❝ Anitchka, Anitchka, will you not invite me in? ❞
In which a girl is indebted to a wintry demon for saving her life, and the gold from her fingertips is a magic whose price she must repay tenfold. Unless she guesses his name first.
| loosely based...
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"THE MISTRESS SAVED us," are the words that wash over Anitchka as she stirs from a sleep so heavy that she might choose it in favour of breathing. "She knew that we could speak to you without our tongues."
It is the voice that follows which urges her eyes to flutter. "She's a quick learner, isn't she?" The Collector's hand rests over hers, and she gulps, realising that he isn't looking at her. "I'll take my leave before she wakes then."
"No," she whispers, gaze roving over the strange creatures carved into the ebony pillars of the bedpost. Anitchka refuses to let go of him, grateful for the chill that seeps into her fingers. The feeling reminds her of holding winter in her arms. Endless and wonderfully comforting. It is odd how she missed the familiarity of the cold, reaching for it in the dark. "Can all of them speak again?"
"You had it figured, Bones," Dmitri mutters, plucking at her hair gently. "Olga, Helga, why don't we return after a while?" The door locks behind them, and although she wishes to speak with the goblin girls, her voice feels hoarse, words barely scratching her throat.
The Count sits beside her, uniform discarded for an onyx buttoned coat. He obscures the world outside the window, yet Anitchka isn't sure whether she would be looking beyond him tonight. His eyes seem hollow, and the hint of a smile grazes his mouth, like that faint glimmer of light she had witnessed in the tunnel before it devoured her. "How do you feel now, Anna?"
She clutches his hand tighter, afraid that he will disappear, leave her alone, and all that will remain is Anitchka, devoid of anyone. Not hungry and cold as she had been, but well and lonely. He doesn't complain. He never does. A demon from the snow is supposed to be cruel and depraved, cunning and scheming. He isn't supposed to push and pull through the pristine waves, and bring her to a land he claims as his, to a kingdom of stolen objects that he has built. "You're not upset with me."
"Would you prefer if I were?"
"No," she replies, lashes moist, "I shouldn't have followed you."
He leans forward, brushing her hair, knuckles sighing like the wind through the strands. It is soft, and it hurts. Then, he mutters, "I thought I had lost you forever," and it cuts through her bones. "I was afraid, Anna, so afraid."
"The tunnel keeps whoever attempts to pass over the kingdoms. That's why you told me to not look behind," Anitchka says, slowly bringing herself to sit upright. "I almost thought you were going to leave me there."
"I wouldn't." The Count adds sharply, the edge of his words lined with a promise. "Unless you wanted me to."
"Why would I?"
He drops his hands, and for a fleeting moment, she seeks them. "You said it yourself that night." His eyes meet hers, unblinking, reminding her again of her time at a window in a home long forgotten. "I stole a woman from the snow and caged her in a debt that never considered what she wanted."
