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The inner working of the male mind utterly mystified Sonya.

To think an innocent game of Kaschlan could turn her beloved husband into a downright pitiless foe; she marvelled at the change in disposition and wondered whether the Achilles seated before her would prove more lion than man and bite in victory.

“Come to terms with your fate yet?” Fedya questioned. His expression gave only too little away. There was that smile; the habitual one he wore, almost feral, enough for a thrill to skitter down her spine, but not quite enough to spark fear.  

“Ah, ah, ah,” she protested, wagging her finger playfully as her gaze slid to the hand she was holding. “Has no one told you not to count your chickens before they hatch? You might be surprised by what fate has in store for you.” Sonya smugly played her hand, challenge in her eyes. That sort of boldness breathed solely in the intimate moments reserved for them and them alone. He reached for her hand and she gave it willingly; her surrender on the battlefield of love was easily accomplished. His lips pressed against her knuckles. Sonya bit her lip against the onset of a smile. She could not quite master her emotions as he did.

Fedya turned her hand so that the inside of her wrist was exposed. He cradled the back of her hand in his broad palm, elegant fingers curling around her in a firm grip. Her breath hitched. The stroke of his lips burned against her skin. It was a trick of his she had yet to figure out, the way he made time stand still. One heartbeat stretched out over the endless fall of sand in an hourglass and in that liminal space of boundless opportunity he somehow drew her into himself. That he had no need of words to utterly bind her into that haze was nothing short of spectacular. “Eyes on the game, Sofia Alexandrovna,” Fedya reminded her before cruelly releasing her from that hopeless enmeshment.

The world fell into place around her. For one frightfully exhilarating moment she drew a blank as to his directions. Heart hammering away in her chest, Sonya forced her attention back on the cards, watching as he countered her sequence with his own. Fuddled, she glanced at her remaining options. Whatever she did, she would not end up the victor of that game. Scrambled thoughts knocked about in her head, grasping at straws, giving it one more chance. She might as well give in graciously. A pout stole over her lips. “Must you always win?”

“Absolutely.” Her husband plucked the last cards she held in her hand and casually threw them over his shoulder. His other hand pushed off the rest of the piles, ensuring their deck was strewn across the floor. “Always play to win, my dear; that is the uppermost rule to keep in mind.” No one could accuse him of acting in a contrary manner to what he preached. “And now, I believe I will have my prize.”

She almost shrieked when he lunged for her.  In an open space, she might have evaded him altogether. But as close as he was, Fedya caught her around the waist before she could jump out of the way, and with one strong heave, had her on his lap. “You are too bold.” Sonya pushed gently against his chest. “Let me up.” She didn’t truly mean it, enjoying the way he anchored her. Too often duty called him from her side. Relaxing in his embrace, Sonya reprimanded his lack of compliance. “Captain, I thought they taught better manners in the army.”

“They tried.” Fedya’s hand cupped her cheek. Sonya pushed into his touch. Callous fingertips pressed against her skin. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the treat.

The streets of St. Petersburg clamoured and teemed somewhere below, still very much in a frenzy of celebration. The Monster had been exiled on the island of St. Helena, to be kept under strict guard for the remainder of his natural life, his reign of terror ended. The bloodshed was ended. The war was over. And the streets were alive with the thrill of it. There had been military parades and parties, dinners and balls. A whole round of them; every such occasion demanding the presence of heroes. Men like her husband were embraced with enthusiasm wherever they went. She’d had so little of him in a little over one year of marriage, a few days at a time at most. Mother and Galina kept her company when he was gone, but it was not the same. She had been ecstatic when he wrote, asking her to join him in Petersburg. But she found their little haven constantly under threat of attack from the outside world and its demands.

Therefore, when she had the chance, Sonya indulged without reservation. In the manner of a feline too long bereft of affection, she invited his touch with the entirety of her body. His lips against her jaw, sliding down her throat, chased the fear of interruption the intruding noises summoned to the fore. The rush of blood drowned out the racket. That wild thing in her chest trapped behind the ribcage hurt with the effort of keeping so alert a rhythm. Sonya tilted her head to the side, making room for Fedya’s kisses. She wanted more, but did not know the words to say. She might have grown more comfortable with the act over their brief time together and she made a concerted effort to encourage Fedya when the mood struck him, but she had yet to find some way to wake the desire in him as he kindled it within her.

Undeniable proof became apparent within moments of the vesper bells ringing out. Fedya nipped at the lobe of her ear playfully before helping her off his lap and on her feet. “I am a monster of selfishness, Sonechka,” he drawled, almost looking regretful. “You must get ready, and here I am, keeping you from it.”  

What a time to find one’s conscience. Sonya swallowed her protests and agreed, with less spirit than she might have wished, that she ought to see to the preparations. It was to be another evening spent outside the refuge she most longed for. To think she had once wished to dance her nights away at balls in the arms of Nikolai. It seemed to her such a distant thing; such a silly thing as well.

Retreating to a separate chamber, she glanced with some apprehension at the gown laid out for her benefit. It had arrived earlier in the day; a gift her husband had insisted upon. Sonya would have been just as happy with the garments she had brought from Moscow. Fingering the thin French gauze, she stifled a sigh. The three-quarters ivory frock was lovely, with its narrow olive-green satin borders. Much too fine a thing, in fact, to be owned by Sonya, the poor relation.

Sofia Alexandrovna Dolokhova, however, had come up in the world. She was the wife of a respected (if not entirely respectable) military man and she had to look the part. Even when it called for donning swishy satins and delicate silks. It made her feel every bit a fraud, when surrounded by similar attired far too elated to be where they were, to wish she could take her husband’s hand and find some place where the rest of the world would not intrude. The strain between societal expectations and her own desires could not have been tenser. But Sonya, ever the creature of duty, would submit even to that cross.

In the usual way of preparations, time flew by. She soon found herself sitting before the mirror, pinning up artful curls with the aid of the one maid in her employ. The girl had begun to thread a golden ribbon through the different sections of hair with careful movements. Sonya looked down at the bottle-green satin slip, eyes falling to the embroidered camomile clusters, strategically placed low enough that they would be visible beneath the frock but not quite so low that they interfered with the plain hem bordered by a thin golden ribbon. She looked as good as she ever had.   

Sonya donned the light frock, thinking to herself that if the waists climbed any higher than they already had in the past few years, decency would be forced to depend upon a belt about the bosom rather than a corset. It was not that she inherently disliked the fashion, but in a practical sense, it might prove rather unfortunate. Thanking the maid, she let her off with a soft, “Do not wait up.”

It was the same words she had said to the girl for the past week, hoping that proximity might tempt Fedya to what mere duty clearly could not. Unlike before, she did not expect to be met with success after an evening of drinking and gambling; Sonya was learning that wives did not inspire into their husbands the same sort of passion a lover would in an unmarried man. Nonetheless, she could not let on that she suffered any pangs of disappointment, which she was sure to do after am exhausting evening such as the one ahead.

What was she doing wrong? The question was haunting her, refusing to be laid to rest. “Well, Sofia Alexandrovna, think a bit harder,” she told herself, raising her chin a notch. “There has to be something.” If only she could figure it out. Sonya picked up her shawl, draping it over her shoulders; the answer seemed further away than ever before.

With a gentle sigh, she turned on her heel and made her way to the parlour. Fedya, as ever, had proved the faster of the two and awaited her arrival with eyes peeled to the street below. Sonya watched him silently from the doorway. There were times when she wondered what he saw that she did not. She approached, her light footsteps barely making a noise. He still turned towards her, eyes raking up and down her body. It was an appreciative stare; she could tell by the way his mouth curved. To think she’d begun to know her husband well enough that she could distinguish between his various smiles; it felt odd to say the least.

He climbed to his feet. Fedya took her gloved hand in his, as if the need to feel anchored had wormed its way within him as well. Again, his gaze swept from the top of her head, to the rounded tip of her slipper, peeping from beneath the hem of her skirts. “I think I had best not leave your side for even one moment this evening, else one of those pompous fellows in His Majesty’s service might take it for an opportunity.” He placed a gentle kiss on her brow, as Sonya attempted to quieten the rather loud blush burnishing her cheeks.

“The things you say,” she chided, her voice faint. “You should be careful lest you make me believe you.” That rejoinder was managed with a pertinent amount of spirit. Sonya suspected it was to do with the fact that she was not, in truth, in danger of taking such nonsense on board. His officer brothers paid no more heed to her than they did to any other attached woman. Perhaps even a bit less, as she would not indulge them in whiling the night away in rounds of flirtation. She was not the least bit distressed on that score.

“Oh, but you ought to believe me.” The words pierced her. The tone, though light, could not hide the conviction behind the claim. Looking into her husband’s eyes, she though there was something of fire in there. “You are the most desirable woman there is.” He meant it. Then why was he drawing away from her when it came time to give proof?

