fading whispers., viktor

[laurel bennet]

The first whispers of dusk painted the gray sky with thin wisps of purple and pink breaking through the gloom that had shrouded London for the day. A thin film of fog curled between the still-yellow grass, twirling above the dampened path. The park was still. It was too early for London’s vagrants and too late for society, making Laurel feel as though she were the only person in the world. Her skirts brushed against the path way with a soft breathy rustle, occasionally a small stone would scatter before her. Save for that, the park was still, serene, perfect.

Her eyes never stopped searching, flitting from shadow to shadow as she made her way along the winding path. Should anyone see her here, alone, it would mark a scandal. Ever since arriving in London it seemed as though her entire life was devoted to remaining above suspicion. The lies had grown tiresome. Laurel longed for the day where she could share all of her secrets with someone, to finally exist without another pulling the strings of her corset tighter. The lie, while necessary, dictated her every word, every action. She could never escape it, who she was held no merit of its own. Instead she had to pretend to be someone less disappointing.

A flash of red caught her eye as she rounded a corner shaded by large oak trees. Red tulips bobbed against the soft breeze, their petals slowly curling inward against the setting sun. Stooping, Laurel plucked one, twirling the acidic green stem between her fingers idly as she continued.

The path forked before her, and Laurel turned right. A few feet away a wrought iron bench sat facing a small pond hidden beneath a large willow. The branches were still bare with only small green buds breaking free from the brown expanse. Quickening her pace, she rushed to the bench. She had found this place by accident while on a walk with her grandmother. They had come here to feed the ducks, and when there had been none they had sat in silence until a small brass inscription had caught Laurel’s attention. Lillian Esther Alcott, beloved daughter. When she had questioned her grandmother she had bristled, waving off the bench as their only way of remembering their daughter – after all, she had not left them with a body to bury. Then, before Laurel could ask her anything else, Mrs. Alcott had risen and started back up the path. The topic had remained closed after that.

Her fingers gently traced the inscription as she sat. This bench was all she had left of her mother. She liked to imagine that this spot was somewhere her mother had come to as a young girl; that as she looked out upon the glassy water she had grappled with the same questions Laurel did now. Perhaps this was where she had come to meet with her father in secret. A smile crossed Laurel’s lips as she envisioned them together, holding hands as they strolled, whispering promises for their future to one another. A deep longing seized her until she felt hollowed out by her desire. The memory of her parents dimmed with each day and she lived in constant fear that one day it would extinguish. When that day arrived all she would have left was the lie her life had become. There were times where Laurel felt as though she were nothing more than a memory. Who would care if she vanished?

“Mama,”

[/color] she whispered, tucking the tulip between the elaborately curlicued iron design on the bench. As the gentle breeze carried her prayer heavenward and wrapped itself around her, Laurel could almost feel her mother beside her once more. [/size][/blockquote]

[viktor petrovich]

Two birds on a wire
One tries to fly away
And the other
Watches him close
From that wire


TWO BIRDS , regina spektor
- - - - - - -

THERE MAY WELL have been hope for London after all, Mr Petrovich admitted irritably to himself. When he’d first found himself amongst the bustling streets of London, it had surely been only the beginning of the New Year. Some month and a half beforehand he had bid a fond farewell to the starkly beautiful snow-blanketed Russia. Vitya had finally arrived in the city of questionably grey slush and the damp disheartening winds that the foreigner soon imagined were quite characteristic of England. Indeed, Viktor’s favour of this city had been ill.

With much tardiness, though, came shy hints of spring and it had seemed that Persephone herself had decided to give at least some mind to the pitiful island of Britain. Reticent yellow daffodils had sprung optimistically from busy walkways and paths for several weeks now. Although Viktor sought no solace in the gayness of the yearly blooms –for he found such a subject to be created for the idle thoughts of women folk- it was indeed a much fairer sight than the grey and paltry landscape that often seemed to envelope the city completely.

