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Chapter Text

Mikhail Rakitin had many schemes floating around in his head at all times and he was not at all concerned with romance. He considered himself too important to worry about such trifles. There was, of course, the matter of Madame Khokhlokova, which ended in absolute disaster. His time could be spent on other things, and considering the circumstances, it would probably be a better use of his time to just sit and ponder rather than to continue to bother with her. Even with all these rational thoughts, the thought of her and her swollen foot persisted in his scheme riddled mind.

Instead of giving up after he was thrown out of Madame Khokhlakova’s good graces for being so rude to her guest, one might have expected Rakitin to give up entirely and perhaps move onto another scheme, or even another wealthy widow. However, there weren’t any rich widows that were as beautiful in a radius of reasonable travel time. There were one or two other beautiful widows and three or four other rich widows, but Madame Khokhlakova was truly and fully checked all three boxes. Rakitin would not have admitted to a third party that he found her as beautiful as she did, and even denied it when Alyosha questioned him on the subject, but if he was speaking to her privately he wasn’t opposed to admitting a feeling or two, all in the name of eventually seeking some monetary profit.

However, since Madame Khokhlakova wasn’t exactly interested in having any further private interviews, it was necessary for an appeal by post to be made. Rakitin was aware of his uncultured rival, Perkhotin, and knew that he would have to somehow make himself more appealing than that infuriating man who dared to insult his poetry. He penned a letter that he thought might shine some light on the more or less faux sensitivity in his soul that he was doing his best to display. It included lines such as, “If I can’t come and call on you any longer I fear I won’t have anything of worth to with my spare time”, “Perkhotin only wants to be seen with you to further his career meanwhile I want to be with you for much more genuine and heartfelt reasons”, and “I want to write more poetry but I am so depressed after your rejection that I can think of none”. Overall it was disgustingly sappy and he was actually grateful in the end that it would have to be mailed because if he was forced to say those phrases aloud he might have fainted instead of her. He had to write the entire letter out two or three times because his handwriting was not naturally very neat at all and he wanted to seem like the kind of man who wrote everything as if he was dexterously signing his will. He also gathered from observing Perkhotin that he was the type of man to have hideous handwriting and that Madame Khokhlakova was the type of woman to notice.

Upon receiving the letter, Madame Khokhlakova was so surprised she forgot to write back for several days. She consulted several people about it, all who were forced to pretend to care and gave her different levels of horrible advice. Lise told Alyosha all about it, who was forced to warn Madame Khokhlakova that she would most likely gain absolutely nothing from pursuing a relationship with Rakitin. She surprised herself by being offended by this and told Alyosha that it was very rude to speak of his friend in that manner. She was about to drop the situation entirely after an especially pleasant visit from Perkhotin, but after he left she couldn’t help but think back to that fascinating poem Rakitin wrote her and reconsider her thoughts entirely. Since it was late, there was no one to reconsider her thoughts out loud with. She almost woke Lise to discuss it, but instead she wrote a long, rambling letter imploring him to forgive the rash decision she made when she was so upset by the circumstances that had befallen her, etc, etc.
In the morning, she was about to put her letter in an envelope and mail it (after adding one or two postscripts about her various opinions that may or may not have been at all relevant) when she was interrupted by a visitor.

He introduced himself as Smorgasbord Karamazov, although he informed her that it was not his actual name, but he wanted to be truthful to her about his heritage. He was a horrible little man with a hideous mustache and she didn’t like him at all, despite the fact that he looked almost exactly like Alyosha Karamazov, who she did like. In fact, this greatly unsettled her and she almost accused him of being some sort of a ghost or demon. He flirted with her shamelessly, kissed her hand, which disgusted her, and refused to leave until she threatened to have the police called. After that she was so upset she took her letter to Rakitin out of the envelope and added a third postscript asking him to come immediately, as she wanted to complain about her new predicament to him. She was overwhelmed by the appearance of a third suitor and was now weighing Rakitin and Perkhotin in her mind, considering their traits. Perkhotin still came out on top, by far, but he wasn’t the one writing her poetry… she mailed the letter and waited impatiently for Rakitin’s visit.

He didn’t visit until the next day because he was trying very hard to come up with some more verses for her, but genuinely couldn’t think of anything to compliment besides her sickly foot. He had to enlist Alyosha to come up with a list of verbal compliments to assail her with to make up for the lack of poetry. Alyosha was already tired of the affair and was hoping to be able to uninvolve himself without offending anyone. Rakitin was not planning to allow that.

