Him
"Krasivak! You move like my Grandmother!" Limonskiy calls over her shoulder. My heart still jumps every time she says it. Krasivak. Adah really is a sly one. "Fool," she told her—little does she know for the past weeks she's been calling me handsome at every chance she gets.
The first day she said it—after not speaking for weeks—my heart stopped. I couldn't have come up with something less likely to come out of her mouth. I could make fun of her, I could… but I won't. Some part of me doesn't want her to stop calling me it. Not that I'm dumb enough to analyze why.
The group reaches the lake and spreads out along the bank, already anxious to start. There are village people here too—lots of children. Laughter echoes around the clearing, along with shouts of joy and fear. Booms of laughter follow the thump of a fall, and cheers of triumph ring out when a fall is narrowly avoided. I feel the giddy, kid-like excitement settle in my stomach at such open displays of joy.
The weeks before the krasivak incident, as I like to call it, were some of the worst I can remember. The mix of the dreary weather, stern lectures from Hobbs and Stephens, and Limonskiy herself made for a terrible combination. I've seen downed animals with more life in their eyes. She walked around looking like a ghost—completely dazed. No life or spark made an appearance in her; no smile even shadowed her lips. Adah was particularly worried, saying something was haunting her. I said it looked more like she was doing the haunting.
Either way, I don't know what Adah said to her that day, or what they talked about, but her calling me krasivak seemed to be the turning point. She regained some life, and the winter feeling took over the house, making everything more bearable. Now I can hardly stop smiling.
I walk up next to Limonskiy, who is standing at the edge of the lake.
"You sure you're not scared?" I say, nudging her shoulder.
"You wish," she retorts indignantly, then gracefully steps onto the ice. She wasn't kidding about knowing her way around an ice rink. She moves like water—flowing, intentional, but natural. She weaves easily around clumsy adults and children alike. Her skirts swirl, and her usually tight hair starts to free itself from its low bun, curling gently around her face.
My breath stalls.
"You're not scared, are you, Krasivak?" She stops and looks at me teasingly. I've still not moved from my place at the edge of the rink.
"You wish." My voice isn't as strong as I'd like, and she scoffs—her suspicion seemingly confirmed. Unknown to her, the waver has nothing to do with the ice.
I finally move and make my way onto the ice. Her eyes sparkle, but her smile falters. I have no idea what to make of it. Everything about this girl makes me second guess myself.
Quite the pair, the two of us.
HER
This isn't the first time I've skated on a lake with staff. At my former house, the family arranged a skating festival of sorts for the village. People came and set up hot chocolate stands, sold tea and spices, cheeses and meats. It became a tradition. All the servants in the house were welcome to come, and not be on duty.
Last year I bundled up and made my way—laughing and joking with the rest of the staff—toward the rink. My hair was wild, unbound, floating around my face like a curly lion's mane as I lifted my skirts to run. My joy was unguarded and free. Skating was always such a pleasure to me—I danced around the rink, gliding to and fro.
A voice from the past cuts through my thoughts, sharp as ice.
"I don't think I've seen you have this much fun."
My breath catches. I stumble, but force myself forward, skating away from the ghost in my head.
Now is not then.
Now, I skate slowly, restrained, observing Aleksi. How can someone so large move so gracefully? Somehow he looks more natural on ice than on land.
His hair loosens and frames his face as his muscles shift visibly between his thin shirt. The air is warm, but all the other servants are still bundled up. Though he brought a jacket and mittens, he left them by the side of the lake. Instead, he wears only his simple shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
I'm struck by how natural he looks—just like last time—but also by how he draws the eyes of almost every woman on the rink.
Including mine.
I tear my eyes away, pulse fluttering. Foolish.
I shouldn't be watching him. I haven't cared about someone's appearance in a long time.
But I'm… aware of him. That's all.
The way his honey-coloured hair catches the winter light, how his grey eyes become even brighter against the snow—it's noticeable. That's all.
I shouldn't notice the way his lip snags slightly on his smile, making it boyishly lopsided. Or imagine what it would feel like to be held by someone so solid, so warm.
