Chapter Text
Home of Viktor Mironov.
March 8, 1889.
Anna Viktorovna Mironova.
Dear Anna,
It appears that I have recently missed you at the precinct on at least two occasions. You will think me mutton-headed when I supply the reason. I keep returning to the sledding hill that we happened upon during our most recent walk. Not two days after our light-hearted adventure on the slopes, I was required to venture past that same spot on official police business. Children and groups of young men and women were again gaily sailing down the hill, amidst laughter and cheers from the onlookers. I should have immediately sent a note to you, requesting that you join me in another round of gliding. For, alas, since then, the sun has beamed brighter and the once sturdy, hard-packed snow has become slushy. Following even the minutest snowfall, I have taken to instructing our coachmen to travel along the road that passes by the hill, no matter how indirect such a route may be to our intended destination, in the hopes of finding it sufficiently snowladen. My outings have been for naught. Spring has announced itself, and the last of our snowy banks are rife with vibrantly green sprouts.
In addition to dashing my intentions with regard to engaging you in another round of sledding, the fair weather has inspired the less-than-upstanding citizens of Zatonsk to engage in an abundance of questionable behavior. Korobeinikov and I have had but a few moment’s rest these last few days. We are interrupted constantly by the desk sergeant - pick-pockets, wayward servants, abductions that invariably turn out to be elopements. Still, I intend to call on you at the first opportunity. Perhaps we could stroll along the pathway in the park, if the wind stays mild and the clouds do not obscure the sun. I have missed our conversations.
I am reminded of the last exchange we engaged in, at the precinct, following the Yepfanov case. You accused me of uncovering the nature of Arina and Kirill’s relationship through deductive reasoning, absent romantic intuitions. I concede that you are correct. In truth, I do not believe I put forth an argument against your assessment at the time. It is my habit, and long has it been so, that a rational consideration of the facts, explicitly devoid of any emotional attachment, produces sound investigations. You will find it hard to alter my beliefs in this regard.
Your mocking recrimination, however, while true in this instance, is not wholly fair. I have given my heart free rein with regards to you, Anna Viktorovna. You have slipped past the shield I am usually adept at securing. I am just now realizing the degree to which I value your insights and, most of all, your company. I feel a certain suffering at our separations, relatively short though they may be, and despite the morbid circumstances under which we frequently interact, seeing you never fails to lighten my spirits.
Yours truly,
Yakov Platonovich.