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It was getting to be Christmas time and that meant one thing: the quickest road to successful seduction was close at hand. Rakitin had been visiting Madame Khokhlakova with even more frequency after receiving her letter, which he had tacked up on his wall so he could glance at it in case he ever forgot his objective. He also heavily analyzed the letter until he figured that he would understand it less if he kept trying to find a meaning in the subtext.

The current mystery that certainly could not be solved from studying the letter was what exactly a woman would want for Christmas. The first, easiest choice was giving her something he already owned. He glanced around the room and saw nothing especially promising. There was a block of cheese on his nightstand. He picked that up and decided that no woman would ever say no to a block of cheese, but that’s not all he could give her. He looked at the nightstand itself and wondered how popular furniture was among the female population. No one could be exactly displeased with a good nightstand… but there was the fact that it needed to be repainted and one of the doors was falling off. If all else failed, he could fix it up in a day, but that could only be the last resort.

After trying and failing to think of anything else, he went to go find Alyosha. He, as usual, was running around town doing some errand related to his ongoing family disasters, and was therefore extremely difficult to track down. This turned into its own adventure, where he had to stop at at least five places (the monastery being counted twice), until he finally found Alyosha trying to fish his skufia out of a small stream. He was having an extremely difficult time with this, and had gotten himself very muddy. It was a very picturesque little stream, the setting sun reflecting onto the half frozen water while bugs flitted across it, as if they too, were transfixed by the sun. Rakitin thought that Alyosha was ruining this by all his muddling around, so he reached past the shorter man, grabbed the skufia, and in doing so nudged Alyosha enough to send him fully into the water, cracking the ice with a comical noise.

Of course, he had to be rescued, and there was nobody else around to do it. Rakitin grabbed him and set him upright. “Exactly how many women do you know, Alyosha? I need to buy a gift for a… lady, shall we say…”

“Are you certain you’re well acquainted enough with Madame Khokhlakova to give her a gift? I think you might want to get to know her better, so you know you get her something she likes…” Alyosha replied thoughtfully, wringing the water out of his cassock.

“Who asked you?” Rakitin snapped back, before remembering. “That’s not what I was asking, anyway. How do you know I meant her? There’s many women around here who I could be speaking of. Grushenka, for instance…”

“Would you like me to help you think of something for her?” he asked. “Perhaps some perfume…”

“I’m not talking about her, you idiot! You know damn well who I’m talking about. Good God, you’re impossible!” he sighed, then patted Alyosha’s cheek apologetically. “You're not an idiot, you just have a small, soft, brain, as is your family trait, and I was an idiot to consult you on any matter of seriousness.”

“Flowers seem like an inoffensive gift… or champagne, I believe,” Alyosha said, giving his final decision.

Rakitin went home, with that in mind, and took half a bottle of champagne he had forgotten to finish and put it with the cheese. A good gift was coming together. Next, he went to Grushenka’s.

“I do think you should give her your nightstand,” Grushenka said, once having heard his plight. “Then Madame Khokhlakova could quickly be convinced of how useless it would be to continue this flirtation. I can’t believe that thought actually entered your head.”

“How did you know it was her?!” he asked in exasperation, grabbing a guitar off the wall and shaking it at her pointedly. “Not that it is!”

She rolled her eyes and laughed at this. “The little monk told me. He was just here, poor thing, all soaked in mud. You know what would be a good gift for any woman? That little cherub wrapped up in paper, in a basket…”

He gave her a blank, unamused stare. “What would you give a woman? I’m sure you’ve given women gifts before… with your proclivities, as it were… in fact, I’m sure you have a gift of some mistletoe to give to Katerina Ivanovna… it’s a shame she would burn anything that came from you.”

She threw a breadcrumb his way. “You’re terrible. That isn’t a bad idea though… give her a kiss.”

“You really want to make me fail, I see! You’ll see… I will kiss her and she will thank me!” he exclaimed, gesturing passionately.

Grushenka raised an eyebrow. “You seem awfully excited about kissing her for a man that just wants an old widow’s money.”

Rakitin only answered with a sneer, even though she was right. He left soon after, going over to visit the widow in question and see if he could coax her into giving some information, or perhaps a little money to make the Christmas shopping a little easier. He did, after all, have to get something for both Alyosha and Grushenka, and did not think of asking them what they wanted.