Of course I shouldn't.
And I don't.
I don't.
Yet for some reason, I can't keep my eyes away for too long. When I glance over again, I see them—three young village women, all laughter and flushed cheeks. One clings to his arm, pretending to lose balance. Another tucks a nonexistent stray hair behind her ear, batting her eyelashes up at him.
"Oh, you're so strong, Aleksi!" one of them giggles as he catches her.
I roll my eyes. I don't care. I refuse to care.
But the way he smiles at them—unbothered, at ease—grates against something in my chest.
It's ridiculous. I have no claim to his attention. I don't even want it.
And yet…
The way he tilts his head, the soft chuckle that rumbles from his chest—it's different from how he speaks to me. Warmer. More inviting.
My jaw tightens. I'm being stupid. It's not him. It's them. Their giggles, their helpless act. That's what's bothering me. Why a woman must pretend to be weak just to bolster the ego of a man is beyond me.
It's definitely not the fact he looks pleased about it.
Definitely not.
I skate off, desperate for a distraction. I spot Amber and Grace, who gesture me over, and I sigh in relief.
Unfortunately, it's not as distracting as I hoped.
"Would you look at that?" Amber says, nodding in the direction of the Krasivak commotion. Grace nods, looking forlorn.
"He laughs with them so easily! We've been flirting with him ever since he got here and he hasn't batted an eye." They look on with sad eyes while I process.
"You've been flirting with him?" I ask in shock.
"Of course! Have you seen him?" They pause for emphasis, casting longing looks his way.
"If only he had eyes for anyone but you."
I actually feel my jaw drop. They see my expression and burst out laughing. I cover my cheeks to hide the violent blush.
"Don't make such jokes."
"Oh come on, besides the people he came with he won't talk to anyone but you."
"That's because he despises me!" I'm getting more red by the second.
"You can say that until you're blue in the face. Doesn't mean it will be true. Anyone can see the way he looks at you."
I'm shaking my head before they're done.
"That's just ridiculous. I—"
"No, it's fact," Grace states firmly. "The only thing we can't figure out is you."
"There's nothing to figure out. We aren't even friends."
They just give me the look a parent gives a clueless child, and I know I won't get anywhere with them. I huff and skate away, hearing their giggles trail behind me.
I'm so lost in my own thoughts I don't see him until he gently brushes my arm to get my attention. Startled, I turn and am met with a warm, unfamiliar smile.
"Hello, Miss. Begging your pardon if this is too forward, but would you like to skate with me?"
I can immediately tell this man is a farmer—and most likely hails from the North. His words slip on some of the consonants and lilt in a way that almost sounds musical.
I know I am staring stupidly, but I can't help it. I'm once again returned to the memory.
—
"I don't think I've seen you have this much fun."
I nod, smiling easily, but professionally.
"Well—"
"Laura's favourite time of the year is the skating party." My Lady grins, gliding into the conversation—literally and figuratively.
"Lady Eliza, it is a pleasure," he says, voice smooth and luxurious.
"The pleasure is mine."
"Would you do me the honour of taking a turn about the lake with me?"
Lady Eliza blushes prettily, all grace and humility.
"The honour is mine." She puts her arm gently in his, throwing me a stealthily thrilled look—so fleeting no one else would see it. I grin, thrilled and in no way surprised.
They begin to leave, and I am turning away, when he catches my eye and smiles. I smile back, encouraging, and skate once again.
--
By the time I push the memory away, returning to the present, the farmer is already looking awkward and apologetic.
"Sorry, I'll, uh, just—" he starts, blushing.
I open my mouth—to refuse, to make an excuse, to escape. But no words come out.
The expectation in his warm brown eyes pins me in place. He seems… different.
Uncomplicated. Safe.
Nothing like… him.
Maybe that's why, before I can think better of it, I nod.
"Sure."
A beat of silence. He looks as surprised as I feel, and I want to hide, or run, or both. But seconds later, a wide, earnest grin blooms on his face and he offers his arm.
My stomach twists.
What have I done?