Sonya forced herself to feign ignorance. “And you, captain, are being outrageous. Again.” She smiled and hoped it reached her eyes before placing a small peck on his cheek. “I should say it’s about time to be on our way.”

In the usual way of things, the proud military men had done their utmost best to outshine even the grandest displays of their womenfolk and, in great part, were met by success. It had been whispered that the Little Father himself would put in an appearance, so that accounted for all the fuss. Sonya, all too soon, found herself enfolded in the ranks of officers’ wives, exchanging greetings with familiar faces before they proceeded to inconsequential talk; she consequently lost sight of Fedya, who had his own companions to greet. Doubtless, in due course they would move away to the card room. She tried not to mind. Instead, spying Julie from across the room, she discreetly broke away from her circle and migrated towards the woman.

Julie received her with a warm smile and bussed her cheeks effusively. The display was far too fulsome when taking their bond into account. But Sonya gathered, from the letters Julie insisted on writing her periodically, that she was viewed as something of a protégé and the women considered herself the architect her marital felicity. Or at least of its coming about.

“My dear, one can see at a glance you are an officer’s wife,” Julie spoke, her voice charged with approval. The war had brought a great deal of patriotic fervour in her heart. She pressed Sonya’s hand with equal amounts condescension and affection. Sonya would not have approached her, save that she felt she owed the woman something for her meddling. “How well it becomes you. Now come, let me introduce you.” Without further ado, she placed her hand on Sonya’s arm and returning to her circle made the round of appropriate introductions.

Sonya ended up by the side of young Ivan Vasilyevich Malinovsky, the son of the late and much regretted, she understood) headmaster of the Imperial Lyceum. He was a mere youth, but about his eyes and his mouth, one could see the lines of grief and concern. Sonya supposed that was why, once fallen into conversation with him, she found herself very much at ease in her presence. It took very little time to learn he yet studied at the institution his father had once headed and that he hoped for a military career in the future years.

“They are all of them excellent fellow, my schoolmates. And very talented as well.” He spoke at lengths of them when finding an accommodating audience in Sonya, excitedly acquainting her with the character of those young hopefuls at only slight prodding from her. She had no hope of recalling all the names he spoke or their relationship with the country’s elites, but that did not stop her enjoyment in the least.

In a while they moved on to the scintillating subject of poetry where the discussion became a general affair. Sonya, whose knowledge and inclinations but lightly emboldened her towards such study, was happy to listen to the opinion of those more versed in that art than her. She offered her own thoughts every now and again when asked and allowed she would look into the recommendations being made her.

Her attention was thereafter chiefly taken with Anna Andreevna Samborskaya, Ivan Vasilyevich’s aunt and guardian. She found in Anna a kindred spirit of sorts. They spoke mostly of domestic matters. The running of a household was very much a subject they could expound upon at lengths without the fear of interruption from those requiring more stimulating conversation. It was only by the point where children came up that Sonya released just how similar the two of them were. She did not have, it was true, any children of her own yet. But not unlike Anna Andreevna, who spent her days caring for her departed sister’s brood as her voice hitched ever so slightly when speaking of her brother-in-law, Sonya too might have been cradling Princess Marya’s little son to her bosom, an empty gesture considering the boy was not hers nor ever could be. Her circumstances were much happier than Anna Andreevna’s, but that could not erase the kinship she felt towards the woman.

“I understand you are but lately married,” the older woman spoke, drawing Sonya away from her thoughts. There was a question somewhere in there to which she nodded dutifully. Anna Andreevna tilted her head to the side. “Your husband is quite the character. His capers are famous. Or perhaps infamous. But then war heroes often prove to be unpredictable.”

Having initially tensed against a confrontation (for Sonya could not very well allow slights to Fedya’s character within her hearing), she relaxed when noting the open expression on the other woman’s face remained unchanged. “I cannot speak to that, but he is a good husband to me.” She wasn’t exactly deaf to the whispers circulating about Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov; he’d had a reputation long before she met him.

“That is very wise in you, my dear,” Anna Andreevna offered. “The path towards contentment lies in appreciating the qualities of those around us and making reasonable requests of them.”

The conversation veered towards far safer topics. But Sonya’s thoughts could not abandon that last remark. Contentment, she mused, was not the descriptor she would use for her current situation. She made a brief attempt of imagining herself the wife of another. Naturally, Nikolai was the sole candidate for she had some reference as to his character. Sonya frowned, finding that an arrangement which so annoyed her when applied to her extant marriage should not bother her in the least when it came to an imagined partnership with her childhood sweetheart. She blinked away her own confusion. But before any digging could be undertaken to learn the reason for such a conclusion, she found herself on the receiving end of an invitation to dance (one of the many for the evening).

Sofia Alexandrovna Dolokhova had far better fortune in the ballroom than mousy Sonya. In the beginning, with the characteristic inquisitiveness of brothers-in-arms, Dolokhov’s fellow officers had hounded her about for dances, one and all eager to learn as much as they could of her. While she could not claim superior knowledge in the dealings of men, she found it odd that she’d become such a mysterious figure among the ranks when Sonya, the person, had nothing of the clandestine about her. Nevertheless, she slowly found herself amassing a healthy circle of admirers, all of whom were pleased to take her to the floor and then, when introduced to the sisters of young Ivan Vasilyevich, did them the same courtesy. Her kindness to Anna Andreevna’s female wards did not go unnoticed.   

She had just finished her set with the gallant Ivan Vasilyevich, the second to last before supper was to be served, when she caught her husband’s eye. Her partner conveyed her to the man’s side. Introductions and light conversation followed before they drifted apart. Young Ivan Vasilyevich to the pretty lady he had promised himself to, and the married couple to a relaxed stroll around the room, stopping to exchange further pleasantries.

It was precisely at that time the Tsar chose to make his late (but not unwelcome) appearance. Such was the devotion of his subjects that silence reigned supreme for the long moments it took to observe that august figure advance through crowd which had split itself apart like the Red Sea before Moses. Once the awe dimmed and the band begun playing once more, the host and hostess along with a great number of the country’s great names took themselves in the direction of their ruler. Sonya saw Julie on Boris’ arms, wondering where he had appeared from. She turned to her husband, about to ask whether Boris had been in the card room. But she never quite got the chance as one of his fellow officers approached.

“Sokolovsky,” Fedya greeted. His tone of voice put her on edge instantly. Sonya fought the urge to grab hold of his arm. She took an instant dislike to the fellow drawing nearer from the fact alone that the woman on his arm was eyeing her husband with entirely too much interest. “Found yourself a wife?”

The buxom blonde on Sokolovsky’s arm chuckled and made to open her mouth, but her presumed husband patted her hand in what must have been some manner of signal and she subsided. The officer then answered, “Couldn’t mourn Hélène forever, could I? She was the loveliest creature. My heart was quite shattered; but it is three years now. Time heals all wounds. And by the looks of it, you had the same thought.”

Hélène? Sonya knew of only one Hélène that had died three years past. Her face must have reflected the shock, for Sokolovsky’s eyebrows rose with something of a question. His wife affected a sympathetic smile as she looked Sonya up and down. She heartily disliked them both just then. “Poor Countess; she did very ill to break from the true fate, but hers was a miserable death. Congestion of the lungs, I heard.” Her full-bodied voice rang in Sonya’s ears as little bits and pieces of knowledge came together in her head.

“Well, well, do not distress yourself, Masha.” Sokolovsky shook his head with a smile, as though to shake lovely Hélène away. “In any event, this is Maria Petrovna Sokolovskaya. My wife.” His wife, who held something of the famed beauty Hélène Vasilyevna had been known to possess. A woman who had the same sort of look in her eyes when glancing at a man as a dog might cast upon a juicy steak.

Good breeding and shock alike kept her subdued throughout the return of the favour. Her head was much too full of the departed Hélène to manage anything contribution of true interest. The bitter sting of realisation wilted any pleasure she might have until that point counted hers, as far as the night’s events were concerned. Sonya found herself going through the motions with surprising ease; she had never been particularly loquacious; thus, she rather thought the drop in her mood could easily go by unobserved. If she remained somewhat quieter than usual, Fedya certainly did not complain of it, seeing as they were joined by the other couple for supper.

Maria Petrovna had a great deal to tell her of fashion, cleverly dressed officers and flirtations. Sonya did little more than agree to whatever came out of the woman’s mouth. She hadn’t the slightest about the particulars, nor did she care to waste her attention upon such a subject when the past has sunk its claws into her tender heart and all she wished to do was hide away and weep her sorrows away. Her companion took no notice of that and Sonya took little notice of her in turn until a familiar name came up.

“I do beg your pardon,” she spoke softly. “Would you care to repeat that?” She must have not heard right.