Upon being admitted into Madame Khokhlakova’s residence, there was the small talk that the reader should have no reason to need reproduced in the narrative.

Then, came the question. “What sort of things do you usually get for Christmas?” Rakitin asked, sounding a lot shyer and sillier than he thought he would.

“Oh, for Lise?” she asked with a sweet smile. “The usual things children like… I was going to get her a dollhouse, you know, but it’s so terribly cold I didn’t feel like going out. You know, it’s so easy to get a cold, and then where would we be for Christmas? You can’t have a cold on Christmas. It’s almost a sin. And you’re not even wearing a scarf! Hold on, Mikhail Osipovitch, I simply can’t allow that.” She stood up, rummaging around in a drawer, before producing an absolutely hideous scarf and securing it around Rakitin’s neck.

He smiled politely. “Thank you, but it’s really not cold at all, you’re just displaying a feminine sensitivity to draw the attention of a man-” he stopped himself, “but it wouldn’t be good to get too cold… back on the subject of presents-”

“Yes! Back on the subject. Since you're already out in the cold, you wouldn’t mind making a little errand? To the toy store and getting that big pink dollhouse? Here, I’ll give you the money.”

She went to the same drawer where she had found the scarf (he took note of this), and gave him some money from her wallet.

Rakitin was so surprised with how fast he not only managed to fail his task, but was given another one, he simply agreed and went on his way so he could complete the new task before it really did get too cold.

As he left her house and walked down the street, the main thing concerning him was that he really wouldn’t have minded if she happened to kiss him, on the cheek, even, when she was leaning in and tying that scarf on him. If he was really brave, he would've gone in for it at that moment, but he didn’t, and this bothered him even more than worrying about the question his cousin brought up about why he wanted to kiss her so badly anyway.

Chapter Text

Christmas passed uneventfully. Raktitin avoided Madame Khokhlakova after not being able to think of a single thing to buy her. He was, however, proud of correctly delivering that dollhouse. When he finally called on her again, a couple of weeks after Christmas, it was because he needed some money. He had made an attempt to ask Dmitri Karamozov, and even practiced some seducing tactics on him, but that had only ended in him getting punched in the face when he just thought about going in for a kiss. It didn’t matter in the end, because Mitya didn’t have any money.

When Madame Khokhlakova opened the door she first noticed the bruise on Rakitin’s cheek. “Where have you been?” she asked dramatically, then leaned in to examine the bruise. “Have you been fighting? What happened? You poor thing! Does it hurt? Come inside!”

He did not answer her questions or have any desire to. The scent of her perfume was somewhat overwhelming while she was dabbing at his cheek with a cloth. “My, what a lot of scent you’re wearing, who was that from?”

She laughed coquettishly. “Perkhotin sent it to me. Isn’t it nice?”

Rakitin was horrified by this. He was sure that other fellow would have given up, not come back to her when Rakitin wasn’t there! He crossed his arms and huffed. “And is he calling on you more often than me?”

“You haven’t been around much lately… where did you get that bruise, Mikhail Osipovitch, really, tell me!” She changed the subject, desperate to be caught up with any gossip.

“It’s not any of your business… Just as it isn’t my business to know the frequency of Mr. Perkhotin’s visits or if he’s made any proposals… though it may be an honorable man’s business to know if he’s imposing on another honorable man…”

“What?”

“If you really want to know, I got hit because I was having a bit of an inappropriate fling and got caught at it,” he said a bit too loudly, even stomping a bit in frustration before remembering Lise was surely still home and probably, at her age, eavesdropping on her mother’s visitors.

She looked at him blankly, a light blush serving as the only clue to what was going on in her head.

“Don’t you want to know more?” he yelled when she didn’t answer in the way he expected. He genuinely sounded baffled that his plan to make her jealous wasn’t working.

She smiled slightly and adjusted her shawl. She knew better than to get jealous in front of a man! Besides, she knew he didn’t mean anything serious with his visits. Perkhotin, however… and she smiled more at that thought. He was more attractive than Rakitin, and nicer, and didn’t come to her house to yell at and frighten her. That reminded her! What the devil was Rakitin up to, yelling in her house. Her blush disappeared and she frowned, but still didn’t have an answer.

The whole time she was speaking, Rakitin was staring at her bosom. Her dress was a bit tighter than was decent, in his eyes at least (he was wrong and had no eye for fashion). He used this as an excuse for misplacing his gaze for a few moments too long.

