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The wide gulf of interest yawning out between herself and Natsha made it eminently possible for Sonya to observe her cousin unobstructed. A more practical soul would have resented the position, for it put her already privileged kinswoman in a spotlight she had no need of. But the abundantly blessed Natasha, with all her grace, beauty, familial connections and excellent match, was closer to Sonya than a sister; for they were also the best of friends. It would have been inconceivable to feel anything but elation at her friend’s triumph, whether on the social scene or in the realm of the personal achievement.

The sea of humanity crowding the ballroom parted for Prince Andrei Bolkonsky’s fiancée. Natasha yet remained a novelty to the jaded set of Moscow, relieving, if only for a moment, the tedium of existence in which they perpetually found themselves floundering on the ordinary. Sonya followed in her friend’s footsteps, content to remain as close to anonymity as her lack of dowry permitted. Of course, questions were still whispered behind unfolded fans. Was she unattached? Was she a danger to the prospects of the season’s hopefuls? Had Sofia Alexandrovna more to offer than her connection to the Rostovs whose failing fortune was not entirely a secret?

Her engagement to Nikolai not being a matter of public record, a cord of fear was struck in the hearts of mothers with daughters to wed; men had been known to choose a pretty face over family ties and fortune every now and again. And Sofia Alexandrovna had beside the freshness of her youth, a certain beauty; perhaps understated, for in the company of her cousin she remained mostly in the shadow. But observed on her own, she remained a perfectly suitable candidate for some men to lose their head over. And they were bound to take notice sooner or later.

That won Sonya no favours; had she but known it, she might have demurred, on account of lacking the slightest designs when it came to Moscow’s bachelors. But that was fully expected and could have hardly served to prove her innocence in the eyes of her rivals. As was, her attention squarely on Natasha, Sonya had neither opportunity, nor inclination to interest herself about her own standing. Even had she known, she could not very well have blurted out her heart had long since been given away. Not until his parents had accepted Nikolai’s choice, in any event. And that, she feared, would have to wait.

Le terrible dragon, full of vigour, set about brining both Natasha and herself to such acquaintances as she valued. An objective observer would have hit upon the older woman’s partiality to the young Natasha at a glance. Sonya, however, considered it simply her cousin’s due and smiled to see her so admired and approved of. Unfortunately, neither hide, nor hair of the elusive old Prince Bolkonsky or his daughter graced the entertainment of their hosts, which naturally meant they could not proceed with the desired introductions which had bought them to Moscow to begin with.

Still, one made do.

Retreating to the edges of the grand ballroom, she watched the brave and curious alike skirt their way to Natasha, engaging her in conversation; officers and peers put their name down on her card, matrons kindly remarked on her excellent looks and young ladies sighed with envy. Sonya bit back a proud smile, lowering her head so it wouldn’t be noted.

Before she could contemplate that triumph for too long a time, however, Papa joined her, gently touching his fingers to her elbow. “Dear girl, why are you hiding over here when you should be dancing?” She looked up into his smiling face with a blush and pointed out that she would need a partner. “Nothing easier!”

As though summoned by those words, Marya Dmitryevna appeared on the arm of a tall officer. “Here she is; lovely, you’ll agree,” the matron was saying, much to Sonya’s chagrin. The stranger’s eyes raked over her with vague interest as the matron performed the introduction with all the aplomb of a general on the battlefield, before fairly throwing Sonya into his arms with a jolly, “She dances like an angel.”

There could not have been a less subtle ploy. Reddening to the roots of her hair, she glanced away from the shrewd eyes studying her then with sudden renewed attention. “I should very much enjoy a dance, if mademoiselle is agreeable.”

She could not very well deny him. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she found herself answering, holding out her card, which he filled in promptly with a regretful admission that the next set he’d been promised to another and it would not do to throw her over even if her own enchanting beauty beckoned. Sonya had merely allowed he must do his duty, hoping the flush in her cheeks had settled.

“Well done,” Marya Dmitryevna congratulated her with a conspiratorial air. “You know, he is quite the catch. And handsome, you’ll agree.” Sonya did agree that he was a prepossessing young man, but as to his being a fine catch, she could not settle on an appropriate answer. Not that le terrible dragon took notice. “There are a few more suitable young men, but for now, they are partnered.”

Half-wishing she could dissuade the woman from further efforts on her behalf, Sonya looked beseechingly to Papa. He gave her a benign smile, pretending perhaps not to notice her distress. She’d known, of course, that he was much in agreement with his wife over the marital prospects of his son, but she had been hoping he might prove more lenient than he evidently was. “Both my dear girls are quite the success,” he said with obvious self-satisfaction. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, Sonya forced herself to smile at the compliment.

Her prospective partner came to retrieve her in due course and despite herself, Sonya found she quite enjoyed dancing with him. He was a lively conversationalist and rather light on his feet despite his size. More to the point, his attention, while polite, did not escape the bounds of propriety.

At an interval, he led her to the refreshments table, saying on the heels on an earlier remark, “Of course, I had heard about you even before.”

“You have?” She admitted to some surprise. “All to the well, I hope.”

“Only the best.” He smiled affably, selecting a drink of her choosing and passing it into her waiting hands. Sonya ventured to feed her curiosity, questioning his sources. At that, he chuckled. “I should not say. But let us take it that we have a common acquaintance.” He would reveal no more.

In the end, they separated on the most amiable of terms, with him handing her over to the care of Papa who had another candidate at the ready in whose arms to push her. Between himself and Marya Dmitryevna, her night was filed with dancing and gaiety, almost enough that she forgot her the strangeness of the comments she’d received.

Sonya slept ill that night.

In spite of her moderate success and a number of pretty posies shared between herself and Natasha, Sonya received no callers, much to Papa’s dismay. But he resolved, and told her as much, to make it his mission to find her a suitable match, at which point Marya Dmitryevna loudly proclaimed she would herself scour the ranks of bachelors in search of a worthy suitor. Sonya was hardly at liberty to gainsay either Papa or her hostess. Instead, she lowered her head and gave her concentration to the food on her plate at breakfast.

Natasha drew her aside after they’d escaped the dining room and cooed softly, “Don’t mind them. They’ll see soon enough there is no winning you over and give up the scheme.” A delicate hand squeezed her shoulder encouragingly. “Papa knows there is only Nikolenka in your heart, just like there is only Andrei in mine.” She had taken to calling young Prince Bolkonsky in such familiar terms when in privacy. “He just needs a bit of time to grow used to it.”

Sonya did not point out the family had had years to accustom themselves to the idea. “Thank you.” She clasped Natasha’s other hand in her own. “You are the best sister I could have asked for.”

The other bussed her cheek gently and cajoled her into setting aside her sorrows. “We could go for a walk in the park. A bit of air is just the thing to lift one’s mood.”

Laughing, Sonya pointed out the miserable weather. “It’s been snowing since yestereve.”

“And what’s a bit of snow to us?” Natasha chortled, clearly unwilling to give up her notion.

Papa would not attend them, but a maid and servant were considered more than sufficient for such a brief and informal outing. The servant would drive the troika and the maid would keep an eye on her charges.

They made short work of preparations and travel was accomplished with the least fuss. Natasha strut about with the confidence of youthful love fulfilled, while Sonya, as ever, trailed in her wake, wondering whether her chance at happiness might come soon. Waiting was wearisome business and in her weaker moments, she found herself rather saddened by it. It would have been much easier had Nikolenka insisted on marriage rather than avowing his affection, but he had his duties.

“I did not tell you,” Natasha started in a chipper voice, as they made for the line of trees, “but Andrei writes that he might return as soon as a month hence. Isn’t it wonderful?”

He might not arrive however. Whenever Prince Bolkonsky seemed poised to return something inevitably came up. Sonya made no mention of it, hating to spoil her sister’s mood. “Of course it is,” she answered, furtively taking a look over her shoulder. Marya Dmitryevna’s servants watched them. Assured of their continued safety, Sonya turned back Natasha’s way and picked up her skirts, wading through the thick snows to catch up to her. “What shall you do when he arrives and sees you surrounded by admirers?” she teased in a bid to light her own mood.

Natasha’s full-throated laugh indicated she understood the words for a jest. “I shall push aside all others and run into his arms. We’ll make quite the spectacle of ourselves and his family will have to concede there can be no further delays. Oh, I wish everyone were as happy as I am!”

Smiling absently, Sonya spared a thought for Nikolenka’s own letter. She had thought it unusually brief and so pithy as to be downright cold; the sort of missive one addressed an acquaintance. But he was hale, and otherwise well and if his mood was low, then Sonya had to think of something that might cheer him. Perhaps if Prince Bolkonsky truly put in an appearance, then she could write to him with the good news. If not, well she would simply have to find something else. Squaring her shoulders, she advanced in Natasha’s footsteps until the both of them stood at the peak of the hill, staring down at the rest of the world from on high.

Her sisters shot her a mischievous smile before cupping her hands around her mouth and quite literary shouting out, “Andrei, hurry back; I miss you!”

“Natasha!” Sonya gasped, her surprise turning into laughter. “You cannot do that!”

“Of course I can. The wind will carry my message and he’ll be back in no time. You’ll see.” Her elbow jostled playfully into Sonya’s side. “You should try it.”

“I couldn’t.” Her sister would not let her be however. Her lips were still quirked in a smile as her hands made the climb. “Nikolai, be safe!” Sonya felt her face flame. “I miss you.” Those words were only a whisper much to Natasha’s disgust who insisted the wind would never pick that up. “It’s of no consequence. He will come back when God wills it.” She simply had to hope it would be soon.

They made their way down the snowy incline, hand in hand. The two of them returned home with smiling faces and prettily flushed cheeks.

Marya Dmitryevna had promised them to a tea party later in the day and they could not afford to be late.

It was at that engagement that she first heard the whispers. Sonya had been minding her own cup of tea, content to listen to the talk of Natasha’s circle, despite the lack of interest she had in it, when a conversation taking place just behind her caught her attention.

“You should have seen him. Bold as a brass button, dressed up in that peculiar manner.” The words sounded suspiciously breathless, as though it were praise and not the complaint such phrasing would usually imply. “Dolokhov the Persian.”

Sonya’s spine stiffened involuntarily. She tried to reason with herself that it could be another man and not the one she thought of, but the boldness, the thrill he inspired. She chewed her lower lip, darting a sidelong glance at her sister who seemed altogether oblivious and in no need of her contribution. She concentrated on hearing the two women speaking behind her.

“–heard that he keeps wild company and they are up at all hours of the night haunting the streets and causing mischief. Prince Vasily’s son is amongst their number.” A faint hint of disapproval could be heard just beneath the fascination.

“I should like to see them together. Just think of the striking picture.”

Standing abruptly, Sonya excused herself. She caught a questioning glance from Natasha but merely shook her head in response as she made her way into the cooler hallway. Leaning back against the wall, she took a moment to breathe deeply. Fyodor Ivanovich, in Moscow and up to his old tricks. She had naturally dismissed him from his thoughts that dreadful day when circumstances forced her to injure his pride. Sonya had not expected they would ever cross paths again. For a moment, she recalled the angry glare of his eyes as they flashed down at her from within that strange face of his. To think he’d left so deep an impression.  

Then it occurred to Sonya she was making mountains out of molehills. He would not remember her; certainly, there must have been many loves in his life during the years which passed since their last meeting. She hoped he’d found what he’d been looking for. Though she could not accept his proposal, Sonya was not entirely insensitive to honour and the credit it did him to have picked her to begin with. She’d in no way invited his affection, but that did not change the disinterested gift she’d had in them.

The door creaked open and Natasha’s head poked into the hallway. Pinpointing Sonya, she moved all the way without and shut the party behind her. “What’s the manner? Do you feel ill?”

