Chapter 13 of Through different Eyes has been uploaded. Here's an excerpt.
Aunt Anastasia smiled. “Maxim was your first dance partner … taller than you, with dark hair and eyes – more brown than nearly black like yours.”
His face floated up from amongst the others I’d danced with that night.
“He’s nineteen, studying law at the University.” Aunt Anastasia pursed her lips. “I expect he thinks you are older than you are, thanks to your makeup and the champagne you were drinking.” She gave me a calculating look. “I think you should get close to him.”
I wasn’t sure where this was going and I remained silent under Aunt Anastasia’s penetrating gaze.
After a moment, she quirked a smile. “Do you have much experience with boys?”
Willi’s gentle breath on my neck, our arms around one another, hands sliding over our bodies …
My face flushed and I dropped my eyes. “Um – no.”
“But there was … someone special?” Her eyes were soft, understanding.
I couldn’t speak, squeezing my eyes shut, clamping down on the sudden tears. After a moment, Aunt Anastasia’s hand slid across mine.
“Your gold chain?”
My hands flew to my neck, the tears now beyond suppression trickling down my face. Through my misery, I heard Aunt Anastasia shift in her chair and a soft handkerchief dabbed my cheeks. My eyes flew open to find her leaning forward, her eyes glistening as a single tear spilled from an eye, called from her own deep sorrow. I reached up and moved her hand across to her face, our tears together darkening the snowy cloth.
We shared our sadness for several seconds until I summoned enough strength to speak. “They dragged me away without a goodbye.” I smothered the emotion. “I tried to send him a message – but she didn’t pass it on.”
Aunt Anastasia’s pale blue eyes watched as we moved our shared hands and handkerchief to collect the tears on our faces. “Yuri was a cavalry officer. So gay, so alive.” She shook her head as if trying to deny what had occurred. “He died fighting in Manchuria in the war with Japan … in 1904.”
Her eyes closed and I saw her swallow, still feeling the loss across the decades. She struggled to her feet and I leapt up to help, worried that the emotion we were sharing was painful for her.
She read the care on my face. “It’s alright, Karlota.” She patted my shoulder. “Stay here. I want to show you something.” She disappeared into her bedroom, her cane clicking on the polished boards when she reached the edge of the carpet. After a minute, she returned, clasping a large, inlaid Chinese box to her chest. Sitting down, she arranged the box on her lap and shared a watery smile.
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Iskander