Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 4

Savely leaned closer, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper. “Between us, sir… you should know. The Mirolyubovs, when Andrey was a young man, took him in. He’d found himself in trouble — an unpleasant affair, very dangerous. Originally, he was one of the… less lawful sort. A robber, of sorts. But he quarreled with the wrong people, and they intended to finish him off. He acted first, and then fled. The Mirolyubovs — kind souls — trusted him and hid him. Ever since, he has been faithfully at their service.”

Yarosvet nodded slowly, letting the story settle. The man’s past lent a new weight to his calm, silent efficiency. He glanced toward the door where the girls were now, warmth spilling from the bathhouse into the room, yet he kept the story in mind, understanding fully the depth of loyalty that could only be forged in blood and trust.

By the time Yarosvet had settled into the wicker armchair on the veranda, letting the sun’s warmth seep into his shoulders and thaw the lingering chill from the morning, Taissia and Lena appeared, freshly invigorated after the bath, guiding Asya toward him. The girl’s earlier pallor and wildness had ebbed; she now carried herself with the poise of someone who had reclaimed both warmth and composure. Her frame, still slender, gleamed with a quiet vitality, and the wild shimmer in her dark, almond-shaped eyes had softened into an alert intelligence.

She halted before Yarosvet’s chair, lowering her head in a formal, almost deferential bow. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, her accent still noticeable, careful and precise, “for saving me. I… I do not know how to repay you.”

Yarosvet waved the concern aside, a gentle smile playing at the corners of his lips. “It is nothing at all, Asya. Any young lady in trouble deserves a helping hand. Consider this but a trifle.”

He gestured to the space beside him. “Sit, if you will. And, as thanks, tell me your story — how you came to be in that cellar, and all that befell you. I wish to hear it from you directly.”

Asya hesitated for a moment, then, with the same quiet decorum, moved to take the seat next to him, her posture poised yet relaxed, her gaze meeting his with a mixture of gratitude and curiosity. The morning sunlight pooled around them, warming not only their bodies but the moment itself, lending a sense of calm and promise to the day that had begun in chaos.

Her’s story began in a small aul tucked against the foothills of the Kuban mountains, where the wind ran sharp through the narrow valleys and the sun gilded the peaks at dawn. Her family was poor, fragile against the world’s cruelty. Her father was gone, her mother dead, and the elder brothers, pressed by necessity, sought a path for her survival, arranging her passage through a shadowed middleman. It was a life she did not choose, yet one she could not refuse.

She had been brought to the Polivanov estate almost by chance. The merchant, widowed and hard, had turned to the trade in human lives, yet in her he saw something of a daughter lost to time — a spark that stayed his hand. He did not sell her; she became a quiet presence in the house, inhabiting the daughter’s abandoned rooms, wearing her faded dresses, learning the rhythm of an empty home. She spoke little, observing more than acting, moving among the corridors and stairways like a ghost known only to itself.

The sons of the house — initially wary, suspicious of the quiet shadow among them — soon ignored her entirely, absorbed in their own schemes and follies. She performed small duties: tidying, carrying, tending, ever careful not to leave a trace beyond necessity. The house became her world, its walls the measure of her days, its silences a companion more constant than any human.

When Polivanov died, two years past, the estate fell into neglect. The sons’ quarrels and mismanagement emptied the rooms of servants, furniture, and order. Asya left briefly, but no other place offered her the security of the house she knew by memory: each stair, each doorframe, each window ledge, every shadow familiar. She returned, and it became her refuge. She lived among the quiet, gathering what sustenance she could, drawing water from the well, foraging for berries, and preserving the habits and belongings of the girl who had once been the mistress. In the deserted rooms, she grew cautious, alert, and endlessly patient, a creature of the house’s rhythms as much as of her own will.

Her days unfolded in careful routines, each a small act of survival. At dawn, she would slip quietly into the overgrown orchard, eyes scanning for the twitch of rabbit ears or the gleam of a bird among the tangled branches. Fingers nimble, she set snares and traps, learning the rhythms of the wild as she had learned the rhythms of the house. When supplies ran low, she would wade to the riverbank, scooping up crusted bread discarded by passing travelers or gathering shellfish in secret coves, always alert for the sound of distant hooves or human voices.