“Prince Boris Drubetskoy?” Maria Petrovna giggled like a schoolgirl. “He is quite the accomplished flirt. He would be, of course; my husband tells me he too was a student of the poor Countess. Very generous with her attention, she was.”

Sonya was going to be sick. Sokolovsky eyed her from his spot, adding to the discomfort. She felt the bile crawling up her throat. “Was she?”

Pierre had fought a duel with her husband. He’d shot Fedya; there could only be so many reasons for it. A vague shattering noise played in the back of her mind, as though coming from a long distance away. Her heart, Sonya thought. It shattered with the realisation. Shakily, she climbed to her feet, hearing herself utter a flimsy excuse; she needed to get away from that table. Anywhere else would do. The need to collect herself dominated all movement until she found herself standing on a darkened balcony, hugging herself for warmth.

The cold December air beat against her in merciless waves. She stood there for she knew not how long, until her teeth were chattering from the cold.

It was Fedya who found her. She recognised both his step and his touch without needing eyes to confirm it. Nevertheless, when he forced her to turn around and face him, with a concerned, “Sonechka, what happened?”, she did not have the heart to rebuff him. To her horror, she felt tears sliding down her cheeks.

Panic took over. “I feel unwell,” she said, despite being perfectly hale. “Fyodor Ivanovich, I truly feel unwell. I don’t know what’s come over me.” The dark shielded her from his piercing gaze. At least it kept her from having a clear view of his reaction to her words. Sonya did not particularly care what he thought of it, as long as he took her away. She wiped at her eyes.

“Then we’ll go home.” He led her from the balcony.

Inside, where there was light, she lowered her head, so he wouldn’t catch too much of her expression. But Fedya seemed more concerned with arranging the details of their departure. In short order they were on the road, in great part owing to his military efficiency. Sonya spent the entire ride with her eyes closed, feigning a light doze until her husband shook her awake. The carriage shook dreadfully.

The house was asleep when they got in. Sonya hurriedly made her way up the stairs, seeking the refuge of her own bedroom. Once inside, she kicked off her slippers and began tugging on the pins holding up her hair. Her fierce movements were meant to counter the insistent urge to sob. Fedya would surely hear her and she had no wish to enter such a discussion. What if she slipped and demanded an explanation for Hélène?

Worse yet, what if he admitted to it? What if Hélène had meant something to him? What if she still did?

The thought threatened to cut off her breath. She wanted to go home to mother and Galina. She wanted to turn back the hands of time to where she’d been utterly ignorant of the past. Sonya struggled to untie the laces at the back herself, a frustrated whine erupting past her tightly closed lips. The laces would not give way. She was not exactly surprised when warm hands pushed away her own.

“Let me, Sonechka.” He, once more, proved exceedingly efficient in his task, liberating her from the tyranny of silks and satins, pushing the layers down one by one. Her modesty yet had the slight protection of shift and stockings when Fedya took her in his arms. As if she were a little girl finding shelter in her father’s embrace, Sonya bowed to the feeling. It seemed strange, for just a moment, to cast her husband in that paternal role with regards to her, but at the same time, if she could not depend on him, who else might take that place? “This has all been too much for you.” The consoling note in his voice encouraged her in that decision. Sonya clung to him desperately, agreement bubbling on her lips.

He drew away from her at lengths (much to her disappointment) and guided her backwards until her knees hit the edge of the bed. Fedya pushed her down and knelt, hands working their way beneath her shift. Sonya swallowed thickly, caught between her own chaotic emotions. Part of her demanded she slap his hand away. The greater part of her, however, begged her to deny him nothing. She was good at swallowing her distress and disappointment. She’d had a lifetime of practice. And she did not know that he felt anything for that woman still. If he held her, she could convince herself that woman meant nothing.

He tugged upon the ribbons holding her silken stocking in place, then hooked one finger into the thin material and dragged it away from her skin. He did the same for the other. Silk whispered against naked flesh. Sonya shivered, awareness coursing through her veins. If he would just indulge her, she could build perfectly well on a foundation of self-encouraging confidence.

She put her hands upon his shoulders, stopping him from rising when he would. “Stay?” It was supposed to have been a request, not a question. Sonya wished he wouldn’t watch her so intently. It made her lose her nerve. Her lips clamped shut. She felt oddly lightheaded, expecting he might, in the next moment, refuse.

He did not, in fact, refuse. Fedya watched her face a short while longer, from his lowered position. A nameless something charged the air between them. And then he climbed to his feet. “Certainly; I’ll stay as long as you’d like me to.” It was a perfectly gallant response. The sort of response an indulgent husband might give his beloved wife after some twenty years of married life. What might he say if she asked for forever?

Sonya stood up, giving him her back as she turned down the covers. The rustling of cloth behind her indicated Fedya was making himself comfortable. She climbed abed, scooting over so that a generous portion was left over for his use and thought, with some bitterness, that if she were a clever sort of girl, she’d use the opportunity to drive away any memory of another in his mind. The trouble was, she had no earthly idea how to go about it. Sonya turned on her back, staring up at the canopy above her. She was not a clever girl. Never had been. Even in the midst of her crisis, all she could conjure up was the utterly pathetic need to cling to her husband. She moved onto her side.

It would have been so much better were he a brutal sort of fellow, knocking her about and evincing no care whatsoever for her. But Fedya caressed her unbound hair with feather-light touches, brushing his fingers through the dark mass. He kissed the top of her head before tying it with a bit of ribbon he’d found she knew not where; Sonya forced herself to breathe evenly. He had fed that little seedling of affection in her chest on a steady diet of attention, kindness and understanding. He had made her his in ways she could not have imagined a woman belonging to a man. Sometimes a look exchanged between them would do for a whole conversation. The mattress dipped with movement, snatching her from those thoughts. Mirroring her position, he pulled her closer. Hands moved in soothing motions up and down her back for a time.

Fedya found sleep first.

Sonya could pinpoint the exact moment when it happened. She was familiar enough with all of his habits. The normalcy ought to have led her to restful slumber as well. But she spent a sleepless night ensconced in Fedya’s arms, torturing herself for no clear reason whatever.

She cast her thought to that dreadful moment when the viper had extended her hand in feigned friendship. Natasha had been flighty and inconstant, but she had had plenty of help in ruining herself. Beautiful Hélène. Witty, charming Hélène. Bold Hélène, bravely grabbing life with both hands, meaning to master it as she did all those around her. Only it ended up getting the better of her.

No sleep came. Instead, she studied her husband’s face. The light was dim, but strong enough to make out all features. She touched a fingertip to his bottom lip, unable to keep from smiling at the unguarded expression. Slumber softened all the sharp angles. She marvelled at the change, sweeping the pad of her finger from one end of the lip to the other. The flesh, smooth and fine, beckoned. Clouds blotted out the faint light somewhere behind her. She leaned in for the gentlest peck, hoping not to wake him as she made her way out of his arms.

Sonya took herself from the chamber. She would not find much rest, that much was clear. But at least she could get herself some milk.

She sat down in the small parlour with her cup after lighting some candles. Sonya picked out a book, one of Fedya’s. She absentmindedly thumbed through it. Despite going over the same lines again and again, her heart was not into it; she could not make out nothing of it. But she would not quit her efforts.

By the time morning came, the milk was drunk and she had somehow muddled through about a quarter of the book, still no closer to understanding whatever it was the author spoke of. She heard movement above with the rising of the sun; footsteps, she thought. Fedya had woken. He came down the stairs and into the parlour in what seemed like the blink of an eye, though it must have been some minutes because he was neat as a pin when he did appear.

“Fancy, I was asked to keep company to my pretty wife, only for her to steal away in the middle of the night?” His strange smile followed a brief kiss to her lips.

Sonya smiled back. “It was certainly not the middle of the night.”

“Far too early in any event,” he answered. “You did not sleep a wink, I think.” He guessed right, but she would not confirm as much. Fedya sat down by her, taking her face between his hands as though to keep her still. She allowed him his study, glad for the touch. “We can always skip Anna Pavlovna’s little gathering.”

“But you were looking forward to attending.” Sonya blinked slowly. His thumb stroked against her cheek. 

“There’s always another time.” The words put her at ease. As did the fact that Fedya proposed they return to her bedroom. “We could make a day of it, just you and me.”

He took her back upstairs, locking the both of them in the room before ushering her into the bed, joining her shortly. Sonya was not certain how or why things progressed as they did, but before long, he was coaxing her into deeper and deeper kisses. One thing led to another. Nature took its course. Sonya kissed him back greedily, the previous night’s desperation still close to the surface. She would not be satisfied until they were fused together, not an inch to spare between them. There was no telling whether her mood had rubbed off of him, but as opposed to all the other times she had been in his arms, he worked her with determined firmness, as opposed to the usual languor she’s grown accustomed to. By the end, Sonya was utterly exhausted and not only a little dazed. They were panting together, matching one another breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat; so in sync with each other they might as well have been a single entity.

