Chapter Text
Anna Viktorovna felt numb. Despite the balmy moist heat that had quickly replaced the cool rain, she shivered. She sat alone in Yakov’s cab - Inspector Shtolman’s cab. She had been directed there by someone. Yakov? Tikhon Efimivich? Anna could not recall that piece of her recent past. Yakov’s shocked, disappointed, angry face loomed large, smothering all other thoughts. Silent and frozen in time, Anna’s mind was locked on that moment when Yakov arrived at the Pirotsky apartment. The moment when she realized that she held the weapon that had been used to murder Yevgeny Pirotsky and that it was her letter opener, a truth of which she was certain despite the incongruity of such a thing.
The enticing smell of fresh-baked bread pulled Anna out of the past and into the present. The carriage was moving. Yakov sat beside her. When had he arrived? she wondered. Anna had failed to notice his arrival or their departure from the crime scene. Scanning the street that they traveled along, she quickly identified the source of the delicious smell. The impulse to halt the carriage and procure a fresh, chewy kalach was immediately quashed with one look at Yakov. Deep in thought, a worrying scowl imprinted on his features, he did not return her gaze or speak to her.
For the first time in their rocky relationship, Anna truly feared losing Yakov’s trust. Instances of past foolish behavior bombarded her. Her reckless and near-tragic interception of the ruthless murderer-for-hire Morel was chief among them. It was her worst transgression by far, as she had baited Anton Andreievich into accompanying her on that fiasco. How many times has she misplaced her confidence in a school acquaintance or a false mystic, defying Yakov’s warnings? Prince Razumovsky - Anna had tried hard to forget him. Her stubborn assurance of this duplicitous man’s fondness and care for her had led Yakov to the brink of death.
Anna realized that she had failed to discuss her dream of the apothecary with Yakov Platonovich not because she believed it to be irrelevant, but because she wanted to investigate it herself. Her subsequent visit to the pharmacy had not landed her in the mess she was in, it was true. But she would not have been near the Pirotsky apartment when it began raining except for having made the imprudent decision to question the pharmacist.
Rallied back into the present once again, Anna Viktorovna saw Tikhon Efimivich looking at her expectantly. The carriage had stopped in front of the precinct. Yakov was no longer by her side. Tikhon awaited her descent, a sympathetic, pained expression aging his youthful face. Anna breathed deeply and summoned her courage to face the haranguing that awaited her on the second floor.
Tikhon escorted Anna to the office he shared with Yakov Platonovich and left her there, not bothering with any pretense for escaping the impending showdown. The gravity of the situation was obvious, and Inspector Shtolman’s mood was anything but pleasant. Best to be anywhere else, Anna thought and considered turning tail to follow Tikhon. Instead, she checked her emotions, stifling the tears that wanted to be shed and ignoring the throbbing at her temples.
Yakov sat behind his grand and foreboding desk, shuffling papers. Anna crept in. She stared hard at him, longing for his gaze but frightened of what a look from Yakov might convey. Yakov continued to flip through files and scan photos, making use of his brass-handled magnifying glass, ignoring her completely. The random thought that Yakov would one day need glasses flitted through Anna’s mind. An image of Yakov Platonovich sporting oval, steel-framed spectacles, his sideburns tinged with gray, made Anna smile inwardly.
“Have a seat, Anna,” Yakov spoke, still not looking at her. Anna sank into the straight-backed chair parked in front of Yakov’s desk, her fanciful daydream extinguished.
“You understand how bad this is,” he began. He met her eyes then. The anger that had flared when Yakov first came upon her in the apartment still simmered, but his gaze now predominantly reflected exhaustion, or maybe it was exasperation. Anna nodded silently. She hoped she looked contrite. She certainly felt it.
“Why on earth did you go back there?”
“I wasn’t…,” Anna paused. The instinct to defend herself was hard to resist. but she would have to start her explanation with her dream, she decided.
“Last night I had a dream.” Anna searched Yakov’s expression for any change. He was, as usual, unreadable, apart from a state of general weariness and aggravation.
“Fodor’s Apothecary is linked to Marina’s death,” Anna continued. “Maybe…I dreamed of the shop and then a woman’s hand stirring tea.”
“And you decided to investigate on your own,” Yakov concluded. “I thought we had been over this, Anna.” He spoke as if uttering the words required immense effort. His glare had not softened. It bore into Anna. His disappointment stabbed her, hurting far more than Yakov’s hurled insult of You are a monster! all those months ago.
She had no defense. There was no excuse for her actions. She had even deceived herself.
“That does not explain how you came to be in the Pirotsky apartment,” Yakov stated.
“After I left the apothecary, it began to rain,” Anna replied. “I ran to the nearest shelter.” Quietly adding, “...the stoop at the apartment.”
Yakov sighed heavily. “Tell me the rest of it.”
“The door was open, I guess,” Anna went on. “When I backed up against it, it gave way. You entered just as I saw Yevgeny Pirotsky’s body.”
“Why did you have the letter opener?”
“Oh…I saw it lying on the floor and…it seemed odd–”
“--you didn’t bring it with you?” Yakov interrupted.
“No! I found it there, near the entry to the kitchen.”
“And you picked it up,” Yakov sighed again and ran his hand through his hair. He looked sternly at Anna.
“You returned to the Pirotsky apartment - a dangerous and foolhardy decision,” Yakov said. “Wandered through the rooms, disturbed evidence, handled the murder weapon–” Yakov’s voice grew louder and with each charge, his gaze became more piercing.
Anna opened her mouth to object but immediately thought better of it and closed it without a sound.
“--a murder weapon that came from your apartment! It is the one that the Tsarista gifted you, is it not?” Yakov demanded.
Anna bowed her head.
“I asked you a question, Anna.” Disapproval and ire packed every word with a punch that would have pained Anna less if it had been stones flung at her instead of Yakov’s accusations.
“Truthfully, I do not know, Yakov,” Anna answered. She raised her head to return Yakov’s gaze. No words came to her. None that could provide a defense or ease Yakov’s frustrations. She could only sit silently in front of his piercing stare, awaiting judgment. Yakov closed his eyes.
“Go home and find out,” he commanded.
Anna rose. She bit her top lip as she wordlessly made her way through the office door. She didn’t look back as she exited.