Strangers’ visits turned the estate into a labyrinth of hiding places. Bank inspectors, curious passersby, or wandering peasants might appear unexpectedly; she would vanish to the attic, crouched in the dust and shadows, listening to their footsteps echo across the empty floors. The creak of a shutter, the faint jingle of a distant key — each sound a signal, each pause a potential threat. Sometimes she would peer from behind the faded curtains, eyes wide, heart thudding, but never revealing herself.

Even in solitude, she occupied the house with quiet authority, tending what little garden could still bear fruit, mending tattered clothing, and arranging the few remnants of the Polivanov household as if to honour its absent mistress. Her survival was a blend of instinct and ingenuity: catching game, conserving food, avoiding notice, and mastering the precise balance between movement and stillness. Nights were spent curled near the hearth, or in the shadows of the attic, listening to the wind through the broken shutters, tracing every memory of the house as though mapping a secret world.

Though months passed in isolation, she did not feel lost. The estate had become both sanctuary and mentor, teaching patience, resourcefulness, and quiet vigilance. In every shadow, in every hidden corner, she had learned the art of being unseen yet alert, resilient yet graceful — a solitary force in a house that no longer belonged to anyone else but her.

When her story of trials and solitude drew to a close, Yarosvet spoke, his voice low and measured, each word carefully considered. “And… your real name? What did your parents call you?”

Asya met his gaze steadily. “Aisha,” she said, each syllable careful, tinged with the accent that marked all her speech. She paused, then added, “But… with Polivanov… they call me Asya. Easier for them, I think.”

“I see,” he said. “Aisha is the name you were born with, and Asya is what the house gave you.”

A faint shadow of a smile crossed her face, fleeting but present. “Yes… Asya. It… fits me here. Not wrong, not bad… just… different.”

He let the moment hang quietly. “And now,” he continued, “you may stay Asya, or Aisha, whichever feels like home. No one here will demand otherwise.”

Her dark eyes glimmered with something between surprise and relief. “Home,” she repeated, tasting the word. “I… like… home.”

Taissia, who had listened quietly until now, finally spoke, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “And… Asya, how old are you, then?”

Asya blinked, counting on her fingers, her voice hesitant but deliberate, each number carefully measured. “I… fourteen… fifteen… maybe fifteen when… Polivanov… bought me. Now… now I… eighteen.” She paused, as if tasting the number on her tongue, then nodded slightly, confirming it.

Taissia exchanged a glance with Yarosvet, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Eighteen,” she murmured, as if committing it to memory, “and already so much lived.”

Lena could not help herself. “Asya,” she said with a mischievous sparkle, glancing at Yarosvet, “you have… quite an interesting figure.”

Asya’s cheeks flushed immediately, and she lowered her gaze, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.

“Have you always been so… slight?” Lena pressed, curiosity twinkling in her eyes. “Or did all this… hunger of yours change you recently?”

Asya considered the question, her voice soft, hesitant, but still carrying the accent that coloured her speech. “I… never was plump,” she admitted, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Though I… never lacked appetite.”

Yarosvet’s voice carried a gentle curiosity. “And what is so unusual about the figure of a tall, slender girl?” he asked, his tone warm, inviting.

Lena’s lips curved into a sly, knowing smile. “One must… see for oneself,” she said, her gaze flicking between Asya and Yarosvet.

Yarosvet turned to Asya. “And you… what do they mean by that? Can you… show?”

Asya’s eyes widened slightly, a flush creeping across her cheeks. She looked around, seeking some hint of support from Taissia.

Taissia, however, offered none. She leaned back slightly, her tone casual but firm. “Here, we are all friends. No one has reason to be shy.”

Asya’s gaze flitted between them and Yarosvet, her hands fidgeting at her lap. Her blush deepened, and she remained silent, caught between curiosity, embarrassment, and the strange comfort of their company.

Lena let her hand brush lightly against Asya’s arm, a teasing spark in her voice. “You know… in the bath, you didn’t seem at all shy. And now — are you embarrassed around Yarosvet? Never… been with a man, perhaps?”