“If you’re going to be so rude, I suggest you…” she was going to make an attempt at throwing him out, but the transfixed expression on his face finally made him a bit more attractive. “Apologize, please!”

He was still staring in an impolite manner and couldn’t find it in himself to speak. If Madame Khokhlakova was offended, she didn’t let on. The truth was, she was flattered more than anything. She fixed her shawl again, as if to say, “That’s enough,” and Rakitin finally regained control. He made a grumbling noise and looked out the window.

Although his lack of apology didn’t really offend her, Madame Khokhlakova got up to leave the room anyway. She wanted to make a show of power without Rakitin getting too mad and leaving. This was a real fear, because he was the only interesting thing that was going to happen that day. She certainly wasn’t going to get any entertainment elsewhere.

When Rakitin saw her get up, he was convinced all was lost. He knew in the back of his mind he was not charming enough to win a woman over and be rude at the same time. She was halfway across the room. There was still time to apologize, but the idea sickened him because of the way she had ordered it. What kind of a man was he if he let this silly widow order him to do anything, especially something so emasculating as to apologize verbally?

“Stop!” he exclaimed as he stood up. He looked at her, struggled to take in a breath, almost to the point of panting, then fell to his knees in front of her. “You can’t do this to me! You’re torturing me! I must have you! I must! I must!” his exclamations turned into sobs. The sobs, of course, were entirely invented from his devious nature and had been planned, but the words seemed to come from somewhere else entirely. This unsettled him. Usually he had a harder time saying things that sounded palatable to women.

She looked down at him in surprise. Trying to turn a little so she could face him, she only ended up getting her skirt tangled in his fingers. This made Rakitin very happy. He really had her now!

“Are you… going to get up? I’m sure this isn’t necessary… I forgive you.” She smiled and hoped he wouldn’t get up.

There was no chance of him recovering himself enough to stand at the moment. He was too busy staring at her pretty black boot, now right in front of his face. There also wasn’t much left to lose at this point, he figured, he already looked like a complete fool and furthermore, Madame Khokhlakova was enjoying his foolishness. He leaned down and pressed his lips to the tip of her boot.

That completely inappropriate kiss was enough to convince Madame Khokhlakova to separate herself from Rakitin and sit down. She didn’t dislike it, however. In fact, it gave her a feeling of power that she enjoyed. “Why did you really come to see me, Mikhail Osipovitch?” she asked, expecting something wonderfully romantic so she could have an excuse to get more kisses.

He still found it impossible, for certain physical reasons, as it were, to stand up without making everything ten times more awkward. He crawled over to her, kneeling in front of her chair and cleverly using his coat to shield any improprieties. “I came to ask you for a loan! Is that what you want to hear?” he said in a desperate tone, grabbing at the edge of her skirt again in hopes of seeing more of her shoes.

Madame Khokhlakova didn’t stop him. “Oh? Do you really need it?” She asked thoughtfully, as if he were an orphan begging for coins.

He cringed, but since she was leaning in the ‘charitable’ direction he couldn’t exactly say no. He made a pathetic noise and kissed the toe of her boot again, as if by accident. “Yes… I need to buy… food…”

As she reached for her wallet, Rakitin touched the ribbon at the top of the boot. She was distracted, he thought, and wouldn’t notice. Really, she did notice, and was extremely delighted by his horrendous behavior.

“How much do you need?”

He had made quick work of the left boot and was holding it carefully as he started on the other. “Only enough for some bread, if you could possibly spare it.” His whining words didn’t match the confident movements his fingers were making beneath her skirt, though his hands were a little shaky.

She held out a three rouble note. It wasn’t of consequence whether she could spare it or not, but she probably couldn’t spare more than that.

Rakitin was too busy kissing the heel of her right foot to notice. He was only stopped by her stockings at this point. He wasn’t sure what was stopping him from being rid of the rest of manners and ripping off the stockings like a madman, but there was something stopping him. Perhaps an unfamiliar presence of respect in his considerations towards another human being. He moved back a bit and looked at the embroidered leaves on the ankle of her stockings. This impressed him. There were many things he wasn’t aware of about a woman’s wardrobe. He ran his finger along the line of leaves and became enamored by her ankle.

“I beg you, Mikhail Osipovitch, you must control yourself!” Madame Khokhlakova finally said, giving him a little kick on the head to get his attention.