Suddenly, Sonya felt very foolish. “Just a tad lightheaded,” she fibbed, colour gathering in her cheeks.

“You look flushed,” Natasha noted. “Perhaps we should find a quiet room?”

“Engaged?” Anatole’s voice thinned with surprise. “No; that is too droll. Hear that, Fyodor?”

Fyodor, who’d been testing the sharpness of his knife against a bit of fruit, looked up from his task with supreme indifference. “What of it?” If Prince Andrei Bolkonsky was minded to marry, he should get on with it and leave the rest of the world to their amusements instead of making a song and dance about it whilst parading his intended about Moscow.

Anatole, whose strength did not lie in following through with anything, unless it were a bit of mischief, had already turned his attention back to Nemkhov. “Well, go on. Who is she? Tell us what you know.”

“A chit by the name of Rostova,” Mikhail Nemkhov drawled with slow deliberation.

The familiar name caused Fyodor to look up again, the blade of his knife cutting through the plump flesh of the fruit and into his own thumb. He hardly noticed the sting. Nemkhov was staring at him with a knowing look. “Come again?” he questioned just as Anatole declared he found the name familiar. Droplets of blood fell onto his garb.

Their friend shrugged. “Perhaps Fyodor can tell you more; he is acquainted with Countess Rostova far better than I.” Mikhail grinned. That bastard had known exactly what he was about. “I only danced with her mousy cousin. Pretty thing, if a bit shy.”

“Wait!” Anatole sat up sharply. He glanced from Mikhail to Fyodor. “The Rostovs. A cousin? I know this story.” He chuckled, then shook his head. “Didn’t Count Rostov’s son gamble the family’s fortune?”

“He did.” Another smile, full of meaning. “Although, I am willing to bet Fyodor would have been gladder still had that puppy gambled something else.” The knife slammed down against the table. Fyodor met the officer’s stare without blinking. “Now, now; it’s all in the past, isn’t it?”

Tense silence answered. Anatole, eager to learn the details, ignored the drop in the mood. “What is in the past?”

The wound Sofia Alexandrovna had inflicted upon him throbbed somewhere deep within his chest. Fyodor steeled himself against the painful reminder. “It’s nothing worth mentioning.” She was in Moscow. He could see her again; a thing he both longed for and dreaded in equal measure.

“Oh?” Mikhail made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Then you won’t be interested to know her family is attempting to set her up with, well, I suppose anyone who will have her.” So, Rostov hadn’t married her; that blighter.

“Well, that’s just plain rude. Won’t someone tell me what is going on?” Anatole intervened, his patience well and truly at an end.

Fyodor leaned back in his seat. “I once courted Countess Rostova’s cousin. It was long ago,” he said pointedly, directing the last bit Mikhail’s way. “Before Persia,” he added for Anatole’s benefit.

“Practically a lifetime ago.” That had come from Mikhail. “You should see the way le terrible dragon tows her about. She’s not yet dropped her into some unsuspecting chap’s lap, but it’s not a far-off thing.”

The sheer indignity of the image those words conjured seared against the dignified picture Sofia Alexandrovna’s mere name invoked. He could feel the downward pull of his mouth and feared he was giving too much away already.

“Happy hunting to her; but it’s the countess that interests me. Prince Andrei’s countess.” Leave it to Anatole to unwittingly steer the conversation into safer waters. His smallness of mind made it impossible for him to comprehend that one could love a creature when it remained out of sight. The past had no bearing upon the present as far as he was concerned.

At such times, his simplicity was a blessing. Fyodor stood, unwilling to listen to their prattle. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a generous glass of wine, mind dredging up a list of tedious society gatherings where he could expect to find the woman. He took a gulp of his drink, pushing the sound of conversation to the edge of awareness.

Mikhail had called her pretty with the same blindness of men incapable of seeing beyond the surface of a thing. Fyodor supposed then that she had not changed in the essentials. She was still the same. That bode ill. If he saw her, the want would grow be seemed with teeth as it had been in those first days. Weeks. Months. He shuddered at the memory and drank deeper from his cup, even knowing it could be no earthly use to him.    

Once Anatole had had his fill of tales and Mikhail had nothing more of use to give, they decided between the two of them that an outing to the theatre was swiftest way to satisfy whatever remaining curiosities had not been covered by the ample descriptions abounding. Fyodor was to be dragged with them. He almost refused; but his pride would not let him surrender altogether. Thank God for that. The one thing standing between him and perdition was that pride. It had dragged him through the muddy, bloody fields of battle, spurring him on.

Perhaps it was not as he thought. Perhaps once he saw her again, it would seem to him a dream that he’d once felt strongly about Sofia Alexandrovna. Fyodor acquiesced to the proposed evenings, only too glad when talk turned to the subject of cards.

Slowly, his guard lowered. 

Before long, the three of them had set off on search of true entertainment and found it at the bottom of a bottle, as per usual when they ended up at the club. Cards were played. Fortunes were lost and made. Fyodor kept his head clear, carefully avoiding any reminder of the recent upheaval. He thought, absently, that he might pay his mother a visit; he’d not been by for an entire week and she might wonder at the absence.

Because he’d not cared to apply himself, he lost a few hundred roubles by the time the table broke up.

That did not concern him in the least.     

He slept off his excesses and woke about midday into the new day with an odd pain in his chest. Foreboding perchance.

Fyodor shook the feeling away contemptuously. By the time he had stepped inside the theatre he’d even convinced himself it had been the drink to do him a bad turn.

He noted Sofia Alexandrovna at once, as though her mere presence were a magnet. Beacon of goodness that she was, the angelic white of her frock suited her admirably, right along with the innocent expression on her face. Despite himself, he admired the magnificent column of her throat adorned with one simple silver chain, thinking with dismay that time had done nothing to alter her in the slightest. She was whispering with her cousin, leaning close. Her hand touched the countess’ shoulder in a warm manner and they shared a smile. Old Count Rostov caught her attention and thereby Fyodor’s. The man spoke a few words in her ear and Sofia Alexandrovna turned a pretty red, the blush splashing down her open rounded neckline.

“That one with the curls,” Anatole spoke in a breathy manner which more than likely meant he found much to like in the countess’ person, “jolie femme, charmante petite.” He only ever spoke of women in French, knowing no other way. Indeed, to his mind there could be no higher compliment.

Fyodor spared Natalya Ilyinichna a glance. Showy bloom, the young countess had set out to charm and, in her turn, be charmed, which gave her mouth a certain bent. Her dark curls had been swept so they might frame her slender face. “I do not find so,” he found himself saying in answer to Anatole’s exuberance.

Mikhail bit back something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but had no opinion of his own to contribute. “The one sitting by her is the cousin. The one I danced with.”

That brought Anatole’s attention to Sofia Alexandrovna. He studied her a moment with all the gravity reserved for such judgements and pronounced himself astonished. “The little, thin one?” He must have caught Fyodor’s frown because he made a vague gesture with his hand; something like a peace offering. “Yes, I know. You were in love with that one.”

“Don’t talk about her,” he retorted, voice low so as to not be overheard.

Anatole chuckled. “I can hardly think to find such women, qui ne veulent pas de nous, quand nous voulons d’elles?”

That was all the scapegrace knew after all. Want. Fyodor pressed his lips tightly together, swallowing back any words crowding on the tip of his tongue. He’d not merely wanted her; infantile desire was the least of ingredients in the potent brew that was whatever he felt for the woman. Looking at her, perched high above, in that box, brilliant, out of reach, he scowled. If it were that easy, he’d have excised her from his heart in the arms of any number of lovers.

“Should you like to know something of her?” Mikhail offered, the devil in his grin.

“Leave her be,” Fyodor warned in a steely manner.

His eyes involuntarily searched her out again.

She was looking back. Her fan, half-open, trembled. A start of guilt crept in her gaze. He suspected she’d been watching them for the past few moments, but could not guess why. Her lips drew in a brief pout before they relaxed into a more neutral line. The fan opened fully. It beat a lazy rhythm. Her eyes were still on them, a mixture of curiosity and benign pity on full display.   

He continued to stare up at her, unwilling to release her gaze despite the general hush indicating the curtain had been raised. He half-heard Anatole excuse himself. He’d seen his sister and seeing as Eros was a cruel master, he hastened to her in hopes of securing an introduction. Fyodor would have no part of that. Mikhail followed right along, which suited him just fine.

In due course, Hélène had the young countess in her power and at the mercy of Anatole flirtation. Fyodor’s only concern was the frown on Sofia Alexandrovna’s face as she watched the neighbouring box, her eyes no longer on him.

He suspected true wisdom would have been to sit up and leave then and there without taking one single look back. He had managed it once, in the Rostov’s cheerful parlour, filled with rage. Mortified that his devotion should count for naught. He wondered if she ever thought about it. If she ever experienced even a moment’s regret. A twinge would be more than enough to gratify him.

To think he could be satisfied with as little as being a mere regret where he’d once wanted her heart, to burrow himself deep into her soul, to embrace her light for his own. Acerbically, he thought of all the warning poets had given against the venal Jezebels of the world when the biggest danger was the Penelopes quietly and endlessly weaving funeral shrouds.

Sofia Alexandrovna turned to the count. She tapped his wrist gently, whispered and shook her head. Whatever she’d said was met with a dismissive smile. Her shoulders lowered ever so slightly before her posture corrected itself. Mantled in dignity, she directed her gaze towards the stage where singers treaded the boards and gave him a fair view of her profile, which Fyodor meant to commit to memory.    

From time to time, she would shift in her seat and glance down his way, the only sign that his scrutiny had not gone unnoticed. For his part, Fyodor was only too glad for those brushes of acknowledgement. It was the most he would have of her, whatever his wishes.

The evening came to an end all too soon.

Fyodor was obliged to put up with Anatole’s rapturous outbursts. He’d heard all he wanted and more about the beauty, sweetness and gentle lamblike innocence of Countess Rostova. Considering his companion was about as careful of innocent misses as wolves were of lambs, he did not doubt the display simply meant Anatole had well and truly fixated on the girl. Mikhail had parted from them about halfway through the address.

“And what is best; she took to me so well.”

“I doubt Prince Bolkonsky would agree with the assessment.” Fyodor spared his foolish little pawn a searching look.   

“Pah! Bolkonsky.” Anatole grimaced. “He’s been gone so long that I’m certain she’s forgotten his face. All the more reason to offer her comfort.”

“Is that what you are about? Just remember, squiring her about does not require she bed you in payment,” he commented drily.

Affronted, Anatole slapped his shoulder. “Really, Fyodor! Don’t be crass. She’ll bed me because she’s out of her mind with want.”

How was that for crass? “If you’re quite certain; although do recall she is a countess and has a betrothed. As good as married.” Sparing him another glance, he pointed out one further impediment. “And you already are married.”

“Oh, do not trouble me with such details; I tell you I love this woman above all others.” Somewhere in the countryside, a plump-cheeked young Polish bride was waiting for the return of her husband. Fyodor almost pitied her. But then she’d lifted her skirts easily enough when Anatole revealed his title. “We were meant for one another. Can you understand?”

“For a sennight?” he quipped. “Or perhaps longer. Say, a fortnight.”

Far from being upset at having such a flaw uncovered, Anatole laughed. “You are a cynic, Fyodor Ivanovich. Perhaps it is why that little thing of yours would not have you. Did you perchance speak to her of fortnights and sennights when proposing?”

He could have easily pushed Anatole into the snows on the wayside. Balaga would drive on if he willed it. Instead, he grabbed the other around the back of the neck, holding fast. “I told you not to speak of her.” Dull as he was, even Anatole perceived the need to tread lightly.

“I was speaking of you rather.”

Fyodor released him. “You may do what you wish to Countess Rostova. But if I hear mention of Sofia Alexandrovna on your lips again, you will not like the consequences.”

