Chapter Text
I
Ever since she was officially named as his fiancée, many of their friends and acquaintances have presumed that she would know every secret and untold exploit of the Count of Saint-Germain. Indeed, the future Comtesse was aware of who and what her lover was; the intimacy they shared, even before their engagement was announced, gave her enough of the solid foundation of his character, and she was proud to be the key to that knowledge—so proud that she preferred to keep those secrets to herself. Or at least, that was the assumption made by the public.
The truth was that Anastasia did not want to jeopardize le Comte’s identity, which could also undermine hers to some extent, especially if you thought of how she acquired her lover’s background and history. It would be a confusing tale, and even frightening if the concept of immortality, time travel, or vampirism were seen as a source of unnatural horror. Nevertheless, another truth was—there were so many things that Anastasia had not yet known about him.
Surely, she already recognized his character—from his preferences in food, his skill in playing the violin, the way he expressed his fondness for the residents and the subtle ways he knew them in-person, his love for those ridiculous clip-on ties, the brand of his oxford shoes, the sounds of his footsteps, the way he saw her as his greatest pride, and of course: his moments of vulnerability such as the time she saw him in total helplessness that he opted to drown himself in alcohol. The list could go on, but these were the small details she observed as both a participant and bystander in his life. And with these aspects, she knew that Comte was more than just a noble philanthropist with a pretty face. No, there was more to him beyond those golden hues.
She knew him in his present, but his past—a time when she didn’t exist yet—was left blank. She did, at one time, explore a small part of it with the guidance of the red-eyed florist. It was only a chunk in comparison to his long life, but it created a significant impression on her—she understood the depth of his misery, the reason for his hesitations, and the Romantic child in him that yearned to be free from the practicality and logic he was groomed to have in him. She never felt any hatred from that revelation, but rather—pity and frustration. In the end, she had come to the resolve that she loved him unconditionally even with those flaws. And that was why she would eagerly yet quietly ponder about his past.
There was no doubt that you could see that love in those smiling silver eyes of hers. On that one night, for instance, while she was on the other side of the ballroom with Claudine, Anastasia was watching over him as he listened to the old viscount and viscountess from Moscow with such attentiveness. He had a very distinct profile with some sharp features, and that swoop of golden hair that fell over his left eye made him more charming. His smile was both familiar and rare, ambiguous yet visible. And his voice—she knew oh-so-well how much power it could evoke, but it also had a very reassuring warmth in it. He was just so beautiful under the glitters of the chandelier, yet he had no idea how much his darling loved him.
Comte suddenly turned in her direction, and when their eyes met—he smiled and gave her a wink. You won’t miss the way the future Comtesse turned hot and red as she tried to distract herself by talking to Claudine.
“Don’t you think you tease her too much, my dear Count?” asked Viscountess Petrova, who was a cousin of the ball’s host on that night. She expressed no interest in coming to the “minute” celebration until she heard reports of the Count of Saint-Germain’s acceptance of the invitation alongside his future bride. “Look at how the poor thing tries to hide from you. She’s as red as a beetroot!”
“You may say that I am very cruel, madam,” Comte smiled. “But I confess, that expression of hers is a sight worthier than the Crown Jewels.” He was, of course, not just referring to her being flustered but also the way he caught that glimpse of starlight in her eyes when she looked at him. Comte recognized that sort of face—that was the very same look he gave when Anastasia first debuted in Parisian high society. And it still was the same look he gave whenever he caught sight of her. He adored her—so much so that he beheld her as if she were the heaven-sent star that was promised to him to reignite the fire in his life. On that night, he had seen that gaze, again—only this time, it was the star who looked back at him. And what man or beast would not feel the immense joy of being loved by a woman like her?
“She is very peculiar,” Viscount Petrov commented after finishing a glass of champagne and waved to the nearest server to give him another. “Last time I remember—when you introduced her, you said she was merely a ‘friend’ and a ‘guest to your house.’ Who is she really, Count?”
With an amused grin, Comte replied, “Well, sir, if you so want to know where she comes from, you can ask her yourself. But rumor has it that she transcended time and space. I mean what could explain the ethereal glow she has in her?”