Asya’s cheeks deepened in colour, her eyes flicking to the floor. A rush of heat mixed with a strange, unfamiliar curiosity coursed through her, and she felt caught between shame and a quiet wonder. Her lips parted slightly, then pressed together, as if to stop the tremor in her voice. She murmured, “No… never… they — Polivanov… and the sons… they… never…” Each word trembled with memory, the echo of fear and caution lingering in her chest.

Lena arched an eyebrow, half in amusement, half in curiosity. “Really? Not once? Never tried? Never touched?”

Asya swallowed hard, her fingers tightening slightly at her sides. Her eyes darted to Yarosvet, seeking the calm anchor he always provided, yet she could not hide the whirlwind inside: a mingling of disbelief, awkwardness, and the faintest glimmer of wonder at the world beyond her solitude.

Taissia’s eyes softened as she looked at Asya. “You see… it was Yarosvet who saved all of us,” she said gently, her voice carrying both warmth and quiet authority. “He helped me escape from the police, from that hateful, alien family that sought to control me.”

Lena leaned closer, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And he saved me from poverty,” she added, “from having to wonder how to sell myself or my… talents for a few extra coins. He’s made things different for all of us.”

Taissia smiled, the edges of her mouth curving with a light teasing warmth. “So you see, he is for us like a father — to daughters, a husband — to wives, a master — to those in love who are… devoted to him. To feel embarrassed around him now is as foolish as being shy of a doctor whose only wish is to help.”

Asya’s chest tightened slightly at the words, her mind swirling between gratitude, awe, and the faint, strange flutter of something unfamiliar. She looked from Taissia to Lena, then to Yarosvet, and a small, hesitant smile tugged at her lips. Perhaps, she thought, it really was time to stop fearing the very hand that had reached out to guide her.

Yarosvet’s voice came as a balm to the charged silence that followed the girls’ words. “My dear Asya,” he said quietly, with that unhurried warmth that made his tone sound both paternal and intimate, “they forgot to tell you one thing. Here, nothing is ever done by force. Everything that happens under this roof — every touch, every confession — exists only because someone wants it to. You are free to keep whatever you hold within you, just as you are free to share it, when and if your heart desires. No one will demand it of you.”

He spoke without ceremony, as if reminding her of some natural law rather than proclaiming a rule, and in that calm assurance there was a strange power — gentler, perhaps, than command, yet no less firm.

Then, with a faint smile that softened the depth of his gaze, he let the tension slip away, as one releases a hand too tightly held. “Tell me,” he said, almost conversationally, “have you ever been to Rostov-on-Don?”

The sudden ordinariness of the question, its earthy geography after so much hidden trembling, seemed to unfasten the spell that had bound the air.

Asya’s fingers tightened faintly upon her knee, and for a heartbeat she seemed to weigh her answer, as though the question had stirred something best left unsaid.

“I was there once,” she said quietly. “Not long before… all was over. When they close the gates and send servants away. I go with them, to Rostov. I think — maybe I find work, or little place to sleep.”

Her voice steadied, but her gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, toward some dim memory that still smouldered in her mind. “City was too big, too loud. Too many people, too much talk. I try stay with woman from kitchen, but she have no room, no time. After one week I come back. No place else for me.”

She gave a small, helpless shrug, the corner of her mouth twitching in a shadow of a smile. “I not made for city life, I think. City make you small. Like you can vanish, and nobody care.”

The words hung in the air with that fragile, trembling honesty peculiar to her nature — not a complaint, but the quiet confession of someone who had already known disappointment too soon.

Yarosvet watched her in silence for a moment that seemed longer than it was. Something in the simplicity of her words — that unpolished, unguarded truth — touched a deeper chord than any display of tears could have done.

He did not reach for her hand nor offer comfort; instead, his manner softened, the way light softens when passing through dust-laden glass. “It’s no small thing,” he said at last, his tone even, deliberate, yet with a trace of warmth beneath. “To go away and then come back — not because someone waits for you, but because the place itself calls you back.”

He gave a faint, almost invisible nod, as if to confirm his own thought. “You may not have chosen the house, Asya, but it seems the house has chosen you.”

His words were neither pity nor praise — rather, a kind of recognition, quiet and grave, as one survivor to another. And for an instant, Asya’s eyes lifted to his with the uncertain gratitude of a creature unused to being understood.