Anatole shook his head in confusion. “I did not mean to touch a nerve.” He did not linger overlong upon the matter. “You must help me come up with something that will turn the countess’ heart to me; you’ve a way with words.”

His command of languages was no better and no worse than that of many an officer who’d received instructions in his lifetime. It was rather that Anatole was too simple for words. His prose, when he chose to employ it, could be counted on as possibly the dullest thing committed to paper. Fortunately for him, most women did not require pretty speeches. One look at his face tended to be enough.  

“I thought you’d won her over already,” he answered tartly, in no great mood.

“It is a near thing; she merely requires a further sliver of persuasion.”

Countess Bezukhova had taken a keen interest in Natasha. Sonya felt some way about it, she simply did not know which yet. Eyeing the letter in her lap, she attempted to drive the worry away and told herself that just because she was not included in the countess’ little outing there was no need to be uncharitable. Only, she and Natasha had shared everything, for years and years. Nikolenka’s scribbled words squiggled on the paper, making it impossible to read. His hand was very careless indeed.

Sonya bent her entire powers of understanding over those few lines. There had been an impromptu ball. Their hostess had been very kind, allowing her daughters to dance with the officers. She felt her lips curl indulgently. That was not kindness. But Nikolenka sang the praise of one Alyona Eliseevna. Ironically, the statuesque golden beauty called to mind Countess Bezukhova. It seemed the whole world conspired to unsettle her. Her smile flattened.

It was not a lover-like note. It was not even addressed to her, she did not think. Not truly. Those were Nikolenka’s thoughts spilling out in ink.

Why had he seen fit to send her such a thing?

Because, her mind supplied helpfully, he was not a heartless monster.

In truth she knew what it meant. She had always known, had she not? Well, perhaps not always. But certainly, she had known when he’d hurried off to rejoin his regiment. She saw it when Papa’s eyes flickered across her face with that sense of pity and dread. She’d guessed it in old Countess Rostova’s sighs. Nikolenka was torn between his promise to her and the wishes of his family.

A terrible, dreadfully dull ache settled in her chest. She was the reason they quarrelled. She was the reason he could not turn his attention to the business of reclaiming the family fortune. And yet, Nikolenka had made her the promise.

Sonya put the missive away, along with every other note he’d written her. She stood and walked to the window, staring out into street below. One of the housemaids was skipping along, clutching something to her chest. She watched the girl disappear around the corner.

The world carried on. She ought to do likewise. Sonya sighed and fiddled with the cross at her neck. “I think perhaps I shall take a walk,” she whispered to the empty air. There was no one to answer her, so utterly alone was she.

Marya Dmitryevna acceded to her wishes when she proposed a short walk. “But mind that you don’t take too long.” She had been convening with Papa and her interruption seemed to put the both of them on edge.

Sonya took her leave of them with some apprehension. But in such talks she had no word to say and rightly so. It was for them to decide and for her to follow. The troika took off at a leisurely pace and Sonya huddled in the furs to stave off the cold, driving all worries from her head.

Like Natasha had taught her, she climbed the sloping hill, losing herself as much as one could when watched, among the trees. Unlike her sister, she did not yell out her worries and wishes. Instead, she sat down upon a convenient boulder, and spoke to the air once more. “I wish I knew what to do. How to feel. Natasha is always in company with the countess. I cannot ask her.”

Could she have asked if they were together?

The immediate answer was a resounding rejection. Because Natasha’s dark eyes would fill with warmth and she would simply say that Nikolenka loved her. That she need make no sacrifice. They would find some way to make do.

She truly ought to give him up. The realisation stabbed at her tender heart. Sonya felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Wet tracks ran down her cheeks. She wiped away the evidence of her distress. If she had great wealth and great beauty, she would have made it as difficult for him to leave her as it was for her to renounce all claim. Sonya sniffled. She stood and shook out her skirts. Then slowly, she picked her way down the slope until she’d reached the servants and the troika.

Heavily, she settled herself for the ride back, tugging at the furs which offered no warmth against the chill within her heart. All the same, she found herself before familiar gates before long, noting that Natasha too had returned. She could see the countess’ carriage waiting for its mistress.

Stepping out of the conveyance, Sonya made her way within, passing by the parlour from within which the sound of voices drifted. She heard the clear tone of Natasha’s laughter and despite herself smiled. Her sister’s mood would be a pleasant one and that gave her some comfort. Sonya took the steps to the upper floor two at a time.

Her own bedchamber welcomed her with open arms. She sat down in her favourite chair, reaching for Nikolenka’s letters which she kept in a box upon the table. Taking the whole lot from the top, she began reading through them once more. Sonya paid particular mind to the early turns of phrase and the interests on display. She came to the startling conclusion that Alyona Eliseevna was only one in a long line of lovely daughters and sisters he’d come across.

And so his predication, or promise, came to pass; Nikolenka found something to love in every charming woman that crossed his path.  

The threat of defeat loomed. Sonya bit her tongue against its aggressive urging that she give up; give in and admit she’d never had his heart.

One last chance. One last opportunity to make or break her view. She would await word from him. If he continued in the same vein as before, she would cleanly break their bond and set him free. She would allow Marya Dmitryevna to coax her into a marriage of her choosing and burden him no longer. That seemed fair to her.

The lines had been drawn. She settled in for the long wait.

Some hours had passed before soft knocking at the door jolted her out of that trance. Sonya jumped in her seat. To her relief, however, it was only Natasha at the door. “Have you been up here all along?”

“Yes,” Sony answered somewhat distractedly. She stood. “My head was a bit sore.”

Natasha frowned and stepped fully within, making her way to Sonya. “Perhaps you are coming down with something.” She pressed her palm to a cool forehead. “That feels normal to me.”

“I am well.” The only ailment she suffered from was a disappointed heart and that was not likely to cause a fever. “Truly, you must not mind me. Tell me how your outing with the countess went.”

Her sister’s cheeks glowed with colour. She stammered out a doubtful “Good,” before she brought her hands together before her. “It was not as I’d expected. I wish you could have been there as well.”

The admission soothed Sonya. She touched a hand to Natasha’s arms and smiled sweetly. “The countess seems to have taken to you. I can spare you for a few hours; after all, you return here, do you not?” They giggled together, giddy for some undefinable reason. Something in the air, might be.

All through supper, Natasha presented herself preoccupied. Marya Dmitryevna’s conversation more often than not fell flat against a wall of indifference from her favourites quarter and it fell to Sonya to pick up the mantle. Having neither Natasha’s exuberance nor her hostess’ interest, she was tolerated, but she felt, never truly wished for. In short, the exercise gave Sonya some impression of having caused grief to the woman.

Still, supper passed and they retreated to their bedchambers for an early lay-in.

On Sunday, they were treated to Mass. Marya Dmitryevna took them all to the Church of the Assumption; the one which had been built on the graves of plague victims. Thick beeswax candles burned in sconces, but they were not enough to drive away the smell of the burning common wax, which fouled the air. Sonya prayed for peace and clarity of mind; she prayed for Natasha, Nikolenka and her benefactors. She even prayed for Marya Dmitryevna.

They returned to the house, which had been the previous day scrubbed clean by the servants. They took their coffee or tea in the dining room. Sonya was glad to see everyone in their festive best. It brought some cheer to the household even under the auspices of its stern mistress. Even le terrible dragon evinced something of solemn merriment upon the occasion before leaving them, ostensibly to pay a visit.

A bit later, a seamstress appeared, which prompted Sonya to quit the drawing room where she had been sitting with Natasha and Papa, lest the man, stirred by pity, decided she needed new dresses just as well as his daughter. She was thus only vaguely aware they received a visitor and learned they were to join Countess Bezukhova at her house for an evening of recitation. Natasha seemed very pleased. Papa less so. Marya Dmitryevna advised against forging too close a bond with that particular set frequenting the countess’ drawing room, but allowed it would do for one night’s distraction. One got the feeling her expedition to the old prince’s had been quite effectively trounced.

They did not dwell on the defeat.

By the beginning of that evening, Sonya had managed to array herself decently. She’d opted to let Natasha have the undivided attention of the maidservant they shared, for she looked very much taken with the opportunity whereas Sonya herself did not particularly care, harkening closer to Marya Dmitryevna’s words than even she knew. She wore the silver-white gown and treaded a blue ribbon through her hair so it would match her cloak.

As ever, she finished her preparations before Natasha and went into the other’s bedchamber to see whether she might aid in any way. Her sister had selected a peach gown that almost perfectly matched the tone of her skin, making it seen almost as though cloth and flesh had fused together. Sonya marvelled at the effect, privately wondering if it was not too daring a choice. But then the charm could not be overstated.

“What do you think?” Natasha demanded, giving her an exuberant twirl. “I shall not put our kind hostess to the blush by being a sad dowd at her own entertainment, shall I?”

“Not you,” Sonya laughed, somewhat surprised to find the countess’ opinion counted so heavily. “It is a pity Prince Bolkonsky cannot see you now, for he would fall in love all over again.” Natasha threw her a heated look which Sonya thought held something of resentment. “Forgive me, I should not bring him up when you miss him so.”

Murmuring something beneath her breath, her sister forced a smile back onto her lips. “Think of it no further.”

They proceeded downstairs arm-in-arm and Papa admired them excessively, declaring that all of Moscow was in danger of falling into their thrall. He probably meant Natasha more than herself, but Sonya still found her cheeks heating with the compliment. She followed along into the carriage which Marya Dmitryevna had put at their disposal and resolved to have as good a time as she possibly could.

Countess Bezukhova had amassed quite a collection of guests. Almost at once Natasha had been swept away by their hostess brother. Sonya looked about; she knew almost no one and for a while it seemed she would have to make do with only Papa for company before a soft cough from behind caught her attention. Sonya glanced over her shoulder, meeting the steadfast gaze of a handsome officer. “Mikhail Savinovich,” she greeted with no small degree of pleasure, happy to have found a familiar face at last.

“Sofia Alexandrovna, shall we take a tour about the room?” He held his hand out to her in silent invitation. Papa gave his consent with a smile, somewhat preoccupied with watching Natasha. He’d led her some distance away, cajoling her into conversation before he asked, quite suddenly, “Have you figured out who our common acquaintance is? The one I’ve heard of you from, that is.” She coloured, knowing precisely of whom he spoke. Her eyes drifted about, as if in search of the man. “He is not here.”

Sonya touched a hand to her heated cheek. “It is unkind to tease.”

“But very entertaining.” The officer gave her a friendly smile. She supposed then that he intended her no harm. Gradually, he led her into a circle, putting her once more at ease with inconsequent remarks. He introduced her about before they sat down for the recital.

Sonya found Mademoiselle George a curious creature and could not say she enjoyed the performance above anything else. From time to time, her eyes slid to Natasha who was whispering with Prince Kuragin. She felt some unease at their obvious closeness, but it was clear that the man had set himself to be as charming as he possibly could. Perhaps he was on good terms with Prince Bolkonsky and sought to bolster Natasha. 

An impromptu ball broke out after the recital and despite both herself and Papa wishing they might depart; Natasha was adamant that they stay. Sonya agreed reluctantly, finding herself swept away by Mikhail Savinovich once more and quite lost track of Natasha. By the end of the night, however, it was clear the outing had done very well by her sister.

Given the lateness of their return, Sonya slept well into the coming day.

When she woke it was to a salver upon which rested a letter. Hope bloomed in her chest. Her heart hammered away fit to burst its cage. With trembling fingers, she opened it, eyes barely able to make out the contents. Gradually, the letters arranged themselves into some semblance of reasonable strings of statements. She shivered.

Laden arms lowered the burden of insights she’d been hoping not to gain. Sonya bit into her lower lip, feeling for all the world as though she’d been plunged into the depths of an icy river. Numbness overtook her. She looked about the chamber with unseeing eyes. Choking down a whimper, she jumped to her feet.