“Ah, there you go again with your riddles, man!” the viscount scoffed half-humorously. “If that’s the case, I can see why the two of you ended up together (though, it did take a while)—you want to marry someone who is about as enigmatic as you, Count. But still,” the viscount’s tone made it sound like he was desperate for his initial question to be answered, “that doesn’t negate my curiosity about her origins. And I thought you, being her future husband, would know.”
“Dear, please!” his wife, the viscountess blurted. “I think it is rude for you to insist, it sounds like you want to interrogate the girl.”
“Now, now, don’t jump to conclusions. I have no plans to force an answer out of her. It is not like she came from a commoner background and married the man for money. Well, unless she other reasons—”
“What do you mean by ‘other reasons,’ my lord? And what if she were born a commoner?” Comte interrupted, his brows were slightly furrowed, and there was a visible annoyance behind his golden eyes had these audiences been more observant.
“Oh no, no! I would never think that she came from the poorhouse, that would be absurd for someone in that spawn to marry you—” the viscount babbled rapidly when he noticed the Count’s piercing gaze on him.
“Let me be blunt, Viscount Petrov—perhaps you are forgetting that you are speaking about my bride. She will become my wife. And regardless of whether she was raised in the squatters, she will still have the title of the Comtesse. I did not want to marry her out of pity, monsieur. If you are in any way insulted by her or the circumstance of her birth, then I should walk away from your company.”
“Count, as I was implying, I highly respect Lady Anastasia,” the viscount murmured, slightly shaken. “I don’t want to assume that she is a horrible woman. But I was saying—she is so secretive whenever I ask about her family. You know how we are all open to our lineage—I only asked for names, no need for any details. Unless of course, her reason being that she was born out of misfortune. As such, we never want to talk about the Fedorov family and how they were massacred.”
“Oh, God… is that necessary—” the viscountess looked at her husband in disgust.
“Well, how else do you expect me to explain myself?” the viscount exclaimed, causing some of the nearby bystanders to turn in their direction. “Anyway, surely, you’ve heard of their unfortunate demise, right, Count? I’ve heard your grandfather used to have some connections with the family.”
“Yes, I have.”
“If so, then, you must understand how it is not the most appropriate subject to address in our social circle, let alone to a surviving victim. It was called a massacre for a reason. And if your fiancée, who has been a stranger to us, happens to be someone who has that experience within her family, then we beg your pardon.”
Comte did not say anything.
“Those poor souls—the children, they were robbed of their futures,” the viscountess sighed. “It was unfortunate that they were born from that accursed brood—”
“Oh, come now, don’t make it sound like they are bad people—” the viscount scolded.
“But they are!” the viscountess yelled, causing more eyes to turn to them. “That man was so full of himself, letting his woman spread her legs to a priest—!”
“Enough! You have no right to slander the dead, especially those who offered their hospitality to us,” the viscount hissed. “Besides, that blue diamond around your neck—didn’t you steal that from the woman you were just accusing as a whore?”
“How dare you!” the viscountess grabbed her necklace, nearly scratching her throat. “This is a gift! How dare you accuse your own wife of being a thief! I’ll have you know that unlike that wench, I have a dignity to preserve.”
“You believe what you believe, no one is forcing you otherwise,” the viscount said exasperatedly, drinking the last drop of his champagne.
“Why do you even try to defend that woman? What is she to you?” The viscountess’s face then twisted into that of a mad woman. “Ah, I see—her mouth must’ve been delicious around your—”
“Viscountess, please refrain yourself!” The future Comtesse, who had watched her fiancé from the sideline for the past fifteen minutes or so, just came to their circle and stopped the older woman’s inappropriate commentary. “And I’m not only referring to you, madam—but also you, monsieur. I don’t mean to disrespect any of you, however, you have to consider your place as guests—especially in your cousin’s house, viscountess. Don’t you see how you nearly cause a commotion with whatever heated subject you have been talking about? Are you not embarrassed? I just excused myself from Lady Claudine because I was turned off by all the shouting from you.”
Anastasia’s voice—as euphonious as it naturally sounds—was firm with a hint of impudence that could earn her a scolding from the etiquette police. But at that point, she was too wrapped up to care if she lost her footing, especially when she noticed that Comte didn’t say another word for the last five minutes. Typically, he would function as the mediator in that feud, just like his role in the mansion thanks to his saintly patience. Except for that time, she knew she had to take on that part when he just stood there—pale and paralyzed.
