Chapter 9 Anya
I walked to Nikolai’s study the next morning. My legs were heavy. Standing in the dark corner, trembling, had left a deep cold in my bones. I had slept in my small room, but it was not real sleep. I was just waiting for the sun to come.
I knocked on the study door, my bucket of soapy water heavy in my other hand.
I didn't hear any sound, but I opened the door anyway.
When I stepped inside, the air was thick and still. Nikolai was already there, of course. Sometimes I wondered if he ever left this room. He was slouched in his large chair, dressed all in black. His boots were placed on the desk. A magazine was raised in front of his face, hiding him from me.
I looked around the room and it was a disaster.
My heart sank. This was not how I had left it. Last night the study was clean and orderly. Now, books were thrown across the floor. Papers were scattered around like leaves. A small table was overturned. A glass vase was shattered in the fireplace. It looked like a storm had blown through the room.
Had he done this after I left? What could have happened? Had he fought a war in here?
“Good morning,” I whispered. My voice cracked. I hadn't drank water. I hadn't even eaten. The first thing for a slave after waking up was to attend to its master not itself.
He didn't lower the magazine. “Get to work,” he said coldly.
I put my bucket down and took my scrub brush and a cloth and got on my knees. The floor was dirty with mud and ash. I started to scrub. The motion hurt my shoulders. My body ached from standing frozen for hours. My eyes felt gritty and dry from tiredness. But I pushed the brush back and forth. The sound was the only sound in the room.
I worked. I focused on the tiles in front of me. One tile, then the next. My mind was empty. It was better to be empty.
After some time, I heard Nikolai move. The magazine rustled. I kept my head down, scrubbing a stubborn spot of dirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his black boots land on the floor. He walked past me, close enough that I could feel the air move. He went to the small cabinet where he kept his drinks.
I heard the clink of glass. Then a sharp crash.
I jerked my head up. A crystal tumbler lay shattered on the stone floor near the cabinet. Shards had flown everywhere. One had pierced my arm. A thin line of blood appeared. And another, bigger piece, had grazed my cheek. I felt a sting and touched my face. My fingers came away wet with a drop of blood.
“Argh!” I gasped in pain.
Nikolai turned. He looked at the broken glass and at my cut cheek. But he didn't say anything. His face was expressionless.
He did not ask if I was hurt. He did not apologize. He simply took another glass from the cabinet, poured vodka into it, and walked back to his desk. He sat down and picked up his magazine again.
I sat back on my heels, my heart was pounding. My cheek burned. I looked at the glittering, dangerous pieces on the floor. Had he dropped it on purpose?
I swallowed my tears back. I would not cry.
I picked up my brush again and began to sweep the glass shards towards me with the cloth, gathering them into a pile. A shard cut my finger but I just sucked the blood away and kept working.
I cleaned the spilled vodka from the stones. I picked up all the books, dusting each one and placing them back on the shelves in order. I couldn't even hum as I worked. I was angry.
I put the small table in its right poison. I swept the ash from the fireplace. My body protested with every movement. A headache began to pound behind my eyes.
Hours passed. The light in the room changed. My stomach growled with hunger.
I was cleaning the last shelf when my legs gave a terrible tremble. I had been kneeling for so long. I swayed and put a hand out against the wall to steady myself. A small, tired sigh left my lips.
And the magazine in Nikolai's hands snapped down onto the desk.
“Is there a problem?” Nikolai’s cold voice cut through the quiet.
“No,” I said quickly. “No problem, sir.”
“It sounded like a problem. It sounded like a complaint.”
“I am just… a little tired. And hungry.” The words were out before I could stop them.
He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. His eyes were dark and focused on me. “You are tired? You are hungry?” He said it slowly, as if the words were strange. “The work is not done. The room is not clean. Until it is perfect, you will keep working. And until you finish, you will not eat. Do you understand? You will starve until it is done.”
The cold finality in his voice froze my blood. This was not an empty threat. He meant it.
I nodded, my throat was too tight to speak. I turned back to the shelf. My hands shook as I polished the wood. The hunger in my stomach became a sharp ache, but it was nothing compared to the fear.
I worked faster.
I cleaned every surface. I polished the desk until it shone. I beat the rug until no more dust came out. I arranged everything perfectly. The sun began to set, painting the room orange and then deep blue. Finally, there was nothing left to do. The study was spotless. It was perfect.
I sat back on my heels and looked around. It was done. My body felt like it was made of stone. My knees were raw. My cut cheek stung. My arms felt weak.
I tried to stand and my legs buckled under me. I grabbed the edge of the desk quickly to steady myself. The room spun around me. I was exhausted.
I took a deep breath and forced myself upright. I stood on shaky legs, swaying. I thought I might collapse.
I held onto the desk until the dizziness passed. Then, I picked up my empty bucket and dirty cloths. I turned to face him.
I was shocked to see his eyes on me. He was watching me. He had long dropped the magazine. His expression was unreadable in the dim evening light.
“I have finished,” I said, my voice cracked from prolonged silence and dust.
He stared at me for a long moment. His gaze moved over my face, my dirty dress, my hands clenched on the bucket handle.
“Good,” he said.
I took a step towards the door. Freedom at last. I would have to beg the Cook for a piece of bread or leftovers maybe. And then, I will try to sleep.
“Anya.” He called. And his tone wasn't gentle.
I stopped, and turned around.
“Prepare yourself tonight,” he said, casually. “You will serve me in my bed tonight.”
The words did not make sense at first. They were just sounds. Then they settled into my mind, cold and heavy.
Serve him in his bed.
My whole body went cold. The bucket almost slipped from my hand. He was pouring another drink, not even looking at me.
“What?” The word came out as both a whisper and plea.
I probably heard wrong.
He looked up at me with those empty stormy-gray eyes. “I do not repeat myself,” he said softly.