She needed Natasha.

Sonya rapped discreetly on the door of the adjoining chamber. She poked her head within, noting with some regret that her sister slept. Perhaps she could wait by her. With that thought she entered more fully and closed the door soundlessly in her wake. Approaching Natasha’s bed, she noted a small note by the other’s head. A strip of paper really. Reaching out, she thought to move it to the table. In truth, Sonya had not intended to read the words, but somehow one glance turned into a stare and before she knew it, a gasp escaped her lips as they sparked off the page and fair leapt at her. Once she was done, she found herself trembling all over.

Slowly, her mind pieced together those bits which had puzzled her for the past few days.

But that could not be. It was a mistake. Nothing more. Sonya dropped the note and retreated to her own bedchamber.

Perhaps she ought to watch for a little while. Just to see what Prince Kuragin was about. A moment’s madness was excusable after all. He’d seen Natasha and lost his head. Many a man might; she was mighty pretty and had a way about her.

Sonya had fully convinced herself she was exaggerating the issue by the time she’d slipped beneath the covers. Some rest was bound to shift her perspective.

Fyodor rolled his wrist languidly. It was to be hoped Countess Rostova would not keep Anatole waiting for much longer. He did not know for how long he could endure the hours and hours of praise he sung her and frankly Fyodor had also grown rather tired of composing letters for the chit. No one could possibly know those words were meant for another, yet all the same, taking of himself and pressing it forth in such a fraudulent manner had begun to rankle.

He wondered idly if the countess shared her correspondence with Sofia Alexandrovna, but seeing as Anatole’s missives continued to be passed into her hands, he rather thought not. That one would not stand for it.

“This will do admirably,” Anatole commented on his latest efforts. “If she doesn’t relent now, she never will. However do you come up with these things?”

“A healthy dose of imagination,” he stated drily. Perhaps if Anatole bothered to crack open a book every now and again along with his wine bottle, he too might develop a knack for such things. Or not; it was impossible to measure the potential of one so shallow. A puddle had more depth. And yet he had his uses. “You understand women like her will require more than a promise, do you not?” The Polish girl had fallen easily enough and were it not for her father might have been content with just such a promise of undying love as Anatole planned to make his countess.

“No priest would marry us,” Anatole laughed. “Leastwise not for what I have in mind alone.”

If there was a God, Fyodor rather thought He should have struck Anatole down long ago. It was a wonder the stench of sulphur and brimstone did not follow him around and that he could enter churches unhindered. “Not so; some might be willing to perform the ceremony. For a price.”

Why exactly was he aiding? Perhaps to demonstrate to himself that in spite of his weakness where it came to the heart, he was otherwise unaffected by Sofia Alexandrovna. That was, of course, a lie. If she, by magic, appeared before him and asked that he cease, Fyodor knew he would throw Anatole over; maybe go as far as to stop him altogether. He looked down at his hands, as the other occupant of the chamber considered the possibilities.

“I suppose I could let her believe so; believe herself my wife for a time, at least. Do you suppose that might count with her people?” Anatole questioned.

Without bothering to explain it was highly illegal to deceive someone in the matter of marriage, particularly where it pertained to bigamy, Fyodor shrugged. “Very likely they will shut her off in the countryside when it is all over.” If they took her back, that was.

He contemplated the matter a moment. Count Rostov, old fool that he was, had enough heart to accept his daughter, even ruined, he imagined. Sonya would stand by her. Perhaps more than ever such a move would convince that foolish boy who called himself her lover to do the right thing and wed her; the one constant woman. Fyodor envied him the good fortune.

 “A country idyll. How appealing.”

By the time that happened Anatole would have long since moved on. While he was not a man of depth, speed was more to his taste. As soon as he’d had his fill of the countess, he would simply move to another flower of womanhood, never to look back. That Fyodor knew for a fact. Out of sight, out of mind; out of mind, out of existence; so it went with Anatole.

“You will need money,” he pointed out mildly.

“My sister has enough to spare. She’ll see me well settled.”

Countess Bezukhova had, it was true, quite the bottomless pit to draw from. But she would owe her husband some explanations if she set about gifting his money left and right. Fyodor stifled a yawn and wondered what Pyotr Kirillovich would make of the whole situation. The Rostovs were dear to his heart. Well, best not to learn of it until after Anatole little entertainment had been carried out or there would be hell to pay.

“You are quite certain?”

“I am! You should have seen her; she laughed and laughed when I told her how it was with me and Natasha. But she helped me out in the end and brought the lot of them over; even ta petite chérie, jolie fille. Mikhail kept her well entertained. He teased her a bit about you, truth to tell, and said she blushed red as you please.”

Unable to appreciate the delicious irony of his mere mention making the woman blush, he found himself instead dwelling on the fact that Anatole seemed intent on drawing Sofia Alexandrovna into his scheme. As good as his word, when later he sat down at the gaming table with Anatole, he made certain to cost him a pretty sum, to his complaint answering that, “Did I not tell you? You are not to speak of her.” They were quite private when he gave the reminder.

Anatole gave a little start. “I’d not thought you were quite so serious about it.” His shoulders rolled in a helpless shrug. “I’ll not make this mistake again. But do say you forgive me and I may yet count on your aid.”

“Keep Mikhail away from her and you have a deal.”

“Well, I can tell him, of course; but he likes a pretty face as much as the next man.”

Fyodor clenched his teeth. He could not very well knock Anatole upside the head no matter the temptation. “She is not for toying with. Tell him that.”

The other made a thoughtful sound. “Perhaps you ought to stake your claim, if you are that worried. Isn’t it the case the family is trying to marry her off?”

He grunted in answer. If he thought there was even the remotest chance she’d have him, Fyodor would have been prostrated at her feet that very minute. “One more thing; see that your debt with me is settled before you leave, won’t you?”

“You wound me!”

It did not stop their continued association.

In another day, he found himself setting out with Balaga, on the lengthy ride to Kamenka on behalf of Anatole who thought his plan a splendid one.

His acquaintances about the place welcomed him warmly, particularly Varya Alekseevna who clung to him for a good few moments. “I’ve not seen you in an age! Come in, come in; my father should return any minute now.” She stepped aside and ushered him over the threshold. Widowhood suited her admirably.

“Well met,” he returned in answer to her enthusiastic greeting.

“What brings you by?” Varya questioned, seating him down and setting to feeding him.

Between bites he enlightened her. “Business with your father.”

Aleksei Ivanovich returned with a thin layer of snow clinging to his hair and a face flushed with drink before Fyodor was done with the food and as such had good cause to join in. His daughter he sent away with a playful, “This is men’s talk. When I need the dishes scrubbed, I’ll call for you.” To see him, one could not credit he’d once been a priest. It took no small amount of money to convince him to accede; he would perform the marriage rite for Anatole but he warned it had no binding power.  

“That is just as well,” Fyodor commented. Intended bigamy carried a lesser sentence than actual bigamy.

He spent the night in the village, wrapped up in Varya’s arms for the low, low price of dispensable coins more out of habit than actual desire. She was warm and willing, panting softly in his ear as he went about getting his money’s worth. Her fingers brushed through his curls. “Who is Sofia?” she questioned, utterly unashamed. Fyodor almost jumped out of his damned skin. He stared into the dark, unable to make out her face. But Varya’s voice told him she was not offended. “Perhaps you should be in her arms instead of mine.”

Would that he were; Fyodor hissed through his teeth and rolled off of her. He owed her no explanation, so said naught and Varya did not pester him with questions, choosing instead to curl up against him and seek out sleep.

Despite the languor his release had brought, Fyodor did not find rest. If anything, the intrusion of that angelic figure into his villainous plans troubled him. As if she could actually see him. He pushed the worries down and spent yet another sleepless night dreaming about her with eyes wide open.

In the morning, he left at first light, not even waiting to break his fast. His Moscow rooms were cold, but the servants hurried about laying a fire and soon enough wine gushed down his throat, driving away the chill.   

Anatole dropped in by midday, full of questions. “Well, how did it go? Did you find the priest? Will he do it?” He answered in the affirmative. “Thank goodness; I cannot wait much longer. This night, I will see her at the opera again.”

The hapless scoundrel got precisely what he wished for in attending that evening, Fyodor, on the other hand, caught neither hide, nor hair of Sofia Alexandrovna and counted the trip a waste. He’d sent up one of his acquaintances enquiring as to her absence and saw that the countess looked to him with something like triumph from her seat when she finally tore herself away from Anatole long enough to observer her surroundings.

In due course, he learned that she’d not made the trip. Something about feeling ill and remaining at the mercy of Marya Dmitryevna.   

He considered leaving early, but Anatole could hardly be parted from his quarry and the few of his acquaintances present were very much aware of his enquiries, which meant he’d be giving himself away by a speedy retreat. So, Fyodor sat and allowed the evening’s show to wash over him without seeing or hearing much of anything. Mercifully, time did crawl by until at lengths the curtails had fallen and Moscow’s elite saw the necessity of finally taking the road home.

Anatole, true to his nature, was in raptures, detailing out the plans he had. “One letter more I need from you; that is all,” he was telling Fyodor. “Something to impress upon her the necessity of absolute secrecy. It is now or never!”

One letter more he did write. Fyodor put all his skill into dulling the language until all that remained were insincere scribbles of eternal adoration, deep, dark secrets and a hint of desperation. He called the pathetic and the disingenuous beats that lay in the hearts of all men, unleashed from the fetters of love and fed upon commonplace lust, it spilled into just such words women ripe for seduction longed to hear. He did not trouble to consider the natural results of his actions; he did not need to. The game was much too far afoot to be stopped then.   

He gave the missive to Anatole who perused it with a critical but eager eye. “Perfect! Even better than I imagined.”

Fyodor shuddered to think just what indescribably insipid formulation he could have come up with. “You will need witnesses for the ceremony. Anyone specific come to mind?”

“I thought you–“

“Alas, I already know of your marriage.” And he did not care to participate into the de facto ruination of the countess. While he cared little for the woman, there was nothing to be gained by making enemies of her family. “You’ve acquaintances enough who do not. Choose from their number.” 

Anatole thought a moment. “I have it! Makarka; he will be very glad to be of service.”

“That is one. Now you only need one more,” Fyodor commented acerbically. Any number of Countess Bezukhova’s set might do and since Anatole was to head that way, he might have considered it, but he did not say as much; a man ought to solve his own problems.

“I’ll think of someone.”

With that bit of optimism, Anatole departed for his sister’s, minded to share his good news with her. Fyodor was content to remain in his own apartments settling in for some well-needed rest. As to whether he was to get any, that remained very much in question.

Good wine kept him company on the road to perdition, giving him the appearance of relaxation if not its true effects. His mind twisted and turned the little he’d heard of Sofia Alexandrovna on all sides. Perhaps her illness was severe indeed. Perhaps it was naught but a headache. Women were prone to exaggeration. And yet, even knowing it could be nothing, something, anything, he still worried.

It occurred to him she might be trying to escape her family's overzealous attempts at matchmaking after a while. Subtle, they’d been not, what with parading her about. It was the lack of a dowry which proved the difficulty, he’d wager. Funnily enough, he found himself thinking that he’d go as far as to provide them a bride-price for the opportunity to be saddled with her for life, fool that he was.

He loved her and no mistake. If love it was; Fyodor grimaced, thinking the word far too polluted with the drivel of poets and imaginings of young fools. He lay in bed and allowed himself to drift off, thinking still of the adored woman. Because he’d not seen her, because he longed for her and she was on his mind, his dreams saw fit to summon the image of her.

It was a mere facsimile; Fyodor knew as much even as he dreamt of her smile beaming at him, her arms looping around his waist in welcome, her lips brushing over his in something he would have laughed to call a kiss had anyone else bestowed it.    