He stood up quickly, noticed the money in her hand, and went to grab it. But she grabbed him first, overcome by an uncharacteristic amount of need to be seriously kissed. Neither of the two were good kissers and Rakitin did end up biting her tongue instead of doing anything pleasant with it, but despite some small incidents, it was a good kiss that left them both out of breath. When it was over, Rakitin tried to kiss her again, afraid to lose the feeling of her hand in his hair before his thoughts caught with his actions. She allowed another small kiss before patting his shoulder in a gesture of finality.

She smiled and fixed his hair that she had tousled. “You must get going, it’s not decent for you to stay so long when-”

“When you can’t keep your hands off me!” he finished angrily, immediately blaming her for what he had started.

She shrugged. “That’s not what I was going to say. I do like you, though you are so impolite! Come again, though, this was very pleasant!” she said cheerfully, as if they hadn’t been kissing a moment ago.

Rakitin stuffed the money in his pocket and bid her farewell. As he walked away from her house he swore to not visit her again too soon, unless Perkhotin had any plans… then in that case he might have to be over there every day.

Chapter Text

Apparently Perkhotin did have some plans. One evening when Rakitin was making the trek to Madame Khokhlakova’s house, he was stopped by Perkhotin on his way to a very important game of billiards. He didn’t want to be seen, especially since he was wearing a new suit that he may or may not have bought just to impress a certain woman. He tried to get by with a nod and a dirty look, but the young officer persisted.

“I’ve heard you’ve been writing Katerina Osippovna more poetry. It’s fascinating that a man such as yourself has a genuine artistic streak!” he said cheerfully, though Rakitin detected something behind it.

“I-I did no such thing. At least so far as it concerns you. I have a meeting I must attend to-”

“Oh, but she showed me your latest work. You should really think of getting it published!”

Rakitin paused. He was certain there was insult to be detected in Perkhotin’s words. He wouldn’t stand for his poetry, no matter how low effort it was, to be insulted in this manner. It was also a tad insulting that Madame Khokhlakova was going around showing love letters to his rivals. He didn’t consider that she was so happy with him that she wanted to show him off or perhaps make him jealous, as he was too consumed by a sudden, inexplicable jealousy to make any good judgements. “Is there any purpose to this conversation? I’m going to be late.”

“Perhaps I’m interested in knowing your intentions with the lady you’re writing so many poems about. You aren’t serious, are you? I believe she thinks you are. It’s not very nice to lead women on like that, you know?”

“And do you have any serious intentions?” he asked, avoiding the question because he didn’t know the answer himself. “If not, I don’t believe you have the right to be asking me these questions… and if you do… then I believe it’s up to the lady herself to decide who can or cannot write her poems.”

“If she likes your poems, which she seems to, I wouldn’t argue with her taste.”

The slightly sarcastic tone in his reply was enough to make Rakitin lose any inhibitions he had over the interaction. “As if you could write anything better! All you care about is guns and gambling and… cruel modes of seduction, probably! You think you want to protect a vulnerable, stupid widow from me, but it would be more correct to say I am… protecting her from you!”

“I don’t understand what you mean, my dear sir, I meant nothing of the sort. Please calm down before this conversation goes into irreparable territory.”

Rakitin cursed himself for not running away while he could. He was going to be late, then Madame Khokhlakova would ask him where he was, and he would have to come up with a sufficient lie while she was making eye contact with him, and it would be so impossible to look away from her soft brown eyes… then he caught himself fantasizing about her eyes, and the way her eyelashes fluttered… while he was meant to be making an answer! He took his watch out of his pocket and looked at the time. She would already be wondering where he was! Or maybe not, because his watch was old and rusty and about to fall off the chain unless he put it in his pocket right away. If Perkotin witnessed his watch falling off he might actually have to kill him right then and there. He looked down at his shoes for another moment, flushing in general embarrassment from this interaction. The longer he thought about how there was no good way out of this without humiliating himself with an apology, the better the idea of killing Perkhotin sounded. “I don’t care to be insulted in this manner,” he finally said. “And I don’t care to have Madame Khokhlakova name coupled with mine when you insult me. It’s a dishonor to her as well as me.”

“I have no idea what you mean by this. Please explain yourself,” Perkhotin replied, getting uncomfortable with how volatile Rakitin was becoming. He didn’t want to put himself under any obligations to get himself hurt, and never cared that much in the first place.