Mr Petrovich rarely had the time or inclination for the silliness of flower-viewing, though. He was, as always, deeply immersed with his duties within London, and in turn making a name for himself as well as a profit. But with the pokes and prods of his well-meaning albeit nosey aunt, Viktor had felt obliged to take a turn about the nearby Regent’s Park. If not for a short while. His constitution was a strong one, but the crisp and chipper air of a new season remained sweet in his lungs and cleared his head of dusty ledgers and long nights beside dim oil lamps.

Passing under the lazy boughs of a willow tree, Viktor paused briefly to inspect the trickling stream to his side that followed his journey. A very lively stream, no doubt, but a bit murky, the young man decided with considerable distaste. The sweeping vines of the voluptuous tree cradled him from the rest of the world for one simple moment. Thin shy leaves dusted his head lovingly. A light breeze swept between the bunched branches, the shiver of sound urging him on his walk. Viktor had rarely been one to sit or stand idly, even as he was relaxing. He was a man of missions and accomplishments. A simple tree would not be something to sooth his particular nature.

His polished boots crunched pleasantly beneath him as he strolled with curious purpose along the circling paths. His heart did not sigh and weaken with the incoming view of young parents with a small toddling child. Only briefly did Viktor consider the twins whom he’d left back home. Vera and Tatiana, the only half-siblings in which he felt any real fondness for had turned ten some half year ago, and besides his father were the only family members he truly reminisced over. If ever. But like Viktor, the young child wobbling past him on unsteady feet would likely have his share of many a half-sibling due to his mother’s vile lusts. Or, he may gain several relations and remain completely oblivious to them. Viktor did not have the pleasure of his mother’s indiscretions remaining closeted. Rather, he must look them in the eye and smile. Indeed there was certainly nothing to tempt Mr Petrovich into welcoming a family of his own with open arms. Not for some time.

Passing the family without a nod of recognition, the gentleman turned about the park for quite some time before realising he’d been quite enjoying his solitude among the silent gardens. With little forewarning Viktor suddenly startled upon a quiet figure seated upon an intricately curved bench. The heady aroma of the dusky evening blooms arrested his sense, as did the curiously solitary girl before him. Clearing his throat graciously, Viktor acted quickly, though his expression was not as welcoming as one would hope for. All the same, his countenance warmed fractionally. From pleasantries or challenge, it was unsure.

”Miss Bennet,” he greeted her, voice thick. He bowed deeply. “How curious to make your acquaintance in such a place.” Viktor paused with pregnant meaning, “You are come unaccompanied on this evening, pray?” Viktor stood awkwardly, unable to invite himself to the bench so rudely. A gust of perfumed wing rustled the thick foliage which sheltered the couple, the fading champagne light slinking heavily along the path at their feet. Viktor did not meet her eyes. “Have you been somehow abandoned?”

[laurel bennet]

“Miss Bennet…” His voice was filled with deliberate softness blanketing the gruffness she had come to associate with Viktor Petrovich; the same demeanor that Laurel knew he would never be able to fully mask beneath acts of contrived politeness. She sat, staring ahead at the mirrored surface of the pond, watching as the cool evening breeze danced in gentle ripples across it. She could almost smell the sweet breath of change within its knowing caress as it tangled in her hair and kissed her cheeks. With a sigh Laurel closed her eyes and drank in the bittersweet memories that encircled her.

She was a girl again dressed in her favorite blue calico with a white pinafore tied in a neat bow behind her back. The hair ribbons her aunt had intended to tame her curls had come undone, the soft satin streamers curling alongside her dark ringlets as they flicked against her cheeks. “Laurel, you best be gettin’ back here! You can’t be expecting me to fix breakfast alone!” A breathy giggle escaped Laurel as she continued to run further from the cottage and into the soft sloping valley. The grass, still laden with dew, wet her skirts, dirt creating thick bands along the hem. She would get a lecture for that in addition to her rebellion that morning. But it was worth it. Besides, everyone knew that her assistance with any meal would render that dish inedible. Instead Laurel continued to run until she could no longer hear her aunt’s shrill voice beckoning her to return.