As it was his dream and he was master of the realm, Fyodor tugged the figment of his imagination closer, willing her to melt against him as mouth devoured hers, deepening the kiss until any trace of innocence was gone. Fistfuls of her skirts filled his hands. Her chest pressed against his.

The world broke apart in bits and pieces converging into the one being who cradled everything that mattered. Her hair the inky sky. Her eyes a glitter of stars. Her lips the softest petals. Her body unconquerable depths.

He woke alone, short of breath, lightheaded.

The grey dawn greeted his questing sight.

Fyodor sat up in one fluid motion, shaking his head so that he might dispel the feeling.

What he needed was some manner of distraction. Cards. Possibly a hefty win. He’d know once he sat down at the table. After Anatole’s scheme was underway, the Rostovs would doubtless flee Moscow. Sofia Alexandrova would, once more, be out of his life.     

His chest heaved with sudden panic. Fyodor welcomed it.

Sonya wrung her hands, helpless.

How could Natasha have spoken in such a way to her? Accuse her of not understanding love, called her heartless and cruel. If Papa were there, she might have applied to him for aid and comfort, but he’d gone to their estate with a prospective buyer. The thought of betraying Natasha’s confidences to Marya Dmitryevna filled Sonya with dread, taking away another prospective ally. Then there was Pyotr Kirillovich; but he might write Prince Bolkonsky and if Natasha had yet to do so, there was still chance to stop the madness. She could not apply to him.

Another possibility occurred to her; Nikolenka–Nikolai, rather, as she resolved to think of him. If she wrote, he would come. He would come for his sister’s sake. But that mean he would call Kuragin out. He might die. He might be badly injured or otherwise maimed. What she feared most, however, were recriminations. She could almost hear him asking why she’d not put an end to it sooner, why she had allowed Natasha to go on as she had.

Who else might she turn to?

Natasha would not listen whatever she said.

But what of Kuragin? The thought stopped her in her tracks. Sonya stared dumbly at the world outside. Could he be persuaded, cajoled? He was affable and gentle and wrote of his deep love for Natasha. He’d been swept away by passion. Perhaps if she explained; if she laid out the folly of his plan; Sonya felt her limbs animate with a mad impulse, as though she might run down the stairs and into the streets of Moscow, looking for the man.

Yes, that was what she had to do. The only question: how? She could not request that Marya Dmitryevna take her to him. She could not wait for Papa’s return either. There had been something in Natasha’s leave-taking earlier in the day which worried her. There was no time.

“Countess Bezukhova!” Sonya rasped with sudden realisation. She could arrange something discreet, yet not improper. Perhaps she knew of her brother’s amour and was just as anxious to prevent a scandal even as herself. If they worked together, it could all turn out well.

Breathless, trembling all over, she called up the maidservant she shared with Natasha. “I must be conveyed to Countess Bezukhova’s. At once. Discreetly.” Handing the girl a few coins, she explained, “No one must know. Especially not Marya Dmitryevna.”

The servant gave her a searching look, part mischief, part worry. She pocketed the offering, however and said, “The back porch. I can arrange for a troika.” She bobbed a curtsy and shot off, sprightly but somehow not giving the impression of hurry.

Sonya had bundled up in her cloak by the time the girl returned. She was smuggled out by the servants’ entrance, heart in her throat.

“What shall I tell them if they ask about you?” the servant enquired.

“That I am asleep and left word not to be woken.”

A troika awaited her just beyond the gate. The driver took one disinterest look at her before asking about directions. He drove slow along the plodding roads and Sonya could but hope the countess was not from home.

As it turned out, Countess Bezukhova was indeed at home, entertaining, as the woman’s servant severely announced with a look of utter contempt at Sonya. Doubtless, she was not dressed for the occasions. “I only ask for a moment of her time. It is most urgent,” she insisted, searching her reticule for something to give the man. 

She was led to a small chamber and told to wait.

The countess arrived after what seemed like a full lifetime. Decked out in her finery, she made an exquisite picture, even if her expression spoke of surprise. “My dear, what can have brought you here at this hour?”

“Forgive my rudeness, but I could not wait,” her voice cracked softly. Sonya fought to master her emotions. Under the countess’ scrutiny she did not quite manage it. “I have come about your brother and my cousin. I suspect they mean to elope.”

Silence met her frankly shocking declaration. Had Sonya been looking at the other woman’s face and not at her own feet, she might have observed the shrewd quality of her stare just then.

“But dear girl, that is impossible!”

“I’m afraid not. There was a letter, from your brother. And Natasha has been agitated all this day.”

It was the countess’ turn to look away. “You are certain?”

“I am! It is why I must speak to your brother, to reason with him. Natasha is betrothed,” Sonya pointed out reasonably. “He must be made to see the scandal is surely not worth whatever affection can have developed in a few days’ time.”

The magnificent beauty before her cleared her throat gently. “I do not know what to say. Truly, I wish I could help, but my brother is not here.”

“Not here?”

What Sonya could not distinguish in the poorly lit chamber was the grin on Countess Bezukhova’s face, something with a distinct edge to it. “Indeed; he has gone to stay with one of his friends, for he quarrelled with my husband. Pierre will no longer host him and I am forbidden to allow my own brother the house.”

But that was dreadful. “Good God! What am I to do?”

Countess Bezukhova tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps–but no. That will not do.” Sonya was quick to encourage any suggestions she might have. “I thought I might have one of my servants convey you to my brother’s. To stay with you until you are done and then take you home.” Startled, Sonya stammered over a refusal. A bachelor’s home was no place for an unmarried woman. “There. I knew it. It will not do. But then you must wait until tomorrow so I may arrange something.”

Taking the bull by the horns was her only choice. “It cannot wait. It truly cannot. They may have planned to elope this very night.” She accepted the countess’ aid and gladly.

“I would come with you, only I cannot leave my guests,” Pyotr Kirillovich’s wife said. “But I shall give you my most trusted servant and he will make certain no ill comes of this.”

In short order then, the troika took off yet again, headed for some address provided by the countess. She even paid the fare. Sonya would have to find some way to thank her when the danger was past. A whirlwind of stairs followed once they’d reached their destination. Sonya followed the servant’s lead, not thinking to wonder at his familiarity with a place his mistress had described in the vaguest terms possible.

A pretty woman opened the door for them. From deeper within the voices of men boomed with laughter. Sonya shivered and stepped within, trying not to mind the curious looks sent her way. Countess Bezukhova’s servant whispered with the young female and something lit in her dark eyes. She snorted. “Well, if the countess sent her, that’s another story.” Her strange accents marked her for a Gypsy. She was pointed to a chamber. “You can wait there until I bring the master.” In a flurry of skirts, she was gone.

Sonya opened the door to the chamber. It was a reading room of sorts. A few books lay open on a desk and some candles provided light. There was even a low fire. The armchairs, heavy, leather-bound bodies, spoke of masculine tastes. She sat down, thrusting her arms out towards the fire. Somewhere beyond the far reaches of her safe harbour rancorous laughter came again, deep and manly. She thought she heard a familiar voice but hadn’t time to place it before the door opened and she jumped to her feet.

Anatole Kuragin stood in the doorway, an affable smile on his face, muttering something about a gift from his sister as he stepped within. The door closed in his wake. His eyes raked over her figure and then slowly climbed to her face, where they stopped, stared and then closed and opened in a rapid series of blinks. His lips parted. “Well, I’ll be–you are Fyodor’s,” he trailed off and seemed minded to turn away.

Panicked, Sonya cried out, “Wait! I know all; about you and Natasha! But you must not. You must not!” She stepped towards him, reaching out.

“Ma chère mademoiselle, I assure you,” he began, answering her approach with his own, caught for the moment in the theatrics of the dramatic situation, “you have nothing to fear from me. I love your cousin beyond the measure of words.” He was inordinate proud of himself for having recalled that bit of fluff from Fyodor’s compositions.

“And that is why I have come to you,” she insisted. “I beg you, do not lead her astray. Natasha has promised herself to another. She loves Prince Andrei Bolkonsky; that I swear to you.”

“No; that cannot be. She loves me, you see.”

“I do not doubt you have charmed her,” Sonya allowed. Her hands took hold of his gently, beseechingly to secure his attention, in desperation. As he enjoyed the light touch, Anatole thoughtlessly allowed it. “You are handsome and personable; I can easily see why she would be charmed. But think of her reputation. Of her future.”

“But what is reputation to love?” he argued hotly, warming to the opportunity. He clasped her hand. “If only you knew. If only I could show you how my heart beats for her and her alone. There has never been a man who felt love as strongly as I do.”

Her eyes teared up. “I know what it is to love someone, to desperately love someone, and yet to have to give them up.” Anatole regarded her strange face, at once pierced by her tone and that gaze. He found himself trembling in anticipation of her next words. “Should Natasha elope with you, she will be jilt to all her friends and acquaintances; covered in shame and whispered about. If you cannot approach her openly, honestly, without shame, in the light of day, before the world, you must let her go.” Such was the conviction of her message that at once he felt his own tears spring. “I beg you, think well of this. Think of her good, which is to be your good, if you love her as you claim. She will be happiest on another path and you may be happy for her.”

The purity of her sentiment, the urgency in her tone defeated him, in the main because he imagined his love no less lofty than the utter devotion she spoke of. Anatole drew in a ragged breath and found himself blinking away tears. “Ma pauvre chérie,” he mused with feeling. “You ask so much of me. To give her up, for good, to the arms of another?”

“If it must be done,” Sonya answered. She released his hands, digging in her reticule until she found her handkerchief. Holding it gently, she continued, comfortingly, “Great sacrifice is made no lesser for being unsung.” In a gesture of almost motherly tenderness, for she perceived in his response something of her own suffering, Sonya wiped away his tears, which in turn sprang anew at that kindness. She pressed the handkerchief into his hand. “Natasha thinks you the best man in the world.”

And the best man in the world would never dream of tarnishing his darling’s reputation. Well and truly caught, at the whim of such tender feelings as she evoked, Anatole choked back something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. He turned aside, ostensibly to compose himself. His heart felt as though it might burst. “Pray, forgive me a moment.” That slip of a girl had utterly unmanned him. A novel experience for him.

Anatole took a few moments to calm himself. He then looked into her face and saw, he thought, something more than what mere flesh revealed. Had she done the same to Fyodor? He understood at lengths the reverence with which his friend spoke of her. He understood the yearning and the longing and found that he too was beginning to inch closer and closer to the sharp edge of craving. In the abstract. For someone like her, if not for her exactly. Having turned to her, Anatole leaned in, studying her features in the glow of the fire.

Suddenly, he was seized with the desire to close the gap between them, which sobered him. Fyodor might have punished mentions of the woman with the fine of a few hundred roubles, but he suspected any attempts at her virtue would mean at the very least a duel. He’s seen Fyodor shoot and had no desire to be on the other end of the barrel. Anatole drew back in haste. “Pray, allow me to step outside a moment.” He held both hands up when she made to protest. “You have opened my eyes,” he paused, giving her a lingering, caressing look. “To so much. You have my word I shan’t pursue Natasha, much as I love her.” The promise was made on impulse.

At lengths, Sonya nodded her head and he felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

The corridor was empty. He considered entering the other chamber where Fyodor and the witnesses were. But then that would mean revealing the woman for who she was and who knew how that would go? Perhaps it might be wiser to send her off home.

A fresh wave of tears threatened to spill as he thought of her remote figure, so lonely and small against the backdrop of the utterly foreign space she inhabited. Ought he drive her home himself?

Before he could make his mind up one way or the other, Fyodor passed from the room into the hall. “Had your fun?” The grin of his face compressed once he’d taken in Anatole’s expression. “What the devil–“

“Oh, she is something else!” he slipped. Discretion had never been the better part of his valour. “Absolutely brilliant! I wonder they don’t build her temples. I wonder that you can bear to be away from her.” He spoke half without knowing what he said.

