The Ranger of Marzanna (The Goddess War #1) - Jon Skovron Page 0,18
that. Still, she wished she could have spoken to Sergey, even briefly. It would have eased her worries slightly if she’d been able to get some assurance that he would not allow her to be cast into the streets the moment Commander Vittorio no longer found her necessary.
Once the gown was on, Irina examined herself carefully in the mirror. She had to admit, it was nice to dress in civilized attire again.
“Now, dearest Irinushka,” said Inessa, “why don’t I show you all the things I’ve done to the manor since you moved out to the country.”
“That would be delightful.”
In fact, Irina hadn’t slept since her husband’s death the previous night, so what she wanted more than anything was to fall into bed and let exhaustion and grief sweep her into unconsciousness. But admitting such weakness would have put her at a disadvantage during this precarious time. So she would have to force herself to continue on at least until the end of the day.
She allowed Inessa to take her through every room in the largest home in Gogoleth. She gave the appropriate responses to everything Inessa pointed out to her, from the new painting commissioned from one of the most renowned Raízian artists currently living (according to Inessa), to a bizarre table imported from Kante made entirely of a shiny metal alloy that was surprisingly lightweight. Like many noblewomen who lacked any real sense of culture, Inessa relied on others to tell her what sort of decorations she should have in her house, which resulted in an odd hodgepodge of aesthetics and moods throughout the house. It was a far cry from the cohesive harmony that Sergey’s mother had carefully cultivated for Roskosh Manor all those years ago, but Irina acted suitably impressed, and that seemed to please Inessa greatly.
Eventually a servant came and told them supper was ready. It was a lavish feast, despite the fact that the only people eating were Irina, Inessa, and Inessa’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Galina. Inessa’s son, Ivan, was only three and therefore too young to eat at the supper table.
Irina hadn’t had such rich, heavy food in a long time. In fact, she’d eaten nothing but her own barely serviceable cooking for the last twenty years. She feared her bowels would punish her for such decadence later, but her effusive compliments to the chef were entirely genuine.
After supper, they retired to a drawing room. Galina sat curled up in a chair reading a book, while Inessa filled Irina in on all the latest dreary courtly gossip. Irina did her best to appear interested until at long last, the setting sun through the window indicated that she could retire for the night without appearing rude.
“Oh, how thoughtless of me, my dear Irinushka,” said Inessa after Irina begged her leave. “Why of course you must be beside yourself with exhaustion.”
Irina smiled, making sure not to actually show any weariness. “I admit it has been a trying couple of days, dearest Ina.”
“Well then, allow me to show you where you’ll be staying.”
“I would be grateful,” Irina said sincerely.
Inessa took her up to the bedroom where she would be sleeping. It was sizable, and exceptionally lavish, but Irina was certain that was true of all the bedrooms in Roskosh Manor. The bed looked extremely inviting, and all Irina wanted to do was strip off her corset and fall into its embrace. But Inessa stood in the doorway, caught up in some tangent about the many mistresses Lord Levenchik, their mutual childhood acquaintance, had collected during the five years since he’d been married, so Irina was forced to stand there and smile awhile longer. As she watched Inessa prattle on, her hands tensed up and she suddenly felt the urge to reach over and strangle that soft, bejeweled neck. Instead, she stood and waited out the torrent of words as if weathering a storm.
At last, Inessa took her leave, and Irina was alone. She took off her gown with unhurried care and hung it up properly, then released the clasps on her corset and hung it up as well.
She stood in her underclothes and stared down at the bed, which suddenly looked much too large. Much too… empty.
She took off the simple silver chain necklace that Giovanni had given her when he’d begun courting her. She coiled it up on her palm and stared as it caught the dim light from the oil lamp beside the bed. When she’d first received the necklace, she’d been mildly insulted. She had