She cushioned her head against his chest, stretching out her arm over his middle once she had enough strength to move. There was something emboldening about the way re responded. A singular little grunt of satisfaction when her lips touched the underside of his jaw; it seeped into her bones, tying an unbreakable cord between them. He stroked her shoulder teasingly. They were still breathing in perfect synchrony. It was the perfect moment, when they were attuned one to the other beyond any margin logic might dictate, she realised, to test the waters.

“There is something–“ she began, never making it past that opening before she jumped in his grasp. Soft knocking on the door, very much like scratching had interrupted. Sonya’s face warmed. That would be the maid. The maid who had found the doors of her bedchamber tightly locked. The maid who would guess very easily just what she’d been about. “Heavens,” she breathed out. “Perhaps I had best get up.”

Her husband stopped her with a sharp look, calling out an irritable, “Go away, girl! Your mistress has no need of you now.” Fedya’s tone of command elicited prompt results. All noise in the hallway ceased. 

Sonya blushed harder. “She’ll know what we’ve been up to.”

Her husband grinned, part insolence, part forbearance. “Nothing to be ashamed of, Sofia Alexandrovna; making love to one’s own spouse is quite acceptable these days, I’m told.”

“I can’t help it, Fyodor Ivanovich.” Was she supposed to have made light of it and be glad to have the knowledge be made public? Sonya’s teeth sank into her lower lip. She had no desire to share the knowledge with anyone.

Her husband laughed. He actually laughed. “My God, you are too easy to tease.” Affronted, Sonya attempted to pull away from him. But seeing as he was that much stronger and quite as stubborn as she was, he restrained her rather effectively. “Settle your feathers now, madame. You were about to tell me something.”

Honesty prevented her from demurring. “About your friend whom we dined with the other night,” Sonya admitted reluctantly. Eyebrows raised, Fedya stared at her. Nerves assailed her once more. She felt foolish. Perhaps if she allowed the silence to linger, the subject would be dismissed.

“What about Sokolovsky?”

“Is he a very dear friend?”

He would not answer right away. Sonya forced herself to look into her husband’s face, trying to read whatever lay behind his eyes, but she was powerless to decipher it with his mask of mildness firmly in place. “You don’t approve of him” Fedya said at lengths.

One couldn’t deny his keenness. There were times when she wondered just how deeply he could read her when he made the effort to. “I certainly do not know him enough to either approve or disapprove.” His stare bore into her face, prodding and unrelenting. Sonya stammered, “I suppose he might improve upon further acquaintance.”

The silence was deafening. Fedya, she thought, was turning her words around and around in his mind. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, he sought to understand why she said what she said. That was simply his way. Sonya waited, tense. The subtle shift in his queer smile decided the matter for her. She had made some sort of mistake.     

“Sofia Alexandrovna, you had better tell me what’s bothering you.” He held her tighter. “Come now, out with it.”

It was his cold manner which halted her confession though, as if she were one of his troops; dread crawled through her, climbing up within her with the dexterity of a thorny vine. If he coerced the words out of her, if he came to know her fears, she would be utterly destroyed to be met with condescension. Or worse yet amusement. She had survived Nikolai’s philandering because at the end of the day his informal promise had been a hope not a certainty. But Fyodor Ivanovich had taken an oath, to God, to her. She could not bear to learn he saw no value in holding to it. Her lips trembled with the effort of forming some form of reply. The silence did not break.

Had she truly thought their little moment translated to more than the surface-level pleasure, that is spoke of a deeper connection simply because she’d not shared such a thing with another living soul? Sonya felt terribly guileless and incredibly gauche; he’d shared that sort of connection with a (not inconsiderable) number of women, if rumours were to be believed.

“I’m sure I did not mean to say anything against your friend.” She could do nothing but back down.

Fedya lifted her off of him and sat up, so that he towered over her. “Do you know what I like best about you?” She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. “Your goodness. Your honesty. I ask again. Tell me what is bothering you.”

Again, she shook her head, feeling the blood drain from her face. In mute horror, she watched him consider her for a long moment. He then slipped out of bed and began dressing himself. Not a word more did he say to her before he was decent.

“Rest; I will undertake the soirée on my own. In fact, it might be best if you took a few days for yourself. I should not like to see you go into a decline on account of something as insignificant as social engagements.” He unlatched the inner door of her room and was gone before she could say anything more.

Sonya listened to the sound of drawers opening and closing. She could make out the fall of booted feet upon creaky floorboards. She could not possibly miss the too firm slam of the door.

“Stupid, stupid, Sonya,” she muttered to herself, falling back against the spot where her husband had just laid; the warmth was already gone. Why had she done it? Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone? Hiding her face away in the pillow, she fought against the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Crying solved nothing. But tears were all she had just then.

She remained in her room for the majority of the day despite the best attempts of her maid to tempt her downstairs. She ate very little but thought constantly, trying to come up with something that would soften Fedya. She could apologise, but he’d claimed to like her honesty. And she was only sorry to have annoyed him, not for her own opinions. Sonya prepared an entire speech to be delivered once her husband returned, but she unfortunately fell asleep before his arrival and when she came to the next day it was to learn he was promised to his fellow brother officers. Once more, he absolved her of the need to join him later at yet another festive gathering.

Soundly rebuffed, Sonya fell back and in line. Perhaps once his spleen had been vented, he would come to her of his own volition. She would explain then that she had been very silly and they would resume normal relations.

Only that did not quite happen. The more days passed, the more apart they grew and the less confidence she had to approach him with anything other than the blandest and most uninspired pleasantries. He remained perfectly polite, escorting her with his usual aplomb when she would brave his cool civility, and even going so far as to perfunctorily kiss her lips at night when they retreated to separate bedrooms. She would have given her eyeteeth for the earlier discomfort of their associating; the tedium of balls she did not care about might at least be easily navigated with a little patience and some conversation from the likes of Anna Andreevna and her who were fast becoming great favourites with her.

Outwardly, all seemed well and yet she felt very much an actor on stage every single time they were thrust together. The strain of the change was nothing short of torturous. Not even prayer brought her peace.

At her wit’s end, Sonya had resolved to ask her husband whether she might return to Moscow. The distance would alleviate some of the pain, she thought. At least there she would not see the covetous eyes of society darlings following him around, nor would she witness him make easy conquests armed with only that strange smile of his. There was some relief to be found in the knowledge that no flirtation materialised into an affair. But given its head, such behaviour would sooner or letter, by necessity, result in something like that. She would not, could not, bear witness to it. In Moscow the running of the household and the company of those two dear women she counted as family would give her purpose enough to withstand anything.  

It was at that point that the letter came, like an unlooked-for blessing.   

She was sitting in the parlour, lingering over a cup of tea and her half-eaten toast. Fedya was reading his paper. He would be attending the Tutaev ball, taking himself away for no less than three days on the hosts’ estate. Sonya had toyed with the idea of joining him; but fear stopped her. One could pretend for a few hours, but days together under the scrutiny of such a gathering must surely reveal all she would keep hidden. Wouldn’t that encourage the harpies? Sonya chose ignorance. Whatever happened at the damnable party, she was better off not hearing of it.

They’d not exchanged as much as half a dozen words when the little maid came scurrying in, letter held tightly against her chest. Her eyes darted to Fedya and then to Sonya, she bobbed her curtsy and murmured, “Letter for ma’am. The messenger awaits a reply.” She held it out with both hands. Obediently, she left thereafter to see to the messenger’s needs.

Sonya took it, noting at once the familiarity of the hand. “It is from Natasha,” she said. They had exchanged letters before, of course. Small ones, undertaken on Natasha’s side, Sonya suspected, out of a sense of duty rather than desire. This time around, the heft of it suggested several pages of writing. Fedya had lowered his paper and was giving her one of those silent looks of interest. She did share her kinswoman’s news, for she knew her husband had some interest in Pierre. On that particular day, it only served to remind her of the why.

With trembling hands, she broke the seal and unravelled the folds. There were several page’s worth, as she had guessed, and a rather long post scriptum which was not in Natasha’s hand. Pierre had signed his name to it. Sonya scanned the lines quickly. “Natasha has entered the final stages of her confinement and Pierre worries, as Princess Marya cannot come to her side. They’re wondering if I would be kind enough to step into the breach. That is, of course, if you allow it.” She lowered the letter, forgetting for that brief moment that things where not as they’d always been. “Why they want me there, I do not know. I’m neither midwife, nor mother myself.” Sonya shook her head, her eyes returned to the written lines. “Oh look, I’d not seen that.” There was a second post scriptum, scribbled in the margin. She pointed it out for her husband, “Pierre addresses this to you.” She’d not read the whole of it, only the signature and the fact that it was meant for her husband.