Fyodor frowned. “Are you soused?”    

“No. I’ve never been more clear-headed in my life. All because of ta petite chérie.” The frown deepened. But Anatole could not speak and mind another at the same time. “Almost, I could fall in love with her myself, chère Sophie.” Only too late did he realise his mistake, but by then, Fyodor had shoved him firmly aside, flinging open the door behind him.

Anatole stumbled, leaning against the wall in order to regain his balance. A squeak told him Sofia Alexandrovna had been found out. He turned around with the vague thought of protecting her, but was met with a hard jab against his jaw and an angry, “What the hell is she doing here?”

It occurred to Anatole that the only worse situation he could have found himself in would be the result of Matrena putting the girl in one of the bedrooms. He would doubtless feel the amusement of it more when his jaw stopped throbbing. 

The demand to break Anatole’s neck just after he’d broken every other bone in his body beat hotly beneath Fyodor’s skin. The only thing keeping him in check was the vague notion Sofia Alexandrovna might be frightened out of her mind at the sight. He chose, instead, words. “Why is she here?”

“Please, there is no need for–“ her thin voice dropped into silence at a glare from him.

“I’m not talking to you yet. Wait your turn.” It would doubtless come sooner than she anticipated. Fyodor watched her fall back one step, both satisfied and annoyed at the evidence of fear. Staring back at Anatole, he continued. “I’m waiting, Anatole.” 

“She came for Natasha,” Anatole said with a wince. “Really, Fyodor! I must protest. You think I’d do anything to her when–“

“Not another word,” he hissed. “Go in the other room and wait there.” There would be time enough to think of some suitable form of penance. But first, he had to hear from Sofia Alexandrovna’s own lips what could have possibly induced her to gleefully throw herself into the wolf’s mouth.

“Is that wise?” muttered the other man. He complied nevertheless at a hard stare, proving he lacked a spine along with that missing heart of his.

Turning on his heel, Fyodor gently pushed the woman back into the room whence she’d come, peremptorily ordering her to sit. She complied as well, demonstrating that some of her brain power remained very much intact in spite of ample evidence to the contrary. God help him. And God help her. Clasping his hands behind his back to keep from reaching for the woman, he studied Sofia Alexandrovna for a long while before he trusted his voice enough to speak. “Now then; let’s have it. How came you here?” She explained haltingly. The more she spoke, the harder it became not to shake her until her teeth clattered. Fyodor forced himself not to act on that desire. Once he had his hands on her, who knew what else he’d be capable of? “And during all this traipsing about, have you given no thought to the small, but undeniably supremely important matter of your reputation?” He put it to her slowly, as though she were a particularly dense pupil studying the same problem for the umpteenth time without reaching a satisfying conclusion.

Her lips pursed slightly. “Why should my reputation be of any concern to you?” she demanded, the glitter of tears in her eyes.

“Because I’m the idiot who loves you,” he flung back at her tartly. Fyodor tried not to mind that even a whisper of Anatole sniffing at her skirts would make her the object of speculation in certain quarters, let alone spending God knew how long alone with the man. A man who would not shield her from the consequences. He concentrated on her shocked face. “Who else knows you’ve come here?”

Her eyes shifted to the side, as though she were contemplating moving past him. He merely leaned in until he’d caged her between himself and the armchair, effectively blocking any escape.

“Countess Bezukhova directed me here.” Hélène; of course, she would be involved. “She was entertaining and could not come herself.”

Her naïveté shocked him. Then he recalled she would know very little of Hélène indeed. Likely the tale of her plodding off into the night would be on the lips of half of Moscow before long. Fyodor held back on enlightening her. “Your family?”

She shook her head. “Papa is from home. And I told my servant to put it about I am sleeping. Unless someone were to enter my room, they would not know.”

“And the likelihood of that happening is?” he prompted, pinning her with a flinty glare.

Sofia Alexandrovna frowned. “Must you rub it in?”

“Absolutely. You little fool.” He drew back. “Do you not understand this could ruin your chance of marrying Rostov?” Her gaze, which had until that point been on him, lowered to the ground. She muttered something. “What?”

“He has no interest in marriage to me.” Half-defiant, she glanced up at him. The strength in her features melted into pain, as if she expected scorn. The line of her mouth firmed. Stiff upper lip, was it? Were it not for the fact that she loved another and seemed quite torn by the admission of his desertion, Fyodor might have well pulled her up and into his arms. He might have kissed her thoroughly and then driven her to the first church in their path for a brief and binding ceremony.

Instead, he sensibly pulled further back. “Here is what we do. You, Anatole and I will drive to Count Bezukhov’s where we will lay the whole story before him.” With any luck, Pyotr Kirillovich would fling his brother-in-law somewhere in the freezing wilds. “Then, we take you home.”

“But Marya Dmitryevna will know–at this ungodly hour!”

He silenced her with a wag of his finger. “You should have considered that before setting off on this little adventure of yours. Now it’s a bit late.”

“They will demand this be set to rights. I cannot possibly wed Anatole Kuragin.” The pure terror in her voice soothed him oddly enough. They were in agreement on that aspect at least; it remained to be seen what she made of the rest. “Natasha will despise me!”

“I wouldn’t worry on that score; he could not marry you, even if he were so inclined.” Softening slightly, he shook his head. “You’ll learn soon enough why.” She opened her mouth, presumably to deliver some question on the timing of such revelations. But Fyodor rather felt they’d wasted too much time. “Enough of this.”

He dragged her to her feet and seeing her abandoned cloak on the armchair made a grab for it as well. With slow, deliberate movements, he pulled it up around her shoulders, fastening it securely. Then, with one hand to the small of her back, he led her into the hallway where everyone had crowded. Presumably, they’d had a good listen, seeing as he’d not bothered to shut the door, ostensibly to protect the woman’s reputation; whatever was left of it.

Makarka cleared his throat with an awkward air. “I understand we won’t be needed any longer.” He and Khvostikhov made no fuss about leaving. He had his two thousand.

Fyodor confirmed it. “There’s been a change of plans.” Balaga looked slightly put out at the prospect of not driving his horses out of their mind, so he assured the man his services would still be needed. “Wouldn’t want those fine horses to remain unexercised.” That brightened him right up, even if they were only driving as far as Count Bezukhov’s abode.

Anatole, predictably, attempted to extricate himself. “You know how Pierre feels about my being at his home.”

“Likely as not, he’ll have the floors washed with holy water,” Fyodor quipped, almost amused. But Pyotr Kirillovich’s dislike of his wayward brother-in-law proved no impediment to himself; leastwise not when Sofia Alexandrovna’s future weighed in the balance. He sent her off with Balaga, however, unwilling that she should be party to any further violence, even if verbal alone. “You’d best come willingly, or I’ll break your legs and drag you behind the troika. Knowing Balaga’s driving, how long do you think you’ll last?” Anatole paled. “I’m giving you the choice; face Bezukhov or me.”

“You feel that strongly about her?” the other man’s voice trembled. Had he perhaps not believed Fyodor the first few times he’d attested to it?

“I told you she is not for toying with,” he reminded Anatole softly, though no less deadly. “So, what will it be?”

“Pierre will do for me.”

Wise decision. Fyodor marched him outside where Sofia Alexandrovna waited by the troika rubbing her hands against the night’s chill. Blasted girl had set off with only a thin cloak for protection. Fyodor grunted; the impulse to either throttle her or kiss her returned in fullness of power. As before, he pushed it aside and ensured Anatole had boarded before he turned to the woman, hoisting her within as well. He stripped off the fur he’d put on previous to leaving his home and draped it over her. “You’re no good to anyone if you catch your death of cold.” Ignoring her qualms and protests alike, Fyodor climbed within as well, with an imperious, “Drive on, man!” to Balaga.

The troika practically flew off. Balaga, true to form, set a punishing pace. He’d not be killing any horses that night, on account of the short distance.

Sofia Alexandrovna made a sound of astonished distress, turning into him. He could feel her hands grasp at his shoulder. She hid her face away, as though the mere act might protect her from reality. Fyodor allowed her the escape, anchoring that small, delicate body against his side with one arm around her waist. He glared at Anatole, who watched them with rapt attention instead of contemplating his prospects, which were sure to be much diminished after his brother-in-law was done with him.

They arrived at their destination in one piece.

A surly servant welcomed them within, answering, when pressed, that his master had retreated long since as the hour was late. He’d not expected to have any guests of his own.

“And what of it, man?” Fyodor snapped. “Wake him! This is urgent, I tell you. Go on!” As he could not very well deliver a kick to hurry the incompetent fool along, he settled for locating the nearest footman, who proved to be very near indeed, and strongarm that one into building a fire in the library to which they were shown as a perfect waiting spot. Sofia Alexandrovna gave him a sharp look and a gentle reminder he could not go about order other people’s servants; she shivered as she spoke. “I suspect you and I will not see eye to eye on this subject,” he answered just as sharply, picking up one of the chairs and moving it nearer the fire which had just started to burn.

He did not have to tell her to sit.

Anatole busied himself with finding the decanter, for once wise enough not to open his mouth. He poured out some sherry for each occupant of the chamber, feeling, it would seem very much at home. It was also possible that the earlier threats had put the fear of God into him; for the time being, in any event.

Fyodor took one of the glasses and pressed it into Sofia Alexandrovna’s hands. “This should warm you.” She drank the whole with a grimace under his watchful gaze. There was colour in her face at least.

The doors of the library opened with a creaking noise. Pyotr Kirillovich surveyed the insides of the room with a glower. “What exactly is the meaning of this?” His gaze slid over Sofia Alexandrovna before narrowing on Fyodor and Anatole who’d come to stand by him, presumably in the hope he’d find some protection there; which he wouldn’t.

“Anatole will explain,” Fyodor asserted. When Anatole did not immediately jump into the breach, he turned the full force of his own glare on the man with a meaningful jerk of the head.

Finding himself in the impossible position of owning up to his mistakes and misdeeds, Anatole meandered through the tale with no apparent haste. Fyodor moved to stand behind Sofia Alexandrovna’s chair, gripping the back of it, so that his knuckles brushed her shoulders. While she gasped and cried out in infuriated shock at learning that Anatole was and had been married for some time, Pyotr Kirillovich listened to the story with no further reaction than the darkening of his face. By the time Anatole had finished, he was black as thunder.

It did not surprise Fyodor that a violent outburst followed. He watched impassively as the count advanced upon the unfortunate scoundrel, but was disappointed at the mild ending. In short order, letters made their way into his hand and Anatole was unceremoniously booted out, with orders to await the count’s decision. Fyodor was still hoping for a swift exile. 

Count Bezukhov sighed, his whole, massive, frame shook with the force of it. At lengths, his eyes darted to the other occupants of the room. “If you will step out a moment with me,” that he addressed to Fyodor, who was right willing to oblige. Outside, the barren wasteland of a hallway betrayed the awareness of the entire household as to the impromptu ongoing visit. “For God’s sake; tell me you didn’t deliberately involve the poor girl into this scheme!” That was the Pierre of old, alright.

“You ought to ask your wife; she’ll doubtless know more of it, having sent her my way.” He thought better of it and added. “Well, Anatole’s–if that makes any difference.”

Pyotr Kirillovich, a man on the edge of madness judging by his looks, pinched the bridge of his nose, face contorting horribly. “Did she, by Jove?!” Fyodor trusted he’d gained some measure of understanding when it came to the woman he married; enough at least to know what she’d been about. “Poor Sonya; quite ruined.” In the eyes of society, certainly; if she did not present every intention of wedding. The count gnashed his teeth and threw Fyodor a baleful glare.