“No, sir, I demand an explanation from you!” Rakitin said, completely forgetting himself. He didn’t know how to initiate a duel at all, besides from reading Pushkin, and was afraid he was going to get himself into a Lensky situation. “Or an apology,” he added in a much quieter tone.

“I don’t understand what I’m apologizing for,” Perkhotin said in the same quiet, ashamed tone. In addition to reading the same stories Rakitin was thinking of, he had a friend or two injured in a duel and didn’t want to repeat that mistake himself. And if he was going to fight, Rakitin would not be a worthy opponent. He would be guaranteed to lose against Perkhotin’s skilled marksmanship and he would have to continue being ashamed about this ill conceived conversation for the rest of his life.

“Apologize for insulting me, you blackguard!” Rakitin said, no longer seeing any way to get out of this unscathed.

“I will not apologize for something I don’t understand-”

“Then I’ll have my second contact you in the morning,” Rakitin said calmly before turning away. He wondered if he was getting ahead of himself or if that was the right thing to say. It didn’t matter, though, he would have to put that out of his mind for the moment so as not to alarm Madame Khokhlakova.

When he arrived he was nervous and not able to pay attention to anything but his impending doom, an impending doom that was entirely the fault of this woman who was going on a rant about her daughter’s poor French skills.

“I just think her accent needs a bit of work, you know, she doesn’t have much chance for conversation…” she sighed, as if this was the biggest problem in the world.

This irked Rakitin, since he was grappling with his impending death. “Yes, she’s probably got it from you, your French is abhorrent and furthermore, utterly useless since I doubt you plan to make any great moves in society,” he said, looking away from her so he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about her reaction.

She frowned and gave him a quizzical look. “I don’t think it’s so bad… but nevertheless… you look so nice tonight! This suit fits you much better than your other one… very handsome…” she giggled as she looked him over in an attempt to lighten the mood. She really was impressed with how he looked at that moment and was willing to look past his habitual rudeness. “Did you do your hair differently?”

“What does it matter?” he mumbled. “We’re all going to die anyway. Who will care about what I’m wearing when I’m dead? Oh, stop asking stupid questions. Thank you, anyway.”

Madame Khokhlakova was taken aback by this particular tone of Rakitin’s. He was clearly bothered by something but she did not have the intelligence or the bravery to find out what it was. Instead, she patted his arm gently and asked, “Have you been drinking?”

Even the small touch was enough to make him blush and stop speaking so strangely. He was able to delude himself with the thought that maybe she cared about his well being. He couldn’t think of anyone else who would be seriously grieved.

Meanwhile, Madame Khokhlakova had been having some doubts due to Mr. Perkhotin’s visits. The officer enjoyed implying less than savory and possibly true things about Rakitin, all of them amounting to him not being worth her time because he was a very unpleasant man. When she tallied up everything in her head, Perkhotin was pleasant and alright looking, while Rakitin acted in his own way and was incredibly good looking. She felt a bit like a man must feel when picking which girl to have their first affair with. Although she was having a grand time with the small intimacies that she allowed Rakitin, did she actually like his company? He was always so blunt, or else he sounded fake, besides some very brief moments when she found it impossible to believe that he was anything but in love with her. It was difficult to decide anything and he wasn’t helping by inflicting his mood upon her.

“You don’t want to talk to me, do you? You don’t value my intelligence,” Rakitin said, deeply worried that he was going to leave the world without anyone recognizing how wonderful he was. He couldn’t really decide on one wonderful thing about himself and struggled to define why he was worth any special attention, so chose the vague concept of his intelligence.

“I don’t understand you, Misha!”

“If you’re going to call me Misha, you should kiss me.” He kissed her cheek quickly. Suddenly his worries shifted to the idea of never being able to be in her presence again. He was doing all this for her, and she was worth it, somehow.

“Oh! Did you only come over to kiss me? I had more to tell you about, one of my cousins wrote to me and I wanted to ask your advice on a small matter, since you’re such an intelligent man.” She was beginning to speak with the maximum amount of sarcasm she could muster since she felt unappreciated.

“I don’t want to talk. Let me spend the night with more emotional matters… or rather physical…”

When he leaned down to kiss her shoulder she frowned and stood up. It was lovely, the way he kissed her, but she was more and more disgusted by his disrespect. “I’m a bit tired and you aren’t being helpful or kind at all. What’s gotten into you? I think you should go away and come back when… you’ve gotten over this!”

“No, no, I must have you!” he exclaimed, stopping her from leaving.