Fedya took the letter from her hands. He studied that short message meant for his eyes for a few moments. “I’ve no objections to your going, if you wish it.”

She did not wish it. But on the other hand, the impersonal tone of his acquiescence made it clear he did not care what she did either way. And she could perhaps distract Natasha from her worries, thereby giving herself something other to do than fret and stew. Whereas remaining alone in their Petersburg rooms, with the constant cloud of worry over her head might just drive her mad. Sonya licked her lips. “I would not feel right refusing her.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. It made her feel slightly less guilty for speaking the words.

“That settles it then.” He passed the letter back to her. “You will go; that fellow who brought the letter came with a carriage. He’ll see you safely to the estate.”

“And you?” It was a stupid question. Sonya knew as soon as the words materialised into reality. But she had said them; it was too late to take any of it back.

“I am promised to the Tutaevs. And a few other later on.” He leaned back in his seat, bringing up his newspaper. “Perhaps I will join you in a few weeks.” He wanted distance between them.

How lowering. Sonya nodded her head just for something to do. The last frayed thread of hope snapped. She had played her hand, and she had lost. Sitting up, she rang for the little maid, instructing her to pack lightly. She wouldn’t be needing much in any event. Natasha would not be entertaining in her current condition.

If the girl thought the request a strange one, she did not show it (bless her heart). Nimble and quick, she instead prepared the luggage under Sonya’s watchful gaze. They would be travelling companions, of course, for it would not be proper otherwise. Sonya thought of leaving her in Petersburg, but the little maid would not hear of it. “Someone must look after you properly, ma’am, and I’d not trust anyone save myself with that.”

By early afternoon they were on their way.

Sonya kept her gaze firmly on the rolling countryside, studiously avoiding any in-depth analysis of her situation. That would inevitably invite Fyodor into her thoughts, which in turn would have her transform into a watering pot. The interminable deserts and dunes of snow and the bleakness of stark naked tree limbs proved a far happier subject to contemplate.

A little over a year had changed Count Bezukhov’s home very little. Sonya contemplated the grand place as she was helped down the carriage-steps by a sturdy footman. He helped her over the icy path when it looked like she might fall over. Suffice it to say her legs felt a tad unsteady up until Natasha appeared at the head of the stairs leading to the entrance, enveloped in a thick shawl and wreathed in smiles.

“Sonya! You are finally here. I thought you’d never arrive,” she greeted with enthusiasm, holding both hands out in invitation and expectation alike. Peeling off her gloves as she climbed the stairs, Sonya reached back with one hand, the other necessarily holding onto her just removed mittens.

“Natasha.” Her voice sounded colourless to her own ears. But she must have produced a creditable enough delivery, as her cousin did not turn a hair. Cheeks were kissed, hands were squeezed and the guest was ushered within.

“Pierre is still out riding,” Natasha offered before the question of the man’s absence even came up. “The estate keeps him so very busy.” She led Sonya up a flight of stairs, chatting all the way. “I’ve not seen anything of him this morning and to tell you the truth, it does get rather lonely. But well, he must fulfil his duties; nothing for it, is there? And I have you now.”

Just like the old days. “Naturally; but whatever happened to Nikolai and the family coming over? You’d mentioned it in several letters.”

“That,” her cousin began with a shake of the head, “it came about unexpectedly. Little Andrei is sick, with fever. Marya doesn’t have the heart to leave the poor mite; rightly not. And I insisted that mother stay remain with her.” Reaching out, she took Sonya’s hand in her own. “I’d have gone to them myself, but Pierre would not hear of it.”

“He is correct; you are due any day now.” Sonya gave a gentle squeeze, wondering at the fact her first thoughts went to poor Princess Marya and not to Nikolai. “And if Countess Rostova remains at Bald Hills, then I am certain everything will turn out fine.” She considered her aunt’s usual deportment in a crisis with some apprehension; but then there would be physicians and they would know what to do for the boy. A bracing breath later, the scenery had changed.

Sonya took in the grandeur of the countess’ rooms. It had not been pertinent the last time she’d been at the estate, but standing in the middle of the grand bedchamber, she could not help wondering whether the first wife of the count had once sat where Natasha was sitting, patting the empty spot by her.

“Come sit, Sonya. You must tell me all about your stay in St. Petersburg. Did you attend very many parties?” Her cousin beamed up with excitement, for one moment looking as she had all those years ago on the cusp of her first ball.

So, Sonya took her seat. She did not position herself as close as she once might have had. But she did speak to Natasha for a full quarter of an hour after they were brought up a tray. No detail was too small. No conversation too trifling. When mention was made of Boris, Natasha showed herself most curious about how he and Julie were carrying on. “Julie is easier to catch a glimpse of. Borya is forever hard at work, or so I am told. But they seemed well.”

“And yourself, Sonya?” The question stumped her. Fortunately, Natasha was not particularly patient in the face of lacking answers and quickly clarified, “What I mean is, Pierre insisted the invitation be extended to both yourself and that man.”

“That man?” she repeated. If the words came out rather more sharply than they otherwise might have had, Sonya could only blame her hound-like loyalty.

Her cousin flushed. “Well, I cannot pretend to like him.”

Perhaps Fedya had been right not to come. “I am not asking you to. Nevertheless, he is my husband and for my sake you might attempt civility.”

Natasha sighed deeply. Sonya feared she might argue, but her cousin merely patted her hand in a consoling gesture. “I am sorry. You are right; he is your husband and I ought to bear that in mind.” Had something of Pierre’s wisdom rubbed off on her? “He should have escorted you at least.”

It was Sonya’s turn to blush. “There were engagements he could not escape.”

Disbelief played across Natasha’s face, but Sonya suspected she directed the brunt of it towards the situation rather than the persons involved. “Say whatever you wish, a woman should not travel alone. She exposes herself to all manner of dangers.”

“I was not alone.” Sensing she ought not to overly excite her cousin, Sonya chose a change in subject and was glad when they easily plodded along that new path at a steady pace. By the time, Natasha released her to bit of rest, she could honestly say all she wished for was a pillow and a thick quilt.

That evening the three of them dined together in what became the habit of the household. Conversation was light, with Sonya content to allow the expectant parents their due without intervening unless explicitly asked to. Natasha had a lot of questions about tenants and improvement plans, subjects which Sonya was necessarily ignorant of, though Pierre, kind soul that he was, would from time to time turn to her and ask, all earnestness, what she thought of certain ideas of his. While she had grown up on an estate and the old count had been the picture of graciousness, Sonya had learned only too little of such affairs. She spoke with the barest of knowledge, feeling her cheeks burn hot.

Pierre simply smiled, a gentle stretch of lips, at her and nodded his head and if she should stumble, he would encourage her with a question or two of his own. In due course, she found herself talking easily in his presence and not fearing any blunders might depreciate her in his eyes.

It was in the darkness of her bedroom that she found herself assailed from all sides. Doubt and fear joined forces with regret as she tossed and turned in a ridiculously wide bed whose emptiness haunted her nightmares. Some nights she even dreamt of statuesque beauties with painted smiles that showed too much teeth, like a predator lying in wait, all wrapped in a pretty disguise.

So she lived, day by day, time slowly crawling by. Sometime she though she might burst, looking at Natasha waltzing blindly through life. She wanted to ask whether the ghost of Hélène did not trouble her, whether she was so very certain of Pierre’s devotion that nothing in his past mattered. But she hadn’t the nerve. The hours drifted away one by one, the sun rose and fell, the moon climbed up and down the winter sky. Snow fell. Wind howled. Sonya wrote letters (most to Fedya, mother and Galina, some to Anna Andreevna, and one or two to Julie), or took walks, or thought too much and ended all her days in prayer.

The relative peace shattered with a shriek in the night.

Sonya jumped up in bed, startled from the light doze she had fallen into. It took a moment to find her bearings, but as soon as the pieces fell into place, she was on her feet, drawing robe over her shift, even as she pushed open the door, hurrying down the hallway to Natasha’s chamber; she passed by an anxious looking Pierre. She was duly informed that the midwife had been sent for and she would be arriving within minutes.

She was not exactly shocked at the sight before her. Part of her upbringing as the poor relation meant she’d been forced to make herself useful from the very beginning. And the old countess had given birth plenty of times; enough of them in any event that Sonya had had the opportunity to assist with the carrying of sheets and the wiping of brows. Seating herself by Natasha’s side, she took her cousin’s hand.

Natasha’s grip threatened to break the bones in her fingers. “Where is Pierre?” she sobbed, dark curls falling in her face.

“Just outside,” Sonya answered, using her free hand to brush away those rebel tendrils. “Natasha, look at me,” she demanded, noting her cousin’s eyes drifting towards the door. “He’ll not move from that spot, if that is your fear.”

