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The dull rhythmical throb of the Turkish drums kept the time beat by tedious beat, as carousing revellers availed themselves of the opportunity Maslenitsa brought. Petersburg swayed, drunkenly, to the melodies of innumerable brass bands joined by the warmer notes of plucked strings from balalaikas and banduras. The shrieks of children mingled with the loud voices of vendors calling out their wares. Some distance ahead, The Bell displayed its proud flag alongside the green curling fir-tree. The hour was yet too early for the truly debauched to have begun their roaming the streets.
Fyodor scanned the jostling crowd, willing the hastening of Vashka’s return. But in truth, asking for the ladle could take quite a bit of time. Especially when the ever-populous rabble came out in force. The common man adored a good fair, if not for its diverting execution of a barina, then certainly for the free-flowing brews of Bacchus in all their variety.
A tall figure caught his attention; recognition sank in. Prince Drubetskoy was squiring his lady about with an air of ennui tightly wrapped about him. Princess Drubetskaya laughed, perhaps at some remark her husband had made and Fyodor almost thought he heard her sharp voice upon the wind. A wince could be the only appropriate reaction. Fortunately, the noise of the fair covered up most of the egregious display. Idly, his eyes shifted to the duo just behind, lady and servant from the looks of them. The lady had her back to him and hidden away in her furred cap and mantle could hardly be recognised.
Still, a curious frisson ran past his nape, skittering across his spine.
Then the mystery woman turned, allowing him a glimpse of her profile. A far more superstitious man might have called her pull witchcraft. But Fyodor, who did not believe in spells or charms, had to concede the sheer power of attraction as product of the woman herself. He stood where he was content to bask in her presence. Countess Rostova spoke to the couple ahead, who had turned to listen, blind to his existence.
Lady Luck, benefactress of wagerers and risk-takers, smiled down upon him however, for within moments, Countess Rostova was surveying the crowds, eyes roaming the gathering of humanity. Her gaze alit upon him and paused. From within her nest of soft furs colour peeked, reddening her cheeks. He felt his lips quirk in response. Fyodor merely inclined his head at her, allowing her the option of declining a more formal acknowledgement if she so willed. He fully expected that she would turn her face away from him and resume following her companions whom he saw advancing.
But she surprised him and, breaking away from the safe confinements of known territory with no less a sense of accomplishment than a hatchling learning how to fly, started his way. Her servant followed along slower, calling out after her mistress. Fyodor deliberately fixed her approaching figure with an intense stare, wondering at the sudden willingness to approach him so openly.
She stopped short of him, the distance small enough that he could easily reach her if he wished it. Snow crunched under her slim half-boots whose rounded front peeped from beneath shyly from beneath a heavy hem. But it was her face that interested him rather. Countess Rostova stared up at Fyodor with indecision written in every line of her features. Some manner of internal war held her in its grip.
The devil in him could not resist such a tempting opportunity. “Should you not be off, lest you lose your way, Countess?”
Her eyes, guile and fire, speared him. All it wanted was for her arms to cross over her chest and she’d be a prime candidate for the lead role in a flirtation narrative. Before his thoughts could leap any further down that road, however, the woman spoke, the mere fact of her speech demanding all of his attention. “Why did you do it? Offer me comfort?” That entirely robbed their interaction of its mirth.
He could have easily come up with some lie to shield himself from any implications which the truth might give rise to. There was his duty as a gentleman towards the fairer sex, for a perfectly bland explanation. There was the excuse of chance. There was even the notion of a debt repaid; for having shown him her quality indeed all those years ago, Sofia Alexandrovna had unwittingly cast the light of hope into his life. And yet, why should Fyodor hide behind any of those reasons? “I wanted to.”
Were she any other woman, he’d have stepped closer to her then, slowly inveigling her into giving any other number of things he might want.
But she was Sofia Alexandrovna. Countess Rostova. Was not her honour a proven thing?
Whisps of steam curled around her as she breathed. “You care? Still?”
Much as he might wish that were not the case; Fyodor did, in fact, care to the smallest measure of his being. But he was not yet brought so low as to admit to it. Thus, he shrugged, letting her make of it what she would.
Countess Rostova shook her that. “That was impertinent. My apologies for asking. I had no right.” A hint of regret threaded those words. But in her bearing and in her face, he could find no sign of anything amiss. “You have my gratitude, Fyodor Ivanovich.”
With that, she turned on her heel, and taking hold of her servant’s arm, rushed the girl along, so they might catch up their own group.
As a lark, it was then that Vashka returned, drink in tow. Too late to intrude upon what could have swiftly turned into an awkward moment, yet far too early to altogether miss the effects of their meeting.
“Was that not Countess Rostova I saw you talking to just now?” His friend questioned, a knowing, sombre look in his eyes. Fyodor would have rather he teased and jested, making light of the whole thing. That at least could have fed into anger, rather than its pathetic counterpart which had sunk its claws into him. But Vashka had neither the heart, nor the wit to give quiet desperation a shove into ire.
“It is of no consequence,” he lied through his teeth, knowing the other man would not press. She had at lengths disappeared into the crowd, swallowed up by the sea of bodies. There was naught more to see.
He turned away.