The barn door slammed, her cousin Robert announcing loudly that he was going to find her and then she’d be in real trouble. Her heart felt tight in her chest as she lowered herself to the ground, unconsciously rubbing the fading bruises on her side from the last time he had deemed himself to be her disciplinarian. He punished her because he could – because he was bigger and stronger and she couldn’t fight back; because she was their ward and his parents would always believe his word over her own. “Orphan,” she muttered bitterly. That one word condemned her and made her less than the rest of the family. Robert took every opportunity to remind her of her precarious position within Bennet household. While she may hold their name she would never truly belong.

For a moment she considered surrendering, standing up and walking toward Robert so that he would bestow some mercy the next time his parents were in town. Steeling herself, Laurel held up her skirts and began to crawl toward the large willow tree that stood vigil in the center of the field. It wouldn’t be long before Robert found her there and dragged her back to the cottage. This was where she always came; it was her safe haven, a home of her own creation. There she partook in tea parties with kings and queens, dashing princes would ask her to waltz. Beneath the soft canopy she felt sheltered and loved.

Lying on her back she stared up at the sky, now a delicate lace of green and blue. A hawk drifted lazily overhead turning in slow circles on a current of air. For a moment she remained still, watching the solitary bird and wishing they could trade places, if only for a minute. To soar high above the earth with nothing pinning her to the ground; to forever feel the wind against her back and live without restraint. The hawk was not a prisoner. There was no one to tell it where to go and how to behave. Instead it was free.

Laurel sprang to her feet and ran past the towering willow that sheltered her and up a small hill. She no longer cared if Robert would spy her as she outstretched her arms and began to spin. Faster and faster she went until the world melted away. Gravity lost its hold and she was flying, soaring alongside the hawk without a care. She was free. With a euphoric laugh Laurel raced down the hill imagining the grass and wild flowers beneath her feet to be downy clouds. Nothing could catch her.

“Gotcha.” A firm hand gripped her forearm with more force than necessary clipping her wings once more. “Whatever Mama’s going to do to you will be nothing. Just you wait, Laurel, I’m gonna make sure you never forget this lesson.” Fear traced its icy fingers along her spine eliciting a shudder. Robert laughed as he leaned down to tuck a curl behind her ear. “I think you do it on purpose because you like getting caught.” Laurel remained silent, not trusting her voice as he led her back to the cottage, never releasing his iron grip. She may have wings but would forever remain caged.

- - - - -

Freedom was nothing more than an illusion. Her time in London had only strengthened her conclusion. Everyone merely coveted the cage of another never realizing that it would merely hold them in a different prison. In the end the design of the cage didn’t matter only its use. As much as she longed for someone to set her free, Laurel knew that her fate was to be placed in a gilded cage and paraded around for others to admire. She had no doubts that her grandmother had her future decided and that her opinions would be silenced beneath the weight of her gratitude. She had no cause to complain about her current situation, not after the life she had been saved from. The thought of spending her life married to Robert was enough to make her ill.

Still, freedom existed for her within the confines of her mind. Try as they might no one could control her thoughts and dictate what she should or shouldn’t dwell on. Lately it seemed as though her grandmother meant to control those as well. Conversation always centered around the topic of her choosing, never Laurel’s. Since the party to welcome Viktor Petrovich to London he had become the only topic of any interest. Teas were filled with fanciful tales of him wrestling a bear with his bare hands and of his search for a fair England rose to be his bride. His desired wife would have all the attributes a young debutante was to possess and the fortunate girl would have the distinction of marrying someone in line for the throne, no matter how distant. She had no doubt how these tales came to fruition. He was a man who divulged nothing and in doing so he enabled the idle minds of society to occupy themselves at his expense. She wondered briefly, as her eyes rose to meet his, if he minded the scrutiny. Perhaps she was not the only one to feel caged.

He bowed stiffly as she rose and curtsied. “Mr. Petrovich,” she acknowledged demurely not meeting his knowing gaze. Of everything she had heard about him Laurel was certain of one thing: he loathed her most of all.

