Chapter Text
Zatonsk Police Station.
April 16, 1889.
Chief Inspector Shtolman.
Yakov Platonovich,
I find myself thanking you once again for securing my life. I had hoped to voice these words to you in person, but it is truly impossible for me to venture beyond the porch under the watchful and still anxious eyes of my family. And as you have not sought me out, I am left with pen and paper as the means of communication. Mother, Father, Uncle, and even Anton Andreievich have regaled me with the story of how you successfully apprehended the coiffeur and elicited from him the life-saving antidote. The details of how that was accomplished are less clear. I am certain that Korobeinikov was present during the entire affair, but he would not meet my eyes when I asked how it was that you convinced the murderer to supply the cure, and he took his leave abruptly thereafter.
I imagine that a negotiation commenced once you became aware of Michel’s complicity. A sacrifice needed to be made, one that required you to lay aside your role as investigator and pursuer of justice. And I do not believe this to have been an inconsequential choice, instead, I feel the magnitude of it, the weighing of lives - freeing a murderer to maintain the life of another. That your evaluation tipped the scales in my direction causes me a great deal of wonder.
I remember you at my bedside, Yakov Platonovich. At first, I believed you to have been a hallucination. It is a hazy, half-formed memory. What is not hazy is the warm, stilling comfort your presence brought. My mind has been awhirl since that night, and my emotions have been unrelentingly forceful. My heart is full of unbounded love for family. Simple pleasures, the sweet morning twitterings of birds, the scent of baking breakfast buns, a candle’s dancing flames, imbue me with an almost rapturous delight. I understand this awakening to be associated with my recent grave affliction and expect to descend from the heavens and return to a less ecstatic existence in the coming weeks. And when that happens, I will undoubtedly regret penning these next words.
A deep connection exists between us, Yakov Platonovich, one that began earlier than you could possibly believe. It is a trust, an understanding, a sense of comfort that we experience in each other’s company. Could this association have endured without an interlocking of hearts? I think of that often, but I have come to no conclusion. I know that my affections have not faltered, no matter how much I may wish for them to subside. I reach for you, dear Yakov, in my dreams and in my waking hours. Given the slightest provocation, a mere hint of trouble, I immediately call up your visage; it is your name that tumbles forth from my lips.
It is not only my heart that I can read so clearly today. I feel yours, too. My soul understands your tender devotion and will not waver in its acceptance of what it has decided is fact. For these past few days, my head has been unable to dislodge this belief. I am not so foolish as to think it will last. My mind is clever and persevering and will find a way to thwart what the rest of myself knows to be true. I will latch onto unintended slights and missed opportunities for intimate conversation. A misinterpreted inflection, an ambiguous expression, an insignificant tease will easily refute the small voice that whispers reminders of past encounters - stolen glances, warm embraces, gentle caresses. I already mourn for my current state of confidence in these matters for I easily recall how readily I doubt the authenticity of subtle affections which you bestow.
My family cannot hope to confine me much longer. When I have been released, I shall deliver my words of gratitude once again, this time in the pleasure of your presence.
Affectionately yours,
Anna.