“I wish he could be here with me.”

Natasha, on the other hand, had been kept away from the birthing chamber. She might have sung a very different tune if she had but known the realities of it. Sonya would not enlighten her. In fact, she would know soon enough, so there was truly no point in frightening her.

Throughout the wee hours of the night, she held her cousin’s hand, whispering encouragement and doling out consoling coos whenever her fingers felt as though they might shatter. The midwife, a capable woman who guided them through the process with nary a qualm, later told Sonya it had been one of the easiest births she’d attended. Having been much too preoccupied with aiding Natasha, unlike all the other times when she’d been able to observe the proceedings at leisure, she could not confirm the words or deny them.

All she knew was that by the time the first dawn blessed them with vague light, her cousin, clean and glowing, was holding a plump, perfectly formed child, whose lungs were excellent, judging by the inconsolable wails. Natasha had even forgotten all about her misery and tears by the time Pierre was ushered into their sanctuary, smiling proudly up at her husband. Her accomplishment, no mean feat, consisted in providing the estate with a potential heir, in the form of one little girl.

Sonya wisely retreated to one of the windows, staring blindly at the gardens below while she allowed the parents a few moments. She heard the swishing of cloth and the gentle gurgling of the babe. Looking over her shoulder briefly, she saw the child feed.

Before long, exhausted after her labour, Natasha called for her, entrusting the child to her arms. “I will only rest my eyes a moment,” her cousin promised. She ended up falling asleep within moments.

Looking to Pierre for guidance, Sonya obeyed his request that she put the child in his crib. “You go rest,” he said, pushing his spectacles back up from their slump. “You have been wonderful. Truly.”

She could not help but smile. Sonya returned to her own chamber and crawled under the covers, bringing one hand down to her midsection. It would be too much luck to find herself in an interesting condition on the heels of Natasha’s good fortune. There was nothing for it but to wait and see. Sleep came easier with the light streaming through the window and she found herself drowning in dreams of children (with curly hair and bright eyes) chasing each other through tall grass.

Morning had brought a lengthy snowstorm. By midday, Sonya stood watching at her window. The dancing flakes twirled in elegant strokes. In the distance bare branches were waved in the wind. Only the merry crackling of the fire punctuated the silence every now and again as the split and consumed the wood. The entire house was otherwise silent. She supposed the other to be resting. The parents were surely caught up in admitting the newest addition to the family. The feeling of unreality unravelled itself in thin streams as time wore on.

At lengths, at the insistence of her rumbling stomach, Sonya made her way downstairs, only to find that Pierre had someone managed to pull himself away from the little miracle and his wife. She found him in the morning room, seated at the ornate bureau Mazarin, applying himself to what must have been a letter. He greeted her arrival in his usual manner and Sonya smiled at him as she made for the empty armchair near a laden tray. She picked something to her taste.

“I will be done in a moment,” he promised, voice almost apologetic, as though he had somehow trespassed.

It was his own home. Sonya kept from pointing out that much. “Take however long you need,” she murmured, having swallowed her mouthful. “Do you suppose this storm will last long?” Her conversational tone complimented the relaxed atmosphere. “It makes for difficult roads.” She was thinking of Fedya. The foul weather would keep him from travelling. Sonya sighed.

“But not altogether impassable,” Pierre pointed out, putting away his quill as he half-turned in his chair. He’d been sanding the missive by then. Without needing to look, he sealed it. “At least not unless the storm grows any worse.” He eyed the window and made a thoughtful sound. “If you’ve any letters to write, I shan’t stand in your way.” Rising heavily from the chair, Pierre kept the letter in hand. “I am just done with my own to Nikolai.”

Having sent letters of her own but to days past and expecting no reply for some time yet, weather notwithstanding, Sonya shook her head. She watched Pierre deposit the missive on the tray before he returned and occupied a spot on the sofa, facing her. Uncommonly tall and bulky as he was, she found the sight of him occupying that dainty piece of furniture incongruous. One never quite got used to the man. Then, thinking better of it, she said, “Perhaps just a short note to my husband. I’m afraid I have lost track of him between all those balls and parties he’s been hopping between; I might misdirect it.” Mirthless laughter choked her. In truth, Sonya was hoping he would demand her return, even if she knew leaving before the child’s christening would never do.   

Pierre’s expression assumed something of unqualifiable awkwardness as she moved to take up the seat he’d previously occupied. “I’d been meaning to ask,” he began somewhat stilted, despite the kindness suffusing the words, “but you must not feel obliged to answer; why did Fyodor not come with you?” Natasha had asked the her the same thing in a roundabout way.

It might have been the fatigue getting to her, or otherwise Pierre’s nature beckoning her into the confession; whatever the case, Sonya paused, fingers on the elegant stem of the quill. “It’s nothing against your hospitality, I am certain.” She picked up the writing implement and began writing. “Rather, I suspect he viewed it as the perfect opportunity to be rid of me.” She should not have spoken the words.

Creaking indicated Pierre’s movement. Head tilting to the side, she saw him in one of the chairs, by her side. “That does not sound like him.” They studied one another for a long moment. “If I can be of any help,” Pierre trailed off.

Replacing the quill in its inkpot, Sonya considered him. “The two of you fought a duel. Why?” It was an impertinent question. She half expected he would rise from his chair and quit the room altogether.

A heavy sigh left him. “I’d lost my wits.” Pierre reached out. So close, he had no trouble wrapping an arm around her shoulder in a brotherly gesture of comfort. “I challenged him out of pride, over something of no consequence.” She frowned. “That must sound odd, I grant you. She was my wife, but she was a wretched creature.” Sonya still could not grasp it, in spite of hearing the words very clearly. It must have shown. Pierre leaned slightly in. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself over the past, unless it impinges upon the present.”

With those words of wisdom, he excused himself. Suspecting his poor wife must have woken by then, he was desirous to see her and Sonya would have time to finish her letter, he’d said with a small enigmatic smile. As if she could think of anything decent to write to her husband just then. The worst of it was she did not know what to believe. Did the past affect her present happiness, or had she been the one to drag it kicking and screaming into a place where it was simply irrelevant? Had she, Sonya mused, pushed her husband away?

Well, she’d certainly not confided in him.

He had asked her to. He may not have asked as she would have wished him to, but he had. That much was undeniable. Her fingers hovered over the quill, indecision keeping her from taking the plunge. It had been her own fears that stopped her; it was her own pride that lashed her to a post awaiting the blows of her own imaginings. The only one who could tell her what her husband had felt and might still feel for the dead famed beauty was the man himself. Her hand dropped to her lap, smoothing over the folds of her skirt.

She could not very well pour everything onto the page. Suppose someone else should read it. Sonya shuddered with horror. It might be best to simply indicate a wish to speak to the man. He would not refuse her. With that in mind, she set forth to inform him of Natasha’s happiness and the general condition of mother and child. She wrote something of her own observations for his consideration and finished with the main point she wished to address.

But as the hours progressed so did the savagery of the storm. And in the end, the letters could only leave some fours days after they’d been written.

The interim was spent in warmed rooms, admiring rosy cheeks and a very fine dark head of curls. Natasha had told her they would name the child in honour of their dear friend over tea. “I would have preferred an Iliya first,” her cousin admitted with a blush. “But she is a girl and Marya stole a march on me.”

“Marya is a fine name,” Sonya replied noncommittally, eyeing the child sleeping comfortably in her crib.

Everyone agreed Masha suited the child admirably.

Some full week after word had been sent of Masha’s safe arrival, Pierre’s estate saw the influx of his relatives by marriage. Everyone from the old countess to young Andrei were there, bundled up in furs, covered from head to toe against the bitter weather. Sonya watched the exchange of kisses and greeting from the doorway. Seeing as she was not one of the household, she did not feel it appropriate to put herself forward amongst them. Nevertheless, before long, Natasha was beckoning her nearer and in spite of a long moment of hesitation, Sonya drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders and stepped over the threshold.

Princess Marya, who was closest to her of the newcomers, awkwardly held out her hands. Sonya took them in her own and pressed them with more warmth than she felt. “How is young Andrei?” she asked in a voice that did not even sound like her own. The child was clearly well enough to travel. Nikolai’s wife confirmed the fact. Perfunctory kisses were exchanged.

The old countess came next. Being a woman who bore no grudges as long as her goals had been reached, she embraced Sonya both warmly and fully. “Marriage suits you, dear girl,” the woman noted, stepping back to look her over. “Fit as a fiddle too, I imagine.” Sonya could only smile and nod her head, not wishing to encourage further comment, as the countess’ son was coming up.

Nikolai’s beaver hat was set at a rakish angle, possibly from excessive movement rather than a stylistic choice. His discomfort was palpable as he stared into her face. Sonya uncertainly held out her hands for him to take, but the man surprised her by tilting his head and giving a light huff. “We’re far too well acquainted for that.” Instead, he pulled her into his arms. “Seeing as we’re family, Sonya.”