She pulled her heavy wool cloak, a deep navy blue, closer, her fingers nervously knotting around its satin ribbons as she watched him and attempted to gauge his reaction. As with their first encounter he remained impassive, an impenetrable stone that betrayed nothing. This was not the first time she had been found unescorted. Fear coursed through her rendering her paralyzed. She could not speak, could not move. Instead she waited for his next word – one that was capable of causing her wobbly foundation to finally collapse. He had already caused her spirit to crumble with a word and now he could do the same for her reputation.

Shadows curled around him as the evening overpowered the fading whispers that remained of the day. In their gray-blue light Viktor appeared more foreboding than she remembered. He did not move and Laurel desperately wished she could read his face, to know his thoughts. “How curious to make your acquaintance in such a place.” Viktor paused allowing her time to understand the meaning that was veiled beneath politeness. The words and condemnation he would not speak aloud carried more meaning than what he said. “You come unaccompanied on this evening, pray? Have you been somehow abandoned?”

Again his words pierced to the truth of her. Before him Laurel felt exposed and vulnerable. The fear she felt beneath his gaze was different from what she had experienced with Robert. This was not a blinding fear where all she could focus on was his movements and words. Instead it brought everything else into focus, sharpening with each erratic beat of her heart. Despite all reason she felt as though Viktor could see beyond her mask and despised her for wearing it. The lies that enshrouded her unraveled, their gossamer threads carried away by the softest breath of knowledge. Whenever she thought about it – which was often given her grandmother’s persistence to sway her opinion of him – Laurel knew that how she felt about him was not rational. How could he know everything about her when she knew nothing in return? The lies her grandmother had woven for them were guarded and there would be no slip of tongue.

The undeniable truth in his question unnerved her. Her entire life she had known nothing but the bitter sting of abandonment. She often wondered if there were people that were created to be unloved and undesired. If such people existed, Laurel Bennet was certain she was one of them. Who she was would never be enough. Instead she was always being asked to play a different role. All of her feelings about Viktor were nothing more than wishful fantasies. He had made it clear that a girl like her would never be worthy of his attention.

Viktor did not meet her gaze as she stared at him. There was only one acceptable response: a lie. He had provided her with the necessary escape in his question. Laurel knew the part she was to play. She merely had to act afraid and tell him that her escort had run off leaving her alone. They would both be spared the embarrassment of the truth. Her rebellious nature was forever casting a cloud over both herself and whoever would venture close to her. “I—” The lie died on her lips. No matter his desire to accept it as truth they would both know her deceit and Laurel could not bring herself to form the words. “I hadn’t realized it was so late. I should return home before I am missed.” Her fingers absently traced the bench’s inscription, seeking her mother’s strength. Slowly her thoughts returned to the reason she sought the silent embrace of the park: she wished to be free, for her thoughts to have wings once more.“Do you ever worry that you’ll forget the sound of your own thoughts?” Realization seized her, a soft blush blossoming beneath her pallid skin. “Forgive me, Mr. Petrovich, I forgot myself.”

With those words Laurel sank back into the unforgiving and cold embrace of the lie that controlled her life. She hadn’t forgotten herself, for a moment she had remembered who she was.

[viktor petrovich]

This house, it's a trap
One I cannot escape
So I'll pretend it's
The place that I love
Won't let it pass me by again.


OUT THROUGH THE CURTAIN , the hush sound
- - - - - - -

A COOL BREEZE hissed across and between the lush foliage that cradled the couple, whispering so many words that would go unspoken between them. This was no world for the bold or loquacious. Theirs was a world of subtlety and detail; fragile lace and pale ethereal skin. Both parties were painfully aware of this truth, though Viktor could not pinpoint the reason why he felt the persisting need to turn this truth upon its head when in the company of this particular member of the fairer sex. He considered himself a man of logic and taste, and of a definitive personality. There was little leeway in his heart for much else, and yet Miss Bennet had pricked at his nerves from the start.