“There’s no need to look at me like that. I am perfectly willing to have her.” The stare grew in malice. He revised, “As my wife, count. As my wife.” Sometimes he forgot the two of them had not been close in some years. Fyodor glanced towards the closed doors hiding the woman away. Absently, he felt eyes studying him.

“You–for Sonya?” the count choked out.

“Is that so unexpected?”

“Yes!” A heavy footstep alerted him to the man drawing closer. “And no. It seems fitting somehow. Finally, a woman beyond your reach.” He almost sounded relieved. Fyodor looked at him and stilled. “I will speak to Sonya.”

The ghost of his assessment lingered as he disappeared beyond those doors which Fyodor watched intently. A woman beyond his reach. Within his reach in some measure; firmly outside it in possibly the most important points. A woman who was to be his wife. He didn’t see why he should deny himself on the power of that. 

He’d conquer her bit by bit, if it took him a lifetime to do so. Patience was not beyond him if the situation called for it. He’d faced worse odds.

Resolved then to make the best of the hand fate had delt him, Fyodor leaned his weight against the wall, waiting for whatever passed for conversation on the other side of the wall to reach an end. He wondered just how fast preparations could be accomplished. A month? He had no earthly notion what arrangements females preferred in such circumstances. He was far more familiar with bedding already married women.

Sofia Alexandrovna and beddings. That was quite the thought.

He flinched at a sudden jolt. Best not to think of beddings, his would-be bride or bedding his would-be bride for a while.

Sonya felt inordinately small. She had set out with the best of intention and had landed herself, and not only, in quite the spot of trouble. And that was putting it mildly. Too ashamed to meet the eyes of anyone, let alone someone who knew her so well, she kept her head down, watching him come closer and closer.

“Sonya,” he called out gently, as though afraid a firmer tone might shatter her. He was not far off the mark. “Sonya, will you please look at me?” It took her a moment to. Massive as Pyotr Kirillovich was, he knelt by her in a gesture which instinct called security. One of his broad hands reached out for her. “You should have come to me.”

It was because he was so gentle that she felt her eyes tear up. “I couldn’t.” The admission, wrenched from deep within her, caried fear. “I never dreamed it would go so far. That Natasha would take it quite so far.” She looked down at the hand holding hers. “You must believe me, Pyotr Kirillovich.”

“Pierre,” he corrected. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. “To think it must all go to waste. Natasha’s deed, I cannot hide it from my friend. It would not be fair.”

She closed her eyes against the knowledge. “Will you at least listen to her side of the story?” Prince Bolkonsky might listen to Pierre’s advice after all. It could prove to be enough to absolve Natasha in his eyes. “Please, Pierre.”

“Of course.” The vehemence of his tone startled her. It forced her to stare up into his face. “How could you have known the danger?” Gratified, she gave a small nod. “But, Sonya, whatever the end of Natasha’s part in this story, you understand your own actions are not without consequence.”

How could she not? Fyodor Ivanovich had enlightened her to as much. She did not know what to do about it. Nikolai had been her hope for so long, that even in spite of knowing he wasn’t an option, she still found herself clinging to the past. The family would never agree. “I do not know where to turn.  What can I do?”

“Marriage is the best option; the only option. I believe you know that already.” His hand patted hers gently.

Sonya had suspected as much. “That would require a man willing to step up,” she pointed out mildly, driving back all thoughts of Nikolai. “You must know there is no dowry besides.” Papa was not in a position to raise any capital either.

“There is someone who would be willing.” Without him having to tell her, she guessed at his identity. She could see in his eyes that he’d understood her startled expression as well. Pierre did not press her. “I cannot tell if such a decision will provide you with happiness, but it will mitigate whatever effects this whole affair has had. Nevertheless, you will be married to him.” The hand on hers gave one final stroke before lifting. “Shall I give you some time to consider it?”

Time would not help anything. Sonya chewed on her bottom lip. She could take hours, days, months even, but she would still be in the same position. Had she waited, Marya Dmitryevna might have contrived to find her someone. “No; if he is quite determined, then there is no point in considering it any further.” Embarrassingly, a knot settled in her throat. “Perhaps, I may be permitted to speak to him, privately?” What further damage could possibly be wrought?

Pierre contemplated her for a long moment. “If that if what you wish. I will be outside.” He meant that she must call out if she needed him. It warmed her somewhat to see evidence of his care. Sonya gave a shallow nod, the best she could accomplish.

Before long, Fyodor Ivanovich faced her in the low light of a merry fire. His face gave nothing away, but his posture was strangely relaxed. He must truly not think it momentous in the least that he would be thrown into a marriage which might not, in the end, be to his liking. Sonya’s lower lip trembled with the effort to keep all her questions locked within, lest they spring out in an endless stream. She had to but release them one by one, starting with the most important.

“You knew he was married?”

“Yes.”

That single word stabbed like a dagger. “Why let him pursue Natasha?” Anger flickered and sputtered in her chest. What did Fyodor Ivanovich owe the Rostovs after all? “We spent many an evening together. You were Nikolai’s friend.”

His lips curved in something which could only be termed a smile by the laxest definition of the notion. “I recall spending a great many evening with you.” That wasn’t truly an answer, so Sonya asked him again. Why? The man gave her one of those looks. “You vastly overestimate my powers of persuasion, if you believe I may bend someone like Anatole to my will entirely.” Then he shook his head. “I did warn him against it. But some things cannot be commanded. Could you have ordered your precious cousin not to fall for him?”

Sony forced her eyes away; Natasha marched to the beat of her own drum. It would have been frankly useless to attempt such a thing, unless she’d known of the wife. That might have helped. “She was deceived. I do not blame her.”

“I am not asking you to.”

No, he wasn’t. He asked her nothing, it would seem. “Pierre says you are willing to marry me. Why?”

“I love you.” Words any woman longed to hear. Sonya wished she could meet his eyes just then and read into them the truth of the matter.

She persevered. “You love me, but you allowed your friend to toy with Natasha’s affections?”

“I don’t love Natasha.”

Was it that simple? Those he loved, he’d do anything for and the rest of the world could perish for all he cared. She asked him that.

“Yes; I make no claim to goodness.”

And yet he did the honourable thing by her. She stood and lifted her head until their eyes met and held. “You will be happy with this bargain? Even knowing I do not love you?”

He stepped closer to her and she felt his hands at her waist, holding her. It was vastly inappropriate. But not more so than the words he spoke next. “Leaving love aside for the moment, can you give your fidelity?” She nodded. He pulled her in closer. “Your obedience?” Should he requite it. The distance between them dropped a little more. “What of your body; can you give me that, Sofia Alexandrovna?” He spoke the question against her ear.

It would be her duty, if he did marry her. But the shock of his question brought a pang of something with it. No man had ever spoken in such a way to her. “And that will be enough?”

He chuckled. “You think not?”

How would she know? She’d never been married before. He hadn’t either, that she knew of. “I–I could not say.”

“I am vastly uncomplicated,” he told her, the hands at her waist pressing down. Sonya begged to differ, but could hardly speak when his lips grazed against her temple. “Shall I demonstrate?”

It would be by far wiser to refuse. Perhaps call for Pierre. But she found herself nodding, fascinated. There was no recourse but to marry him; the certainty of it opened her to whatever possibilities lay between them. She needed to know something. Anything.

The kisses were soft to begin with. Barely there touches which sent shivers skittering down her spine. Then, he coaxed her mouth with his own and angled himself just so. The pressure increased. Heat swelled. Sonya grabbed hold of his arms to keep herself steady when it finally registered that she liked his mouth against hers very much. Perhaps too much. Despite the still sedate pace and a distinct lack of frenzy, her insides were happily melting away. It seemed her body did not care what her heart felt and whom it felt it for.

He finally came up against her, making Sonya gasp. Her startled exclamation was lost in his own lips and the quite frankly incomprehensible thing he did with his tongue, effectively fanning the flames of whatever fire burned beneath her skin. Her nails dug into his sleeves and she raised herself on her tiptoes, trying to press closer, to feel more, incredulous and elated and quite simply befuddled.

In a moment more, she found herself lifted clean off the ground, her arms looping around Fyodor Ivanovich’s neck firmly. Had she been told that very morning she would be conducting herself in such a capacity within a few hours’ time, she would have laughed. He pressed her harder and to her chagrin a small moan issued past her lips. To her even further vexation the sound seemed to bring all his efforts to a halt.

She was back on her own unsteady feet in a blink on an eye, her arms removed from around him. Sonya swayed, gratified and mortified in equal measure when broad hands came to against her waist to steady her.

“A particularly persuasive argument, you’ll agree,” he offered. He sounded breathless. Sonya took some comfort in the knowledge she’d not been alone in that feeling of hers and gave him the agreement he sought. “So, then, Sofia Alexandrovna, will you be my wife?”

“Yes.” What else could she have said after shamelessly falling into his arms like that? “You may call me Sonya, if you wish.”

His hands removed from her middle, leaving her to flounder all on her own. The abrupt departure was swiftly followed by the establishing of an acceptable distance between them. But by the time she thought to say something, he was already calling Pierre within.

It was agreed they should make for Marya Dmitryevna’s without delay. As it happened that was, in fact, the correct choice to make, for the household was in chaos by the time of their arrival, in large part due to Sonya’s very obvious absence.

Le terrible dragon had been more or less content to leave matters be when neither of her charges made their way down to a late supper that evening. One had a headache, the other had gone to sleep, presumably as a result of the social whirl she’d been subjected to. However, she was a great deal less enthused to wake in the middle of the night, or as close to that as made no matter, only to find that one of the girls had decided swallowing cyanide was the answer to all life’s problems, while the other was nowhere to be found.

She had further learned, upon rigorously inspecting both guest bedchambers, that a shameful affair was afoot, one which had escaped her notice. Her first thoughts upon learning of that dreadful occurrence was that the cousin had simply taken off so that she might avoid the scrutiny which was sure to be heaped upon her, despite the other’s insistence that Sonya would never do such a thing. That she was surely lost somewhere and must be found. Such were Natasha’s pleas from the sickbed.

It was thus with some relief that Marya Dmitryevna greeted word of an approaching coach with the Bezukhov crest emblazoned upon it. The servants told her the count had brought back Sonya with him, and curiously enough, that rogue, Captain Dolokhov. To her further relief, she also learned that the affair with Kuragin had been settled for the very low price of marrying Sonya off, precisely as she’d been asked by the Rostovs to do.

The only cloud upon her skies was Natasha’s apparent insistence that she had in point of fact written to Prince Andrei Bolkonsky and told him all there was to tell of her affair. But that she left to the judicious care of Count Bezukhov on the understanding that come Count Rostov’s return, she would be very much free of both Natasha and Sonya.

For her own part, Sonya made her way upstairs, feeling for all the world as though she’d not slept in ages, yet oddly restless all at once. It was to Natasha that she went, to comfort and console her poor sister, who glad to see her hale had forgotten all about earlier harsh words. In accordance with Pierre’s request, she kept from Natasha all her knowledge of Kuragin, saying only that she too would learn all there was to know soon enough.

Of her own engagement she made no mention either, fearing lest it require explanation. Instead, she allowed Natasha her dreams, cruel as it might seem to her, having an innate understanding of the fact the strain might well push the other to even more foolish actions. She had been distraught enough to swallow poison at the mere thought of her lover abandoning her. To see it made reality must surely attract further grief.

Sonya sat with Natasha, giving her all the attention she was capable of providing, knowing that the morrow brought darker tidings than ever she could imagine.

“I wonder why he did not come, Sonya.”   

Bright and early in the morning, long before Papa had returned, she was summoned to Marya Dmitryevna. “I do not suppose you need me to explain my reasoning, girl. Sit down here and tell me again. Everything, if you please.”

