waist. The fabric looked expensive enough that I hesitated to even touch it.

“I can’t wear this,” I said quietly.

“Of course you can,” she said, helping me step into it. “It was chosen for you. The master said you were not to wear anything plain while in his house.”

My cheeks warmed. “He said that?”

“He did.” She smiled, fastening the last button. “Now, there. You look almost like a young lady of the court.”

I laughed softly, though it felt foreign on my lips. “Hardly.”

When she finished, I stared at myself in the mirror. The transformation startled me — my hair, brushed and braided, my cheeks lightly flushed from the bath, the fabric of the dress glinting faintly in the morning light. For the first time, I didn’t look like the shivering orphan girl at the back of a rehearsal room. I looked… like someone who belonged somewhere.

“Thank you, Maria,” I murmured.

She smiled and patted my shoulder. “Now, why don’t you have a little look around? It’ll do you good to stretch your legs.”

                                                                                       ・・・・・

The house was far larger than I had expected.

Wide corridors stretched out like arteries, carpeted and immaculate. Portraits of long-dead Volkov ancestors stared down from the walls, their eyes painted sharp and watchful. The hush was so complete that my footsteps seemed almost sacrilegious.

The first room I found was the library.

It was a vast chamber lined from floor to ceiling with shelves — hundreds of books, their spines a patchwork of faded golds and browns. A large globe stood by the window, and the scent of parchment and pipe tobacco lingered faintly in the air. I wandered through the aisles, trailing my fingertips along the bindings. The titles were in Russian, French, English, even Latin — histories, military treatises, novels.

Maria appeared quietly at the doorway after a few minutes. “He spends most of his nights here,” she said softly. “Reading or writing. Sometimes both.”

“Does he ever sleep?” I asked, half-joking.

She chuckled. “Not as much as he should. You’ll notice he doesn’t keep many guests. The house has been too quiet for too long.”

I thought of the half-finished sketches in his bedroom — the landscapes, the portraits. Had he drawn them himself? The idea of him sitting alone in this cold house, sketching or reading into the night, stirred something small and inexplicable in my chest.

After the library, Maria guided me downstairs to the kitchen, where the staff were bustling about — chopping vegetables, stirring soups, polishing copper pots until they gleamed. The air was warm and smelled of bread and spices. I greeted them shyly, earning polite smiles and curious glances. When they heard who I was, they seemed to brighten.

“So you’re the young lady the master brought home,” one of the cooks said knowingly, winking.

I flushed, shaking my head quickly. “It’s not like that—”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” she laughed. “He hasn’t brought anyone home in years. You must be someone special.”

Maria gently shooed her away before I could respond, muttering something about gossip.

By late afternoon, I found myself back upstairs, gazing out one of the tall windows at the snow beginning to fall again. The light was fading, turning the sky into a soft mauve haze. I could almost hear the distant creak of carriage wheels somewhere far off, and my heart quickened unexpectedly.

It was nearly dusk when I finally heard the rumble of wheels outside the gate.

I hurried down the main staircase, my heart thudding in my chest. Through the frosted glass of the entryway, I saw a familiar dark carriage draw up. A servant in livery opened the door, and Andrei stepped out, brushing snow from his coat.

He looked as imposing as ever — tall, broad-shouldered, his gloved hands tucked behind his back. The half-mask caught the dying light, casting a faint reflection. When his eyes lifted and met mine through the glass, something unreadable flickered there.

I opened the door, bowing my head slightly. “Welcome home,” I said quietly.

His gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “You’re awake,” he said. “Good.”

Maria appeared at that moment, curtseying lightly. “Miss Mei was on her best behavior today, sir. Rested well, ate well, explored the library. Just as you asked.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Maria.”

She smiled and added cheerfully, “Dinner is ready whenever you are, sir. You’ve arrived just in time.”

Andrei removed his gloves, his movements precise and deliberate. “Then let’s not keep the staff waiting.”

Dinner was served in a room that must have once hosted grand gatherings — chandeliers hung above a long oak table, though only two places were set. The smell of roasted meat, buttered vegetables, and red wine filled the air.

We ate mostly in silence at first. The clink of cutlery echoed faintly, the fire crackling in the hearth. I tried to focus on my plate, but the weight of his quiet gaze kept drawing my eyes up.

After a while, I dared to speak. “How was your day, Andrei?”

He looked up, as though surprised I had asked. Then he gave a faint, tired smile. “Tedious. The kind of military briefing that lasts twice as long as it should and accomplishes half as much.”

I smiled faintly. “You left very early. I thought perhaps I had dreamed you.”