As she spoke, Comte placed his hand on her waist—an act she used to be so flustered about until it became too familiar. It was like his second nature to keep himself in contact with her and it could mean a thousand things. Either way, she responded by squeezing that same hand and running her thumb over his knuckles. The two of them were standing side by side while staring intently at their older counterparts.
There was, indeed, a handful of people who had been staring at them—gentlemen standing there pretending not to look, and ladies whispering to each other behind their fans. Viscountess Petrova, in an attempt to block off the judging eyes, took the nearest drink she saw and gulped it down. Finally, it was Viscount Petrov who spoke first—
“Forgive our rudeness, Lady Anastasia—and to you, too, Count. We didn’t mean to stray our talk to this point.”
“It’s quite alright, monsieur,” Comte replied uninterested.
Anastasia sighed, “Honestly, what was it that you folks were talking about? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to dwell on it too much, I just want a simple answer.”
“We rather not say any more of it, my lady. It was a sensitive topic.”
“Ah, understandable.”
“But on another note, we were talking about you, Lady Anastasia,” the viscountess added.
“Me?”
“Yes. Well, you see, Ma Chérie, the viscount and viscountess were very curious about you. They keep asking me where you came from, so I told them that you came from a far-off land and time-traveled to Paris in the 19th century,” Comte answered with a wink.
Sensing that his spirits were slightly lifted, Anastasia returned the same teasing gesture and wrinkled her nose, “Oh, you naughty boy! Why would you tell them that? And here I am entrusting my secret to you. A thousand punishments for your betrayal, Comte!”
For the next few minutes, the two couples were laughing and chatting away while the rest of the guests moved on to the next thing that entertained them. It was as if they’d forgotten about the previous conversation that caused a mild stir in the reception, but not for the Count and his bride. Anastasia recognized that far-off look on his face—it was one of many faces she could never unsee: one when he would reminisce the bygone days—the pain would peak through his eyes, and he would utilize his gentlest smile to mask his self-deprecation while internally condemning himself. Comte could fool the world that he was just a hedonist, but she knew better. She wanted to help, but how could she when there was so much that she didn’t know yet?
Suddenly, the musicians started to play the waltz from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. As Comte and Anastasia made eye contact, they immediately participated.
“Comte—Abel, are you ok?” she whispered, not sugar-coating the worry in her voice.
Comte considered his response; he knew that she was just trying to look out for him, but he didn’t want to make a serious issue out of something ‘trivial.’ Besides, was it right to tell her his troubles when he could manage them on his own? “Yes, Ma Chérie. It’s nothing important.”
“Hm… is it really nothing important when I saw how deathly pale you looked earlier? Not only that, but your hand is so cold.”
“... honestly, I can’t hide anything from you, can I?” he muttered with a resigned smile. “But seriously, you don’t have to worry about me. You know I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t doubt your fortitude, sweetheart. But you looked as if you’ve seen a ghost, and you can’t tell me that I shouldn’t be worried about you.”
“I… I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t and you won’t. It’s only natural for me to feel this way, Abel. Besides, didn’t I tell you that whatever you are going through, whatever doubts and hesitations you have, you can tell me about it?”
Comte recalled the scene when Anastasia decided to stay with him, even though the cost of it would be an eternity of unseen futures. “Fortitude” … if anything, she was the stronger one. Her determination remained in her spirit, and there she was in front of him—breathing, dancing… living the best of her human life with him. He let her continue speaking—
“I won’t force anything out of you, Mon Cher. But I just want you to know that in your sadness, I won’t let you cry all alone.”
And just like that, he suddenly felt a throbbing pain in his chest.
As the music reached into that crescendo, while the rest focused on the exuberance of the dance, filling the room with amused laughter as they picked up the pace of the music—Comte took that as an opportunity to lean down on his lover and kissed the corner of her small lips, never mind if they were uncoordinated or if anyone assumed they were making a scandal. When he pulled away, he looked down at her with the most poignant and reassuring smile on his face.
“Thank you, Anastasia…”