Taissia, who had been following their exchange with that feline attentiveness of hers, let her gaze linger on Asya with a quiet curiosity.

“Your accent…” she began, drawing out the vowels as though tasting them. “It’s not from here, is it? Who are you really — by blood, I mean? You sound as if half your words were born somewhere south of the Don.”

Asya hesitated, uncertain whether to smile or withdraw. “My father — Kabardian, my mother — also from mountains, like me. We… all Circassian,” she said slowly, her r soft, her vowels drawn and uneven. “I call myself Asya here, but my parents — they gave me Aisha.”

Taissia nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips, as if she had solved a pleasant riddle. “That explains it,” she said. “You’ve got that tone — like there’s always a song hiding in your speech.”

Asya lowered her eyes, a faint, uncertain smile touching her lips. “I try to talk plain,” she murmured, “but sometimes it slips through.”

Lena, lounging nearby, gave a soft laugh. “Don’t try too hard,” she said. “It suits you.”

Taissia could not contain her curiosity. She bent slightly toward Asya, hands resting lightly on her knees, eyes intent. “If… if you were sold, and then again, and ended up with Polivanov… how did you avoid… the attention of men?” Her question trembled between caution and genuine wonder.

Asya’s dark, almond-shaped eyes dropped, tracing a line on the veranda floor. She inhaled softly, then let her words spill slowly, each one weighted with memory, each pause trembling like a careful step on fragile ice. “At… at first… they… they value my… my virgin,” she whispered, accent thick and curling each consonant around the syllables. “They… they not… let anyone… spoil it.”

Her gaze flickered up, catching Taissia’s eyes for a fleeting moment. “And… when… I… come to Polivanov… he, old man… he see in me… his… his dead daughter. He… he guard me.” Her voice wavered, the faintest quiver betraying her lingering grief. “Harsh… yes… frightening… sometimes… but… with me… he… he was gentle. I… I am sorry… he… he gone.”

The veranda seemed to pause with her, the air suspended, warm sunlight brushing over the quiet tension. Taissia and Lena shared a glance of muted sympathy, while Asya’s shoulders slowly eased, the weight of long-hidden memories settling into the quiet trust of those listening.

Taissia’s curiosity refused to relent. She leaned in, a mischievous glint in her eyes, voice softer now, almost conspiratorial. “And… and you, Asya… never… never wish to… be with a man? Never… never feel… love?”

Asya froze, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of her skirt. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes darted between Taissia and Yarosvet, a mixture of embarrassment, hesitation, and something like wonder flickering across her face. She swallowed, the words coming slowly, thick with accent and careful weight. “I… I… never… think… like that. Not… not with them. Not… not there. I… I… had… other… other… things… to live… to… survive.”

Her gaze fell to the sunlit floorboards, and for a long moment she remained silent, letting the question hover in the warm air, unspoken desires and fears suspended between them.

Yarosvet smiled, a gentle warmth in his grey-brown eyes, and spoke with a calm, even tone. “Now, Asya, you will have plenty of time — not only to visit Rostov, but to… experience life, to feel, to grow, perhaps even to love. There will be time for everything a girl ought to have.”

He paused, glancing around the old, quiet rooms, then returned his gaze to her. “Tell me… how much do you think will need to be done inside? What shape is your house really in?”

Asya blinked, genuine surprise softening her dark, almond-shaped eyes. “You… you buy… house… never… never look inside?” she asked, accent thickening each syllable.

Yarosvet let out a low, easy laugh, the kind that brushed off concern without dismissing it. “I was rather… preoccupied with saving you,” he admitted, his smile hinting at both amusement and apology. “The rest… there simply was no time for the rest.”

Asya’s mouth opened slightly, a mixture of disbelief and admiration crossing her face, as though trying to imagine the audacity of a man buying a house without ever stepping inside — yet she could not help a faint, amused smile at his explanation.

Asya drew a small, thoughtful breath, her dark eyes flicking toward the distant memory of the old Polivanov house. “House… it… it good,” she began, accent thickening each word, “for… for my taste, yes. Not… not like this one,” — she gestured faintly at the sunlit room around them — “but… one can… live there. Furniture… almost none — taken… all gone. Dirt… yes, much… need clean. Floors… not broken. Wallpaper… need… change in places, paint… little touch. Still… it… can live, yes.”