He gave a low, amused hum. “No dream, I’m afraid. Just a long morning of men talking too much and saying nothing.”

His dry tone made me laugh softly, and for a moment, the stiffness between us dissolved.

He regarded me for a beat longer, then said, “You look better today.”

“Thanks to Maria,” I said quickly. “And to you, I suppose.”

“Me?”

“For rescuing me yesterday,” I said, lowering my eyes. “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly.”

He was silent for a long moment before answering. “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

I looked up. “There is.”

He held my gaze then, something unreadable passing across his eyes — something almost vulnerable. But he said nothing more.

We finished dinner quietly, the air between us filled not with distance this time, but something gentler — the warmth of shared silence, the unspoken acknowledgment that neither of us quite knew what this strange companionship meant yet, but that perhaps, for now, it was enough.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

The house had fallen into silence by the time the moon climbed high above the rooftops of Saint Petersburg. Even through the frosted windows of my bedroom, I could see the faint shimmer of ice clinging to the glass panes, the dim light of the streetlamps beyond catching on the frost like tiny shards of diamond. The wind outside whispered against the eaves, soft and mournful, while the hearth in the corner of the room burned down to a dull, glowing ember.

Sleep, however, would not come to me.

No matter how I turned beneath the thick quilted blankets, the quiet pressed too closely around me. The clock on the mantle ticked endlessly in the dark, each second stretching into eternity. I had thought that after the day’s warmth—the gentle kindness of Maria, the soft dresses, the good food—I would finally be able to rest. But now, lying in this enormous bed that did not belong to me, surrounded by velvet curtains and polished furniture that gleamed faintly in the low light, I only felt the faint tremor of displacement again.

I did not belong here. Not in this house of marble staircases and military precision. And yet… a small part of me had begun to want to.

I turned onto my side, staring at the outline of the door in the darkness. Somewhere below, the house was not entirely asleep. The faintest sound—a voice, perhaps—drifted through the floors. I held my breath, listening closer.

At first I thought I imagined it, the low, measured tone like a current beneath the silence. But then I recognized it—Andrei’s voice. Muffled, but distinct. Even from a distance, his cadence was unmistakable: controlled, clipped, the faint rhythm of authority under tension.

He was still awake.

I sat up slowly, drawing the blanket tighter around my shoulders. My bare feet met the chill of the wooden floor, and a shiver ran up my spine. The curiosity crept in before I could stop it. What could he possibly be discussing at this hour? I thought of his words from dinner, how he had brushed aside my questions with that half-smile and the phrase “just regular military business.”

But tonight his voice did not sound like business. It sounded weary. Angry, even.

Before I realized what I was doing, I was lighting a candle.

The small flame flickered to life, casting a trembling glow against the walls. I slipped into the soft slippers Maria had left beside the bed and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders. The nightdress I wore was thin and light—made of some silken material I didn’t dare think about owning—but I hoped it would be enough to keep the cold at bay as I stepped into the hallway.

The air outside was sharper, biting. The corridors stretched out before me, shrouded in shadow, the portraits of solemn men and women seeming to follow me with their painted eyes as I passed. Each of my steps echoed faintly, the wood creaking underfoot, and I found myself pausing every few moments just to listen—to make sure I hadn’t woken anyone.

I told myself it was only curiosity that drove me forward. That I simply wanted to understand the man who had, in a strange way, rescued me. But deep down I knew it was more than that. It was the quiet pull that had begun ever since that day at the theater—the weight of his gaze, the way he carried silence like a weapon, the strange safety I felt beneath his presence even when I didn’t understand him.

I stopped before the last corridor on the east wing. The faint light glowed from underneath one of the doors—a narrow, steady line on the floorboards. And there it was again: his voice.

“…if the rebellion spreads beyond Warsaw, containment will be impossible. The Tsar’s men underestimate how deep it runs.”

The words made little sense to me, but the tone did. I could hear the frustration tightening every syllable, his restraint barely holding against the undercurrent of anger.

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. I knew I should have turned back. He had told me never to enter his private study. But the sound of his sigh followed—soft, weighted, and human.

And I couldn’t leave.

I pressed my ear gently to the door.

“—I said no, Ivanov. I don’t care what the generals think. Tell them my position stands. I’ve seen what blind loyalty costs men.”

There was a brief silence. I heard the faint scrape of a chair, then the sound of something being set down—a telephone, perhaps. My breath caught when I heard his boots shift on the wooden floor.

I should leave now, I thought. Before he—

But my hand, trembling slightly, turned the doorknob. The latch clicked faintly.