Perhaps it had been their questionable beginnings that would not fade from his memory. Perhaps she irked him for the inescapable fact that she would one day be Mrs Laurel Petrovich, mother of his children, keeper of his home and mayhap his heart. There were moments in which her demure personality were near-perfect for any man’s expectations of a wife, but Viktor found that boring and cumbersome to deal with. Other moments his fiancé was much like a spitting cat thrown in water, which was far more interesting but all-together a worrying prospect if she should be like that in their lifetime to come. To put it plainly, Viktor would be able to find fault in Queen Victoria if she was the one he was meant to marry –he simply wanted to avoid it altogether. He supposed that if he was going to be caught out now, it might as well be with Laurel Bennet. She was handsome, after all, and interestingly fresh in her own manner.

“I hadn’t realised it was so late…” Their eyes missed the connection as his unconsciously steely gaze swept over Laurel’s face just has her heavy lids lowered with reserve. He briefly regretted being unable to see the deep twilight eyes shadowed beneath dark lashes. A brush of sleepy mauve painted the thin skin beneath her eyes, a notation that alarmed Viktor for the simple fact that he rarely took notice in women, let alone their most minute delicacies. He viewed life and the people within as a whole, not by the individual pieces that created them.

As Miss Bennet shifted to leave, excuses slipping softly from her lips. Viktor flexed a fist, stiffly holding back his reach as he meant to touch the soft material at her shoulder, to halt her in some manner. Unbeknownst to his commonly straight-forward rationale, he was becoming strangely fond of the girl. Her wide eyes and sober mouth had curled around his consciousness more often than he’d cared to admit since their first meeting, and he’d had a fair amount of time to mull the girl over to the point in which he’d either managed to convince himself he enjoyed her company, or had realised his true budding affection for her. Either way, Viktor’s current courtship of Laurel’s time was involuntary and purely selfish.

“Do you ever worry you’ll forget the sound of your own thoughts?”

The gentleman visibly startled at both the fragile inquiry and the raw emotion reflected in the shimmering depths of the young woman’s wide eyes. Time and breath collapsed in his breast as he stared down at her, lips softly parted in sudden alarm. He might have accepted such a question from a close friend, if he was in possession of any, or a philosopher, but never this curious being.

Quickly preparing to deny her a proper reply, Viktor turned on his heel abruptly, hands clasping together at the small of his back as he found himself staring at a wall of attractive but dull bushes. He surveyed them rigidly, his deep frown unseen by the woman behind him. A noise of uncertainty rumbled in his throat, as if he were attempting to choke down his reply. Viktor shifted with uncharacteristic anxiety, his profile in vision as he angled his head to stare at Laurel with burning intensity. “I dare say I do not worry about such things, Miss Bennet.”

[/color] his pause brimmed with uncertainty, as if he were on a precipice of something extremely significant. “For when I sense it is happening I simply revert to a selfish way of being.” [/color]

His gaze searched hers, looking for recognition. A serious corner of his mouth quirked almost imperceptibly. “How do I say this? I am Russian.” [/color] His smile widened with pride. “Therefore I am a selfish man. When all of these English twits get into my head, I do something very Russian. Something for myself and no one else.” [/color]

Following the moment, his heart, the falling evening, Viktor reached out a strong hand to her. His expression was not Mr Petrovich, it was Vitya. “How would you care to do something selfish, Laurel?” [/color]
[/blockquote][/size]

[laurel bennet]

A quick rebuffwas to be expected, and as Viktor turned from her, Laurel bit her tongue against whatever comments she may utter in defense. There was nothing redemptive to be said and she could feel his disgust in the subtle tensing of his shoulders. With unexpected ferocity she felt a sob cling to the back of her throat. Despair coursed through her until she felt it swallow her whole. She pressed her hand to her mouth, suppressing the emotion that roiled against her, refusing to shed tears on his account. Despite her resolve, Laurel could not keep from hoping that she might somehow sway his hardened opinion of her.

“I daresay I do not worry about such things, Miss Bennet.” His gruff voice broke her reverie once more, and she raised her eyes from his firmly clasped hands to his strong profile. His eyes burned with intensity, searing warmth upon her pallid cheeks. Her heart stuttered erratically as she took a hesitant step backward, awaiting whatever acidic words he would bestow upon her. His ever changing moods were tempestuous and frightening. Laurel wasn’t sure she could withstand another revelation of her faulted character from his lips. “For when I sense it is happening I simply revert to a selfish way of being.” Turning, he faced her once more, his dark eyes searching her face.