Her tone carried the quiet authority of someone who had known the house intimately for years, who had survived within its walls and read each corner like a map of her life. Even in her simple words, a sense of care and measured judgment shone through, as if she had walked its empty rooms a thousand times, imagining what could be restored and what could not.

Yarosvet adopted a mock-serious tone, his gaze settling on Asya as if measuring the weight of her opinion. “So, in other words,” he said slowly, “you do not recommend tearing the house down and building a new one in its place.”

Asya’s eyes widened in sudden alarm. Her hands shot up, fingers splayed. “No! No, no… house… it… it cannot be broken! Old… old and… good!” Her voice trembled with a mixture of shock and indignation, accent thickening each syllable.

Yarosvet chuckled, the stern mask slipping from his features. “I jest, Asya. You are the mistress here — your judgment rules. If you say the house lives, then live it shall.”

A small, relieved smile flickered across Asya’s face, and she nodded, her tension easing as the absurdity of the imagined destruction faded into laughter.

Lena’s brow furrowed as she asked, “Do you… have any papers?”

Asya blinked, slightly puzzled, her accent thickening her halting speech. “Papers? I… I no understand.”

Yarosvet, however, caught the meaning instantly. “We will need to address this soon,” he said softly, his tone careful yet assured. “Once Taissia’s own papers are in order, we shall go to Rostov without delay and see that every necessary document for you is properly arranged — so that you may be recognised as the rightful mistress of the Polivanov estate. Nothing must be left unfinished.”

Asya’s eyes widened, disbelief and awe warring in their depths. “I… I understand right?” she asked. “You… you serious? You… spend so much money for it?”

Yarosvet looked at her with a boyish mischief, his gaze bright and teasing. “Formally, yes,” he said. “Once the transaction with Rudnev is complete, I will be recorded as the owner of the estate. But in practice… I cannot give it the attention it deserves. That part — managing, maintaining, making it liveable — will be entirely yours. You shall be its mistress in every meaningful sense. For that, of course, you must have all your documents in order.”

Yarosvet’s gaze flicked briefly to Taissia and Lena, noting the subtle expressions on their faces. Neither betrayed the slightest trace of envy or resentment; their eyes, bright and attentive, held only curiosity and warmth, as if sharing in Asya’s astonishment rather than begrudging it.

Noticing his glance, Taissia spoke up, her voice careful yet lively. “Perhaps we should consult Yeseniya. She might help — or offer some useful idea.”

Yarosvet arched an eyebrow. “And what sort of idea do you mean?”

Taissia’s eyes flicked to Asya, then back to him. “The estate… we might find a way to use it in the interests of our… mission. So that, even if it doesn’t earn its keep, at least it won’t become a financial burden.”

A faint, approving smile tugged at Yarosvet’s lips. “Prudent thinking,” he said, his tone warm. “I admire your foresight.”

Asya’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, yet carried a trace of curiosity. “Excuse… what mission you mean?”

Her eyes flicked between Taissia and Yarosvet, sharp and perceptive despite her gentle tone, as if she understood far more than she allowed herself to speak.

“Yarosvet,” Taissia began, “is a man unlike any other. He has… unusual gifts — ways of helping certain women ensure they bear the right children, the ones who might thrive and shape their lives well.” She paused, letting the idea settle, then continued, “In town, we have a friend — Yeseniya — who leads a considerable women’s society. She has already aided us greatly in many ways. She is wise, influential, and utterly trustworthy. She could help with your papers, guide you in the estate, and perhaps even shield us from men like Rudnev and others who might bring trouble.”

Asya listened attentively, her dark eyes reflecting both awe and curiosity, clearly weighing the possibility that such allies truly existed, and that she was not entirely alone in the world.

Yarosvet considered for a moment, then said, “Perhaps it is best we pay her a visit without delay. There is no need to await word from Inga about Taissia’s documents. I must settle the matter of transferring funds and paying for the estate, and Rudnev’s office is, naturally, in town as well.”