It being not for her to question why, Sonya dredged up the tale down to the smallest, most minute details, watching the face of their hostess with no small amount of interest. “Since all is well, I beg that you spare Papa the worst of it,” she dared after a brief pause. It was a bold request considering she had no power over the capricious matron.

“Protecting that little fool, are you?” the woman laughed heartily. “Mind, I should throw the both of you out onto the street. I take you into my home, and this is to be my gratitude.” She clucked her tongue with a look of disgust. “It is only because the count is a dear friend that I find myself contemplating your request. Know that.” Sonya did not particularly care why, only that she did. Nonetheless, she lowered her head in obedience, which she did not feel. But then she could hardly comment. It was partly her own folly which had brought about such results. “You would have done better to tell me at once about Kuragin.”

“I should have.” Instead, she had taken matters into her own hands. Nothing for it but to soldier on and make the best of the situation, was there? “Forgive me.”

The older woman snorted. “As if you’ve any need of my forgiveness.” It was a cruel thing to say. But then Marya Dmitryevna was not known for being gentle. Sonya accepted the words. “Mind, the poor count will be shocked beyond words at this development, even if we go about putting it to him as gently as possible. Perhaps I ought to let the two of you explain.”

Sonya winced, thinking of the manner of words Natasha might have to say upon the matter. “I will undertake the task, if you think it best.” Papa would accept her story, she thought. He trusted her enough and having gone as far as she had, what was one little white lie? Or several?

“How good of you,” Marya Dmitryevna answered in mocking tones. “You may assist me then. Doubtless, there will be some points upon which he might require further knowledge.”

With that she was summarily dismissed to a simple breakfast the likes of which had been meant to encourage penitence.

The necessity of her marriage was immediately apparent to Papa at least. He had no dowry to give her and was perplexed to say the least in her choice of husband, but he gave his blessings, seeing no alternative. He did not ask about Nikolai, though Sonya thought that particular question however on his lips multiple times.

As for Natasha, the news about Anatole’s infamy left her more than a little shaken. Sonya, never quite knowing what to say, when she saw her dearest sister sink into a bitterer and bitterer decline, could only be glad when it came the time to leave the home of her childhood.

The old countess sat with her on the eve of her wedding day, holding her hand in motherly fashion. Sonya had just finished writing to Nikolai; releasing him from all obligations he might have felt he had towards her. They had deliberately left it until the last possible moment.

“Do not be glum, dear,” the countess encouraged, stroking her shoulder. “You will find things to love. There will be children, of course. Eventually it adds up to enough.”

It was experience that spoke. Sonya had not thought to find common ground with the woman every again.

Yet there she was.

And there they were.

Fingers interlaced. Bodies twined. Heat coiled. Mouths pressed together.

Could a woman make love without feeling love?

The question plagued Fyodor as Sonya threw her head back. Smooth skin grew taut beneath his fingertips. She gripped him tightly within her; nails bit down into his knuckles. Soft rustling underscored a sharp little cry. He kept moving. Deeper. More. He took her lips again, swallowing up those whimpers of exquisite distress.

It seemed to him impossible that she didn’t feel about him as he felt about her when the crisis peaked. When they tumbled back down, breath ragged, limbs leaden; did her heart not beat as fast as his? Did she not cling to him, bodily following every movement?

His mouth slipped down, along her throat, to her shoulder. He nipped the skin there, not enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark. His violent impulses never seemed to concern her though they were a novelty to him; somewhere along the line, this willing giving of herself had stopped being enough and he began yearning for anything tangible which could confirm his claim.

Would she make love any differently if he were the man she loved?

Fyodor pulled back, gratified at her sob and the way her fingers clutched at his hands. His movement paused, holding the both of them on the thrilling edge of completion. She pleaded with him to move after a few moments.

He obeyed, because there could be no other path and listened to her every request. Pleasure bubbled over. Her body quivered, tugging on his own. How could he do anything else but give her everything?

No closer to the answer he sought, Fyodor pulled himself away and off of her, lest the press of his weight become uncomfortable to bear. Settling on his side, he watched her face with rapt attention, waiting for awareness to return. The mellow mood receded ever so slowly, returning her to alertness. Sonya turned into him, seeking warmth. He felt her begin to shake against him.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Voice slightly choked; she shook the harder. It took him longer than he would have liked to realise she was, in fact, having a good laugh. He still wanted to know what she found so amusing. Sonya struggled with her mirth, mastering it enough to allow a, “It just struck me–you truly meant it.” Again, she giggled.

“Meant what?” he sighed, relaxing against her.

“You realise we’ve been here for nearly a full day,” she pointed out, mild and sweet with just a hint of amusement.

He’d not realised. “And that’s amusing because?”

“I already told you. It did not occur to me you truly meant it when you said we’d not be getting out of the bedroom for a time.” Her arm looped around his waist. “Maybe we’ll actually make a child this time around.” Was that wistfulness he heard in her voice?

Did she want a child? Or did she want his child? Fyodor stroked her fine dark hair thoughtfully. “There is plenty of time.”

“Not if you keep going off, there isn’t,” she contradicted, sitting up. Her hair slipped through his fingers as she did. “Bonaparte has been driven off. Officers are selling their commissions left and right, and they’re settling into civilian life.”

He searched her face. “And what is that to me?” On the battlefield, his mind was blissfully empty of anything that did not encourage survival. There, at least, he had no time to contemplate just how much he’d swung the scale in his favour. There he could find comfort in the memory of her body instead of driving himself out of his mind about the preference of her heart.

“We could buy something in the countryside.” Sonya’s eyes glittered. “It doesn’t have to be grand. Just something for the four of us. It would be peaceful.”

He had no use for peace. Fyodor sat up as well. “You’ll be wanting to return to town before long. Moscow is more convenient if you mean to always be visiting with your family.”

Sonya pursed her lips. “What else is there to do when you leave me alone for months on end? You won’t let me follow the drum–”

“It’s no life for the likes of you.”

“Plenty of women follow their husbands.” She gave him some examples off the top of her head.

“You’re not any of those women.” They’d that that conversation before; shortly after they were married. Most of the time, officer’s wives were safe enough. Satisfactory accommodations could always be found when one had money and money was not an object for him. But the thought of her so close to the rivers of blood spilling across snow, grass and sand wherever marching armies went troubled him. It was best for such things to remain uncertain shadows in her mind; known, but not truly known.

“Because you never gave me the chance to be,” Sonya insisted. Her hands crossed over her chest, pushing her breasts up. For a moment, Fyodor considered rolling her under him and simply ending their argument there. “I don’t mind some rough conditions. And many officers’ wives agree with me or else they wouldn’t traipse off after their husbands, now would they?”

Fyodor hadn’t the faintest notion what the devil those women, or their husbands, for that matter, could be thinking. He only knew that Sonya would not be exposed to the brutality of a military campaign if he had any say in it. It was not the same as evacuating Moscow and that had been enough exposure to the uglier side of the world. “There’s no reason to keep insisting. I won’t change my mind.”

“I can see that,” she retorted pointedly. “But why? Can’t you at least tell me that?”

He sighed and turned aside until he was sitting on the edge of the bed his back to her, thinking of how he might convey what he wanted to without alarming her. No easy task, given the subject matter. Sonya moved behind him. He felt her at his back, draping her soft, naked body against him. Her chin rest on his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his waist. Her breathing, steady and quiet, rushed rhythmically against his ear.

“Have you ever seen the aftermath of a battle?” he rasped out heavily, touching his hand to one of her own. “The earth is pockmarked with the explosion of shells. Thick smoke fills the air; almost a fog, dark and heavy. The stench of blood and burning is,” he trailed off, swallowing down the natural reaction as the phantom of the scent rose from its uneasy grave, “unbearable.” His fingers clenched around her wrist, drawing her arm away, pressing his fingers between her own. Despite the touch he felt himself floating away. “The dead and dying are all around. It’s impossible to tell if they’re your own man or the enemy’s unless they speak. Mostly they just scream in agony, if they can make any sound at all.”

He'd been fortunate enough never to have suffered any major wounds in battle. The single bullet ever to have pierced him had come from the flintlock of an enraged husband. Fyodor repressed the urge to look down at the scar. “Sometimes you see a familiar face in that heap of bodies, cold and stiff and you marvel to think that just a few hours before you’d sat down drinking together, or sharing a jest, or simply enjoying the silence. They’re gone now. Countless of them, yours, the enemy’s; soldiers all.”

Fyodor leaned back so he could press more firmly into her. “The camp’s worse though, what with physicians running around like headless chicken, trying to patch up hopeless cases. God knows you’ve not seen a woman cry until you’ve seen an officer’s wife throwing herself across her husband’s dead body. I’m not doing it any justice.” And he did not want to. He only sought to repel her curiosity. “If you’re here in Moscow, I know at least you are safe from such sights.”

Her lips lingered against his shoulder. Sonya held him tighter. “What if one day–what if…”

What if? He’d wondered that himself many a time. There was no answer he could give her; at least not one that would bring her comfort. “I’ve survived so far.”

“Then don’t tempt fate any longer.” She ripped herself away from his grasp and came around to stand before him, dragging part of the sheets with her. “You’ve already done your duty. It’s enough. Isn’t it?”

Was there such a thing as enough when it came to duty?

His brow furrowed. “Why do you want me to sell my commission?” If she was adamant, she must have some reason. It could not be mere whim. He hoped it was not mere whim. Fyodor lost himself in the depths of her eyes. She gave a little start, as though sensing the momentum behind the query. He willed her to answer.

The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. “Because,” Sonya began with a stern look which softened as she spoke, “I want more for us than snatched moments between long absences.” The sheet fell away as she caught his face between her hands. Her palms were warm; her touch frayed his determination. “There are other men in this vast empire who can fight for its rights, its supremacy. I just want my husband here with me. I did not marry you so you could gallivant off to God knows where and worry me out of my mind.”

That was true, he supposed. She’d married him in order to escape the consequences of Anatole’s actions; consequences which the man himself had finally escaped by dying. “Stay with you and do what?” he questioned, the reminder helping to offset the force of her pull. Perhaps one day he would be entirely immune to it.

Sonya huffed. “I told you. Live a quiet life together. Give me a few children perhaps. I’ve always hoped for a large family.” Her lips came down on his own. She might as well have used a hammer for all the difference it made. Sonya and children; his children. He’d certainly put an enthusiastic effort into begetting them.

That was decidedly not helping his endurance.

“Live our days out in the countryside with half a dozen brats trailing us, is that it?”

“Or in Moscow, if you’d prefer. Or Petersburg. Anywhere really,” she offered. “But the countryside would offer more privacy, you know.”

He suspected as much. There would be no missives every few days from the second Countess Bezukhova and precious little of Julie Drubestkaya’s teas. Even less of a chance for Rostov to come riding by on some errand for his sister if they chose a far enough place. “You truly have your heart set on this?”

“More than.” Sonya kissed him again. “Just say you’ll think about it, Fedya.” That was her being persuasive.

“I’ll consider it,” he agreed, not quite surprised to feel Sonya’s entire weight drive against him. He could have held out against her, but simply chose to fall backward on the bed, cushioning her fall as she was much too busy seeking out kisses to care anything for her surroundings. It occurred to him, it could just all be some fever dream and he might, in fact, he lying somewhere in some smoky field, breathing his last. Didn’t dying men have their life flash before their eyes though?

When Bezukhov had shot him, his life certainly hadn’t unravelled itself in bits and pieces before his sight. Perhaps he’d simply not been close enough to death.

Before he could consider it any further, however, Sonya’s teasing fingers slipped between them. He bit back a moan. Truly, he had no one to blame but himself. He’d taught her too well.       

“How many children was it again? A dozen?” she asked playfully.

“Easy, woman! Give a man some time to recover,” he grunted in answer, though in truth, she had distracted him rather efficiently and he was almost ready to try for the first in a long line of offspring, if he were to take her at her word.