Lowering her eyes, Laurel watched the yellowed grasses as they whispered softly against the falling night. A soft shiver traced her spine and she drew her cape closer against the cooling air. Yet it was not the environment that chilled her now, it was the truth that resounded in her at his words – the same truth she would never be able to acknowledge.

“How do I say this? I am Russian.” Curiosity overtook her once more, and Laurel peered up to see a warm smile lighting his face. Gone was the foreboding nature she had come to associate with him since their first meeting. Had his previous words not seared themselves so indelibly upon her heart and mind, Laurel was certain she would have doubted their altercation had ever happened. “Therefore I am a selfish man. When all of these English twits get into my head, I do something very Russian. Something for myself and no one else.”

“You are most fortunate to have an excuse that others will not question, Mr. Petrovich,”

[/color] she responded before she could calculate a response that would be faultless. Realization colored her face, her eyes widening in horror. “That is to say, um, rather… There has been nothing in your behavior to warrant question.” At least nothing others had seen. Even if they had witnessed his outburst at his party Laurel was certain the blame would rest squarely upon her shoulders. She had incited him with her words and actions the moment her carefully constructed mask had slipped. The life Laurel lived was akin to a masquerade. Each person moved silently past, holding up an intricate façade lest they be seen in their entirety. Unlike everyone else, she knew, Laurel desperately wanted to be seen and she wondered how clearly Viktor saw her.

The unfamiliar smile that traced the full camber of his lips quirked in silent amusement, pulling at the fragile strings of her heart as though her contentment was connected to his enjoyment. His gaze intensified, peering through her and searching. The helpless and exposed feeling that coursed through her was as familiar as it was unnerving. She longed to ask him what it was he was seeking in her but dared not for fear of his answer. His dark eyes softened as the smile faded to softness around the set line of his mouth. Extending his hand with minute uncertainty Viktor’s eyes found hers. “How would you care to do something selfish, Laurel?”

For an immeasurable moment she stared at his hand, uncertain. “And here I thought I was already committing that particular sin,” she mused. Her eyes drifted across his features, recasting the memory she had of him. There was a gentleness to him she had not noticed beneath his brusqueness before. For the first time she realized how little she knew of him. Perhaps her original judgment had been incorrect. There were differences between how he treated her and everyone else. He was giving her the option, extending his hand for her to clasp rather than grabbing hold. His desire would be stayed should she wish it. Before she could think against it, Laurel placed her hand in his, marveling at the way they seemed to fit together; as though they were missing pieces coming together to form a whole. All the coolness she felt dissipated with his proximity. Biting her lip she smiled. “Of course, if I am already committing this particular transgression, I might as well have some company. What did you have in mind,”[/color] she paused, catching her breath as she murmured his name, “Viktor.” [/size][/blockquote]

[viktor petrovich]

whispering like it's a secret
only to condemn
the one who hears it
with a heavy heart


HEAVY IN YOUR ARMS , florence and the machine
- - - - - - -

SINS WERE SUBJECTIVE to the eye of the beholder. Miss. Bennet’s transgressions were plain to see, and Viktor supposed he should give them note in his assessment of her character – but he found that he did not have the heart, at this moment.

It was true that a pretty young debutante such as Miss. Bennet should not be cavorting on her lonesome. At the same time, it was her decision to face the dangers of a public place at dusk. She was no fool – this, Vitya could see, plain as day. Her eyes snapped with uncommon intellect.

And so, should she so choose to venture through the park unaccompanied, Viktor was most confident that she was aware of the possible peril she faced. And if she came across a ne’er-do-well, that was her comeuppance. Miss. Bennet comprehended the risks, and she faced them with open eyes. Viktor would not be the man to change her attitude on the subject.

Laurel’s hand was so small and cool in his wide palm, that Viktor illogically envisioned he might unwittingly crush her thin bones with the squeeze of his fingers. He briefly recalled that he should be wearing his gloves, but he so hated the infernal accessory; and so, struck the idea from his mind.