The room was dimly lit, a single lamp on his desk illuminating the haze of tobacco smoke curling through the air. The curtains were half-drawn, the faint light of the moon spilling through the window. Papers were strewn across his desk—maps, documents stamped with imperial seals, a silver pen left uncapped beside a half-finished glass of whiskey.

And there he was.

Andrei stood by the window, his back to me. One hand behind his back, the other holding the telephone receiver. His coat hung open, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the sharp lines of muscle and veins that ran along his forearms. The tension in his shoulders spoke louder than any words.

He said something in a low, clipped tone—too quiet for me to catch—and then slowly set the receiver down. His hand lingered there for a moment before dropping to his side.

I realized then that I’d been holding my breath.

This was my chance to slip away unseen. I began to step backward, but the floor betrayed me—the faintest creak of the board beneath my heel.

Andrei turned instantly.

Our eyes met across the half-lit room. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of us moved.

“Mei,” he said, his voice calm but heavy, the syllable of my name drawn out just enough to make it sound almost foreign on his tongue. “What are you doing awake?”

The authority in his tone made my pulse quicken. I took an involuntary step back, my hand tightening around the candleholder. “I—I didn’t mean to intrude,” I stammered. “I heard voices from the hall. I thought perhaps something was wrong.”

He studied me for a long moment. The light from the lamp caught the edges of his face—the sharp cheekbones, the shadow along his jaw. There was no anger there, but something else: exhaustion tempered by curiosity.

“Something was wrong,” he said finally. “But it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

He began to cross the room, each step slow, deliberate. His height seemed to fill the space, the faint sound of his boots against the floor echoing softly. When he stopped in front of me, the candlelight trembled between us.

“You shouldn’t be wandering the halls at this hour,” he said, voice lower now, almost gentle but firm enough to leave no room for argument. “The house can be drafty at night.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, my gaze lowering to the flame. “It’s… too quiet.”

A faint sound—something between a sigh and a chuckle—escaped him. “You’ll get used to it,” he murmured. “Silence can be a comfort if you let it.”

When I looked up again, his eyes were already on me. They were a gray-blue shade that seemed to catch whatever light dared touch them, and in that moment, I felt the strange contradiction of him more than ever—the man of iron, and the quiet loneliness beneath it.

“What were you discussing?” I asked before I could stop myself.

His brow lifted slightly, as though surprised by my boldness. “Business,” he said simply. “Nothing that concerns you.”

“I heard anger,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “You sounded… troubled.”

Something flickered in his expression, brief and unreadable. “You shouldn’t listen at doors, Mei.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said quickly. “I just—worried.”

That word seemed to stop him. He leaned in slightly, enough for the faint warmth of his breath to brush my cheek. “Worried,” he repeated, the word foreign in his tone. “For me?”

I nodded before I could think better of it.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us grew heavier, taut with something I couldn’t name. He studied me like a man trying to understand something fragile and inexplicable—something that shouldn’t exist but did.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he leaned closer still, lowering his voice until it brushed against my ear.

“I am not a man who needs worry, little one,” he said softly. “But… I appreciate it.”

His words sent a strange warmth through me, though his tone was calm, almost detached. I felt my pulse in my throat, in the tips of my fingers still gripping the candleholder.

His gaze flicked downward, briefly, to my lips. Then he straightened. The moment passed like the echo of a wave receding back into the sea.

“Go back to bed,” he said quietly. “Before Maria finds you wandering and tells me in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his marred lips—gone as quickly as it appeared. “Goodnight, Mei.”

“Goodnight,” I said softly, though I lingered a second longer than I should have before stepping back toward the door.

As I reached the threshold, I dared one last glance over my shoulder. He had returned to the window, his silhouette framed by the pale light, a solitary figure among shadows. His hand rested on the desk, beside the half-finished glass, and for a moment I thought I saw something like weariness in the way his shoulders slumped.

Then I slipped out, closing the door behind me.

The corridor felt colder now, but lighter somehow. I made my way back through the halls, the candlelight swaying with my every step. My mind was a blur of questions—about his anger, his solitude, the things he would not tell me. But beneath them all was a strange, fragile sense of anticipation I could not shake.

Perhaps it was foolish. Perhaps it was dangerous. But as I climbed the stairs back to my room and set the candle on the table, I found myself smiling faintly for the first time in days.

Because for one fleeting moment, in that half-dark room, I had glimpsed something in him that was not made of iron.

And though I could not name it yet, it was enough to make the cold of the house feel just a little less unbearable.