Chapter Text
Zatonsk Police Station.
December 13, 1888.
Chief Inspector Shtolman.
Dear Yakov Platonovich,
These long nights of winter in which we seat ourselves by wood stoves and fireplaces and are warmed by extra cups of earthy, oolong tea offer me frequent and prolonged opportunities for reflection. And our most recent troubles - how is it that we only ever encounter one another in association with some tragedy, Yakov Platonovich? - these troubles, these horrifying discoveries, and unsolved puzzles, well, they consume my waking thoughts. Fortunately they do not pursue me in my dreams. For that, I am grateful.
I wonder why it was that you readily accepted my proposal for us to go to the outskirts of Zatonsk to lay eyes on Alice Lawrence that day. The investigation did not require it. I asked you, or rather claimed that you should attend me, on that trip because I needed you to be there with me. I knew that the harsh realities to be laid bare at that place would hollow me out - depress my spirit - no matter what condition we might find Alice in. I could only stand it with your strength beside me.
I feel that I was rewarded with more than a steadying arm that day. I can still bring forth the sensation of your hand at my elbow as we departed, and the arresting of my breath when you gazed at me. It was not the first time I’ve experienced such things. There are instances when you regard me, Yakov Platonovich, in which I feel utterly exposed, but also a lightness, like how I imagine it must be for a chick when it hatches from the confines of its egg. Frightening and freeing at the same time.
I have been to see Alice twice more since we visited the hospital together. She is always calm, silent, except when she is tired of me. For then, she will grunt and turn away. I read to her - Stevenson’s Garden of Verses primarily, but she has taken to Robin Hood as well. I feel her looking at me sometimes, but if I turn to catch her eye, she swivels her head away to peer out the window or at the floor. The nurses tell me that she enjoys my visits. That she has improved, by which they mean she is no longer sleeping on the floor or refusing to eat. I suppose that is improvement. My heart breaks for her, for her lost years and her aloneness in this world.
I happened upon our neighbor, Kirill Razumovsky, in the park some days ago. He professed a desire to help Alice. He is considering providing her with private care, someplace away from the drab asylum. Perhaps you are wrong about the prince’s involvement in whatever unpleasant dealings you were investigating in St. Petersburg. His concern appears genuine and his generous offer would seem to be the most selfless of actions.
Yours truly, as always,
Anna.