“I often find myself averse to English company – and yet, I believe I am currently inclined to your brand of acquaintance.”

[/color]

With a slight pull, Viktor directed the girl to her feet. The use of his name had his gaze softening. He released her hand; only to press it into the thick material of Miss. Bennet’s cloak, at the small of her back. “Take a turn with me, Miss. Bennet. Left to my own devices, I am rather frustratingly aimless in this city of smog and scum. Let us allow the breeze to lead the way, and perhaps we will encounter something of interest.”[/color]

Realising that he was speaking of unsavoury subjects – as he was wont to do on occasions in which he was relaxed – Viktor pressed his lips together and delved for more appropriate conversation. Small-talk had never been his forte.

He flicked a glance to his side, and memorised the dainty profile that was his fiancé. His heart flopped curiously against his ribcage – and none too comfortably. Viktor brought both of his hands to the small of his back, and fisted them lightly. It would not do to be so familiar with Miss. Bennet, so soon. Despite the rumours filtering through aristocratic lips about the savage and ruthless Russian neighbour, Viktor did have a deep sense of propriety.

“I must admit I long for home. Autumn will be fast approaching, and the forests will be the colour of fire and amber.”
[/blockquote][/size]

[laurel bennet]

Late at night, when the rest of the world had faded away, Laurel could hear a soft voice singing her to sleep. As a young girl it was the only comfort she had truly known. It was the song of her mother; the voice that loved and protected her. Her aunt believed affection would ruin a child, and her uncle had been apathetic to Laurel’s presence. Any attention from her cousins, especially Robert, had been unwanted and avoided. Yet as Viktor’s hand slipped from the small of her back and the cold evening air reclaimed the warmth he had provided, Laurel found herself longing to feel his touch once more.

She glanced at his profile shyly, casting its strong features to memory. It was his face that had sung her to sleep at night instead of mother in the nights since their first encounter, and it frightened her to realize how much of her thoughts he had begun to occupy. Her gaze lingered a moment too long and his dark eyes met hers causing Laurel to quickly avert her eyes, a soft blush blossoming across her features. These feelings were foreign and confusing, and Laurel wished for nothing more than someone she could confide in. Her grandmother would be overjoyed and press her to secure his affections, but Laurel was no fool. Viktor had not come all this way to pin his future on a girl like her. He would want a dainty wife to keep his home. The sort who found needlework stimulating and had never climbed a tree in their lives. She imagined a slender blonde in their first season, swathed in lace and ribbons on his arm while Laurel stood in the corner and watched. The sidelines were where she belonged; where she was the most comfortable. The only attention she had ever known was negative, and Laurel did not know how to respond now.

She found herself homesick for the country and the easy way she could slip into the shadows of the trees and disappear. The boughs of the trees were the only embrace she understood and she felt safe within their grasp. In London she felt simultaneously exposed and confined. She often likened her existence to that of the canary her grandmother kept. She was not meant for ornate parlours and gilded; she was meant to soar above fields and sing her song to the whispering grasses and fragrant flowers.

“I must admit I long for home. Autumn will be fast approaching, and the forests will be the colour of amber and fire.” The warmth in Viktor’s voice drew Laurel back to the present; to him. A ghost of a smile teased his lips and she found herself drawn to this version of him. Not the cold, aloof man he had been at his party. She wondered which was the true him, or if Viktor, like herself, was forced to shift into whichever shape best fit the situation and could never truly be himself. It was different for men, though. They could do whatever they wished and no one thought to question their actions. “It must be difficult,” she replied carefully, “being so far from everyone and everything you know. London often feels cold, even to one who has lived her as long as I have. I fear it shall never feel like home.” She halted herself, mentally correcting her train of thought. Men did not like to hear that a woman was discontented with her surroundings for it made him question her sensibilities. “I should like to hear about your home, you always speak of it with such affection.” Then, lest he wish a safe escape from the conversation, she added, “My aunt mentioned that she had extended an invitation to her country home to your aunt. Would you – that is to say, shall you be accompanying her? I should think that you would much prefer the grounds there to anything London has to offer. I know that I do.”