She arrives at Forwinter's estate suddenly, without warning anyone, but she is welcomed. Ahayut, asking about the road - she responds sparingly and unambiguously. A week after moving she spends as if in a heavy dream - walks, smiles, talks to her sister and other residents of the house - but feels nothing. The telegraph does not work, there is no news from home. Leaving the dining room, she accidentally lets a heavy door out of her hands, and the door, picked up by the draught, slams with a deafening rumble. The sister flinches with her whole body and, scrounging through the room with some wild, hounding look, presses her daughter in a protective gesture.
- It's just the wind.
So without letting the child out of a convulsive embrace, the sister smiles unsurely, looking at her with flushed, crying eyes, and she involuntarily thinks: as she would have done in her place. In memory with sharp, painful brightness the events of six months ago come to light.
- You have wonderful children, - gem lord descends into the chair with a careless grace of predator. - The war-torn province is no place for such young creatures. I think life in the capital would be a much better option for them.
The look of silver eyes slides down her body like a snake - so frankly that it leaves no chance to be misinterpreted. She physically wants to shake it off and trample it, but instead she just squeezes her fingers so that her fingernails fit into her palms. The capital has the deceased husband's family, the capital does not need any medicine or food, the capital is not bombarded by artillery, whose howling is heard above the roof of the estate every night...
She bows her head in silence as a token of her agreement.
* * *
In the evenings, all the inhabitants of the estate gather together. She sits in a knitting chair, trying not to talk.
- Peter returned today. He asked to go and see his family. And the village is empty - the old Forwinter's voice is quiet and rattling, but it can be heard in every corner of the spacious living room - houses are burned down, and where the residents are unknown.
The gem lord has thin fingers with rings. Always cold. He never hurts her, his movements are always accurate and perfectly calibrated. Even at the peak of passion it seems that he performs a complex ritual, the meaning of which eludes her. She continues to fulfill his desires, not even trying to understand the essence of what is happening, every time until the last resisting the wave of pleasure that rolls on her against the will. She hates herself for this weakness - and there is nothing she can do about it.
Gem Lord continues to come to the estate almost every day, and somewhere on the edge of her consciousness beats a painful misunderstanding - what did he find in her?
But time goes by, one day is replaced by another, and somehow imperceptibly this question ceases to matter to her.
Morning starts with a headache. It comes out on the porch, painfully squinting at the bright light.
- Here you go! Here's the damn color for you, on, get it! - The scream makes her tremble. She doesn't want to go, but for some reason she goes to the ringing voice coming from the backyard, where the guys were crowded. The stick in the hands of his cousin's cousin is spinning at an incredible speed. His attack is swift and ruthless, from the clay army in all directions flying shards, and the hero is already up to his ears in the red dust. A handful of his peers look at the unequal battle, admiringly opening their mouths. The last of the enemies is defeated, and the boy proudly throws his weapon to the faded sky.
- When I grow up, I will be a great military leader! I will drive gem lords to Tsetaganda itself, and I will put their emperor in a cage and drive them through the streets!
She slowly retreats backwards, unwittingly touching the dagger of a for-lady hanging on her belt.
A month later, the gem lord stays on the estate for the first time until morning. The face without the usual bright divorces of make-up seems to be deprived of age and its strange, inhuman beauty fascinates. She looks at him without having to break away - until the candles burn out, plunging the bedroom into darkness. And then, until dawn, he lies awake listening to his even breath and squeezing the dagger handle under the pillow.
In the morning she carefully puts the dagger on the table near the bed.
Gem Lord, of course, notices. For a moment, she is stopped by a gaze of silver and says nothing.
* * *
When she walks past the kitchen, she accidentally catches a scrap of conversation.
- Have you ever heard of a vault robbed near the Forcasions? The guards were killed, almost all the potatoes were taken away. And okay, they took their own to burn them.
- Oh, too much of mine, soon the snow will go down - what will they plant now? They barely survived this winter, too - they will go to the next one to bow themselves, remember my word.
She will remember this winter for the rest of her life. The roads are covered with snow so that the estate was cut off from the big world. And already meager portions of food have to be halved. Fuel reserves are running low, and she orders to dismantle some of the outbuildings for firewood. Gem Lord arrives by flyer, bringing canned food. Carelessly puts the boxes at the door, as something insignificant, not worth mentioning. After his departure, she looks at the even rows of cans for a long time, feeling how strange and painful something shrinks inside. Then he shakes his head, tears off the bright labels with unfamiliar inscriptions and carries the cans into the pantry.
* * *
At night, she wakes up thirsty. Her head is on fire, her lips are so dry that it hurts to touch them. She gets up and goes to the kitchen. She notices two silhouettes fused into one by the far wall, hears the sounds of hurried kisses and slams the door on the joint. A frightened scream, a white spot of apron flashes, and the fractional stomping of two pairs of shoes with peas falls apart on the stairs of the back door. She passes to the sink, pours water for herself - and for some time stands blindly looking into the empty square of the window, behind which the pre-dawn sky barely begins to gray.
The hands of a gem lord hug her by the shoulders. They stand together at a wide window in the living room, and watch as the snow falls asleep in the garden. Sometimes she thinks that he can watch the snowflake dance for hours on end.
- Where I come from, there is no snow.
She stretches out her hand and touches him for the first time on her own initiative. Gem Lord suddenly smiles, and becomes impossible to look like a human being.
Of course, she does not say it aloud.
* * *
- I heard there were guerrillas out there camping somewhere. Maybe some punishers will be sent here...
- And I was told they were going to poison the water here to smoke guerrillas in our Verinda...
- I think the tsetas are just getting out of here, they've broken their teeth about us. And so they do not want to leave anything valuable behind.
She slowly covers her eyes, there is a bridge over Verinda in front of her eyes, the only one tens of miles around, which is ten minutes away from home.
- You have to leave here. As soon as possible.
Silver eyes look tenaciously and closely, suppressing any objections in advance. There are dozens of questions in her head, but she only nods and goes to collect things. Gem Lord watches her silently, then comes up, and in one movement makes her throw her head back, kisses her lips briefly. She cannot stand it - she stretches towards him, hugging him back. None of them say a word.
When a small squad leaves the estate gate, she realizes with ruthless clarity that it is over. In place of the soul there is a void with torn silver edges.
The back is last burnt by a piercing, inhuman look, but it never lets itself look back.