Were they really? She closed her eyes, half expecting the scent of sandalwood and gunpowder her husband always carried. “Of course,” she answered, caught between the sharp jolt of recollection and cutting disappointment. She brought her own arms up, returning the gesture,

When he drew back, Nikolai had something of boyhood mischief in his smile. “I’ve always regretted how we parted.”

Sonya bit her tongue against the reminder that he’d been the one to insist on harsh words. “It is in the past,” she allowed, not out of forgiveness, but because she had no desire to revive the whole episode.

Reacquainting herself with the Rostovs proved far more difficult than she’d have anticipated. Where she’d once had a genuine desire to please them and ease their burdens as well as she could, looking at them in Pierre’s parlour, she could find nothing of that girl who’s wanted so badly to win their affection and approval. Sitting slightly apart from them, she watched the interactions with an odd sense of detachment, nothing that country life had added a certain roundness to Nikolai’s face and the lively gleam in his eyes, though unchanged, no longer captivated her as it once had.

The old countess had mellowed, with the matter of finances resolved, and she once more addressed Sonya as in their better days, coaxing her into conversation. It was never anything of consequence, but still, by the woman’s own count, the behaviour was very decent. Even so, Sonya was glad for little Masha being brought out just then, as it meant all attention swivelled to the infant.

She excused herself after a quarter of an hour, when plans for the child’s christening began to be concocted. “I would like some air.” No one seemed to mind.

Having successfully escaped the company, Sonya grabbed her fur-lined cloak, donning it and fastening the collar. She wore a pair of sturdy boots, but was very well aware the snow was more than tall enough to cling to her woollen stockings and from there melt into the material once she returned indoors. She did not care, however. As long as she had a few moments to herself, it was worth the discomfort.

The snow buried her almost to the knees. As expected, it clung to her skirts and stockings; she could feel it weighing her down. Sonya waded through, humming to herself. Instinct put her on a path she’d travelled before, leading her down and into the trees which had lost their green leafy crowns. Cawing from above haunted her steps. She only stopped once she’d reached that nameless river, frozen solid in deep winter. Sonya wondered just how thick the layer of ice was.

She stood there, without moving an inch. One might be excused for thinking she was looking out at the scenery and contemplating its bleakness, or perhaps its beauty. Sonya was doing no such thing. Her thoughts were with her husband, wondering what he was up to just then. She hoped he’d received her letter and that he might make the journey, conditions permitting. She knew from Nikolai the roads were difficult. Still, she could not help wanting Fedya by her side.

The sound of her own name coming from some distance away startled her out of the reverie. Sonya whirled, her skirts catching and snagging on the frozen stiff snow at her feet. She saw Nikolai marching towards her, step brisk. A frown fixed itself to her face; why had he come? The spot where she stood was special to her and her beloved husband. She resented the foreign presence and its intrusion. Sonya took one step back as he drew nearer. She expected him to beckon her back to the house.

“I’m glad we have a moment.” Nikolai breathed heavily with the effort of his exertions. He must have adopted the same quick space all the way from the house. It was his words, however, that gave Sonya pause. He spoke as though the two of them in particular had anything of an intimate nature of share. Nikolai sketched her a smile. She had once found his smiles very endearing and was surprised more than anyone to find she felt very little indeed when he gifted her one of the bank of a frozen river. It was much too common; his lips lacked any interesting curvatures.

Fyodor had spoiled her for any other man, hadn’t he? The realisation sent panic skittering through her. She would never look at another without comparing the man to her husband and finding him somewhat lacking. Pushing the thought away, she made her answer, “Why should that be?”

“To talk.”  They had been talking. Perhaps not directly to one another as such, but there had been plenty of general conversation. Sonya studied his features. Nikolai added, “That is, I wanted to speak to you about last year. To apologise and take back the words I said. It’s been making me uneasy all this time that you would believe me capable of cutting ties with you.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said after a brief, uncomfortable pause. “You were wrought at the time. I did not take it to heart.”

“See, I rather you did.” He reached out, grabbing her arm just above the elbow, as though he meant to lead her away. “You never wrote to Marya and the only word we ever had of you came from Natasha or Julie.” She made to speak, but he held his free hand up. “No, let me say my piece. I do not take back my account of him, your husband; he’s a scoundrel through and through. But are still Sonya and you may always count on me.”

“I appreciate your saying so.”  Count on him, indeed. As she had in her youth? Sonya dropped her gaze to the snow-covered ground. She could not reproach him, not when she was beginning to wonder if she would have been as blissfully happy with him, as she’d once thought.

“Then we are friends?” he offered, hope lacing the words.

“Naturally,” she allowed, all graciousness.

It’d cost her little enough, she reasoned, as they walked back, settling into a discussion of Bald Hills. The princess had happily turned the reins of leadership over to him, trusting Nikolai to look after everything from the household’s accounts to the needs of the land. And he was proud of that, telling her all about his progress. “In a few years, I might even have enough to buy the old place back.”

“I am so happy to hear.” A wave of nostalgia swept over her, thinking of the old place. She had been happy there, a colourless sort of joy until Nikolai had spoken words of adoration into her ear, but the sort which one might look back upon without regret.

They returned to find their presence required in the parlour. Someone had set up a game of cards. There would be no betting, not on money in any event. Princess Marya would not play, which meant it was left to Sonya to make up the numbers. She would have refused but for the pleading look in Natasha’s eyes. They decided the stakes would be matchsticks. Young Nikolai Bolkonsky was a very eager player, which proved suitable as the game would become something of a habit.

Life settled. Time wore on. It was nearing Christmastide.

Sonya was at her bath when her little maid came in, carrying a sealed envelope. “Do leave it over there and come help me with my hair,” she said, in a bid to be done with the ablutions, anticipating a message from her husband. She was glad when, once clean, she could sit on the rug by the fire. While the maid worked a brush through her tresses, she studied the letter.

Disappointingly, it was not her husband who’d written, but one of Anna Andreevna’s nieces. The Imperial Lyceum was to host a ball in a month’s time and the family were hoping she and Fedya might make it. It was a charming invitation, which soothed some of her dissatisfaction. And she could use it for a reason to write her husband again, though she was not sure even where to send it. Fedya had not answered her last missive. He could be anywhere.

Setting the paper aside, she heaved a sigh. The little maid paused in her even strokes. “Should you like some claret, ma’am. I hear it is particularly soothing after a bath.”

Wine could not replace her husband and it would be poor consolation even if she managed to down enough to make herself lightheaded. “Later, perhaps,” she answered, absentmindedly toying with a corner of the drying sheet. It was too early in the morning for it in any event.

While her hair dried, Sonya took the time to choose her ensemble for church on the morrow. The service was to be a grand one, not only for the holy celebration but to mark the good fortune of Pierre’s family. The priest had insisted. Natasha even said she would bear the few hours away from her daughter to sit in and listen to the morning liturgy.

Later in the day, Sonya took off on her own. The household was much engaged in preparation, with servants running to and fro, hastening to put up decorations, thus she escaped without garnering much attention. It was not as though Natasha had any more need of her. Marya’s arrival, along with that of the old countess, satisfied her needs well enough. Her feet carried her to the one place she’d come to love best.

The branches were still bare. Snow laid upon the ground in a thick blanket. The frosted over surface of the river glinted as sunlight struck the ice. The wind was gentle and calm. It was a wonderful winter day. Too fine to spend before a fire, listening to gossip she did not care about in the least.

Her thoughts turned to the christening. Marya and Nikolai were to be Masha’s godparents, an honour both felt deeply. Marya had gone as far as to confide in Sonya that she lived in some apprehension of the event, lest she prove unsatisfactory. For her own part, Sonya had assured her that short of setting the church on fire, she could not possibly disappoint the new parents. Nikolai preened about as though the Tsar himself had offered him the position of godparent to one of his offspring; the display, though amusing, could not hold her attention for long. Her own role was to be humbler, but she was glad for that; her mind was too full of her own problems to pay heed to the triumphs of her kinsmen just at that moment.

When the cold became too much for her, she returned to the house, running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She’d not reached her bedroom when the coolness of damp wool began bothering her. Sonya entered the chamber briskly, thankful to find her dinner supper attire had been laid out. Countess Bezukhova might not be entertaining in an official capacity, but she certainly liked her dinner in style when she could take it.

Disrobing on her own was not the least bit an issue. The dresses packed for the trip were one and all on the simpler side, excepting a trio of Merino wool dresses with fine embroidery. The blue one had been chosen by her industrious little maid. A pair of combs stood by its side, but that she would not trouble over that. There was more than enough time to have her hair done. Meanwhile she could change out of her wet clothing. She then took down her mussed chignon and swept the brush through it a few times, settling on braiding it. She was just about done with the second braid when a sharp rap distracted her.

“Come in!” Sonya called out, thinking it was Marya come to bring her word from Natasha. She could not entirely avoid sitting down with them again for a spot of embroidery. But it was not Marya who stood in the doorway, nor even a female. Her eyes met Nikolai’s in the tall mirror as she approached. The door remained wide open in his wake. Sonya whirled around, very much aware of the impropriety of his presence in her bedchamber. “Nikolai, you cannot barge in here; we are no longer children,” she pointed out mildly.     

Instead of a well-deserved apology, she received a stern glare. “Look at this!” her cousin commanded as though she owed him her obedience, while thrusting a piece of paper in her direction. “I thought he’d turned over a new leaf. I was even willing to swallow my pride and tolerate the connection, for you. But he’s not changed, Sonya; not at all.”

Sonya’s eyes were very much taken with the task of deciphering the meaning of the words swimming before her eyes. She had known Fedya gambled from time to time. Her taste, however, had never run to such activities. Certainly not gabling for large sums. She gasped at the account the writer gave of her husband’s exploits during their time apart. It occurred to her that if anyone deserved to be badly dipped, then Sokolovsky fit the bill.

When she looked up, it was to see the princess standing in the doorway, pale as a sheet. Her gaze moved from her to Nikolai. He seemed to expect some manner of answer. Sonya cleared her throat. “I fail to see how winning a game of cards makes my husband immoral.”

Nikolai’s face reddened. “He can’t go on trampling people’s dignity and destroying their lives.” Marya was at his side, tugging oh his sleeve, her soft voice pleading for peace.

Much like the other woman, Sonya had no desire for a squabble. She could have debated him on the matter, but she doubted anything she said would soften his attitude. “You are asking me to condemn my husband on the power of a missive with respect to an occurrence I know nothing of. You will understand if I choose to disappoint you.”

“I am asking you to consider the choice you made in marrying this man.”

Sonya bit her tongue. What good would it do to point out that his gallantry was for naught. If he cared so much for her wellbeing, he should have kept his word to her. As the princess led Nikolai away, she could not help shaking her head. “What manner of husband would you have been to me, Nikolai?” Sonya quietly questioned the empty air as she shut the door after the departing couple.

Dinner was a somewhat tense affair. Her husband’s antics seemed to have caused somewhat of a furore, the only members of the gathering who abstained from comment being Princess Marya and Pierre. The countess sent Sonya pitying glances as she decried the evils of gambling, while Natasha shook her head, looking from her to Nikolai between each and every spoonful of soup. Nikolai contented himself with vaguer hints, as the Ruschev house party provided subject of speculation around the table.

After supper, they settled in the parlour, splitting off into groups, as it were. Sonya was well enough on her own, having found a book to occupy her time with.

In something of a repeating pattern, she found her imposed solitude intruded upon by Nikolai, who took the chair next to hers. Once again, the first words out of his mouth were an apology. “I should not have been so harsh towards you. I know only too well you cannot help how he is and we must all make the best out of our situation.” He took her by the hand, the brotherly gesture both unneeded and unwelcome under the present conditions. “Please know that whatever happens, my home is open to you.”

She contemplated snatching herself free. “Fyodor Ivanovich is my husband; that cannot be changed. Like you say, we must make the best of it.” Reigning in the scowl that threatened to overtake her, Sonya did her best to infuse her words with as much conviction as she felt, “More to the point,” she trailed off in her putdown on account of a commotion in the hallway.

The doors of the room opened with an overloud squeak.

Sonya leapt to her feet, forgetting all about the clever retort she’d been about to deliver, her half-surprised, half-delighted cry followed by a swift departure from the spot. Her hand escaped Nikolai’s grip with only a tug upon the glove as penalty. Fortunately, the laces holding it in place prevented any unpleasantness.

Pierre had stood as well and, being closer to the newly arrived guest, played the gracious host with simple honesty. Fedya, on the other hand, seemed not the least bit inclined to endure the dullness of an evening spent in senseless chatter. Even his greeting rather too short for politeness. His face displayed a hint of ferocity as she drew closer. Sonya was too caught up in admiring him. Out of the military uniform and into civilian clothing, he’d lost nothing of his usual allure.

“Begging your pardon, but I’ve an important matter to discuss with my wife,” Fedya was saying just as she reached his elbow. Pierre could offer no objection and seeing as Fedya would neither take some supper, nor sit a while to warm himself, Sonya bade the company a pleasant night.

Though they departed arm in arm to a chorus of tangled wishes of “Good night!” and variations thereof, Sonya had not managed ten steps into the corridor before he turned on her. The firmness of his hands held her in place.

“Why were you holding his hand?” She’d missed his voice enough that even a hissed demand fraught with impertinent undertones seemed to her a delight. Fedya shook her gently when she failed to answer in a timely manner.

“I think you’ll find he was holding my hand.”  She pushed his hands away and taking him by the arm, directed the both of them towards the stairs. “You will find me most accommodating and willing to answer any question, but do let us find some privacy.” Her bedroom seemed the natural choice.

The little maid vacated the room as soon as she saw them, bobbing her curtsies as she went.  

“So why was he holding your hand?” Fedya insisted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“He thought I needed rescuing,” she mused. “From you. Our marriage,” Sonya clarified after a moment. “He seems to believe we are ill-suited to each other.” By the tick in her husband’s jaw, she could tell that touched a nerve. “No matter.” Approaching, she took his face between her hands.

She felt his arms wrap around her waist. The clasp was downright brutal. “Depending on what you think, it might matter.” Fedya nuzzled her hair, a gesture very much at odds with both his tone and his grip.

Having no higher ambition than to cling to him like a limpet, Sonya dropped her hands to his shoulders. “I want to know what happened at the Ruschev house party.”

“You know damned well what happened! Julie Drubestkaya wrote; I know she did.”

“I do not mean about Sokolovsky and his roubles. I mean, why did you do it?”

He pushed her slightly away. “Is this how it’ll be between us, Sonechka? I share my every thought while you get to stay safe in your cocoon?”

Sonya pursed her lips. “You’ll think me very foolish.” The warning did not faze her husband. Blush beating red in her cheeks, she sat down upon the edge of the bed. The question would have to be asked, eventually. “Did you love Hélène Vasilyevna?”

Incredulity written in every line of his feature, Fedya shook his head, muttering something under his breath. Sonya thought it was a prayer. Whatever the case, he did not leave her hanging for long. “And what’s got that maggot into your head?” She admitted just what had led to it. Fedya stared at her speechlessly for one long heartbeat. “If I’d known that, I’d have made sure Sokolovsky lost more at the tables.” He shook his head again and sat down by her. One of his arms wrapped around her shoulders, tipping her into his side. “While this might surprise you to learn, I felt nothing but contempt for her. Her and women like her.” His lips curled in something very like a grimace.

“But you slept with her.” The euphemistic language hardly covered her distress.

“Me and half of Moscow, hardly a worthwhile distinction” he snapped. “I used her much in the same way she used me. It did not mean anything.”

If he said he did not love her, then Sonya trusted him to have told the truth. She took the opportunity to seek further clarification. “And with me it’s different?” She needed to understand the finer nuances.

“You are my wife.” He stressed that last word. “I promised you all that is mine to give. That includes my heart, such as it is.” Fedya paused just long enough to present a cutting grin, as if aware how odd it sounded to be both utterly jaded and utterly committed. “My fidelity as well. Half-measures won’t do, Sofia Alexandrovna.”

No, she supposed they would not. Sonya closed her eyes, working through the muddle in her head. “I thought you’d grown tired of me. Or perhaps that you preferred someone like Hélène Vasilyevna.”

“I don’t follow.” To that she pointed out their relative abstinence. Fedya regarded her solemnly. She could not complain he treated her worries as though they were of no consequence. “Sonechka, I do not read minds. No one does, really. You were still finding your footing; I did not like to make further demands.”

“But after you’d asked me to tell you what was wrong, you did not even look at me any longer.”

He held one hand up. “I admit I got too caught up in setting up my little trap for Sokolovsky. And it suited me, to be perfectly honest, that you kept away for the most part; they could not very well bother you if they saw nothing of you. It took a lot of time to lull those two into a sense of peace.”

Her eyes opened. “That is perfectly diabolical.” Lifting her head, she landed a kiss on his cheek. “You might warn me the next time; I love you too much for the sort of wear and tear worrying over such things brings.” Sonya could not help being warmed by his gesture. “Did you truly have to dip the man so thoroughly, Fyodor Ivanovich?” she asked as an afterthought.

“It’s the only lesson his sort understands, Sofia Alexandrovna.”

Sonya was no closer to understanding how the male mind pieced everything together, but she was quite possibly the happiest woman alive.