This was the final straw for Madame Khokhlakova. She sent Rakitin away and asked him not to come back for at least two weeks, as she had other people she’d rather be in the company of.

Chapter Text

The next morning Rakitin was severely alarmed when there was no apology at his doorstep from Madame Khokhlakova. An uncomfortable sensation of guilt flooded his body when he thought of how ruined her life would be if he were to die and never got to apologize for him. He let a couple cups of coffee dispel this feeling, as most negative feelings could be dispelled by drinks of extreme temperature. However, he was surprised to find, at the end of his breakfast and coffee time, he didn’t feel any better. He felt all the dread of the day before and all the guilt caused by his argument with Madame Khokhlakova. It was very alarming and he feared that the distraction this woman was bringing him would lower his chances of winning.

His bed seemed terribly inviting as he returned to his room to get properly dressed. If he went back to bed for a while he might oversleep his duel, like Eugene Onegin, and it could all be called off. On the other hand, he wanted to go back to bed and imagine that Madame Khokhlakova was there with him. This was very discombobulating to his composure.

Never had Rakitin dreamed up a scheme that lingered so long in his heart. He did recognize his affection for Madame Khokhlakova (it would be ridiculous not to) but it was getting so far out of hand that he was going to risk his life since he couldn’t keep his hand steady with all the thinking he was doing about her. He decided to leave early to walk around a bit, though the cool air did nothing but mess up his hair and make him think about how her hands would feel on his face if she were to fix it.

As Rakitin was taking his walk, Madame Khokhlakova was at home wondering why Rakitin hadn’t made himself a nuisance yet. She was expecting the pleasure of getting to ask him to leave, a pleasure that would be more akin to an agony, which she realized the more she thought about it. The attention he gave her was so flattering! It was terrible, she knew, to be delighted by a lustful young man when she was a mother and a woman of good standing in society, but there was something so original and different about Rakitin that she forgave herself for letting the nonsense go on and wondered when it would continue. When the morning was over, she became seriously distressed, so that even Lise wondered if her mother was going to fall ill. Madame Khokhlakova returned to bed, regretting ever being so cruel to Rakitin and not remembering why she was offended by him.

After a short nap, Madame Khokhlakova roused herself and blushed when she realized she had dreamed of Rakitin. It was an entirely incomprehensible dream, full of shadows and symbols, including birds of every sort and with every character wearing strange costumes meant for the stage. In short, it was a dream meant to be discussed extensively over lunch.

Lise was used to her mother ranting and rambling during lunch and didn’t mind because it meant she could sneak extra sweets onto her plate and sometimes finish her mother’s food, if she was really in an emotive mood. This was one of those times.

“I don’t even think I could explain it fully without having to write things down, to work them out, you see, it’s all so complicated and meaningful… There was both a seagull and a nightingale… You must see the meaning, don’t you, Lizushka?”

“Are you the nightingale or the seagull, Mama?” Lise asked, sliding a piece of ham from her mother’s plate onto hers. “And do I get to be a little chick?”

“No, no, no, it’s not that simple!” she cried, becoming upset at herself when she found she couldn’t directly transfer the images into words. “I’m telling you it’s more about feelings than direct symbolism like that…”

“And you said he was dressed like a hunter? How stupid, he can’t be a hunter and a seagull at the same time.” Lise rolled her eyes mockingly and lost interest.

“Things happen simultaneously in dreams, my dear, you must not be understanding on purpose! But you’re young, you don’t grasp the meanings experienced women understand easily… Oh, do you really think he could be a seagull while I’m a nightingale?” she asked, wandering off with this idea. “How charming… I could sing a little song to him and he could bring me food… seagulls make awful noises, don’t they, Lizushka? Maybe not… I’ll have to consult someone who knows more about birds… Do you think Alexei Fyodovitch knows about birds?”

“Yes, yes, we must summon him, he knows everything about birds!” Lise laughed, already almost in hysterics at how annoyed Alyosha would be if her mother were to interrogate him about bird calls.

Alyosha, however, was busy that moment, on the outskirts of town, fumbling with pistols he was meant to be loading. He had been walking around the town, about to visit some brother or another, when Rakitin tackled him, in a great state of distress (half fabricated, out of wanting to benefit from Alyosha’s empathy) and begging him for help. Rakitin’s desperate pleas were enough to make Alyosha curious, if not anything else, and after the first question of, “What exactly do you need help with?” Rakitin didn’t give him a choice on whether he would find out or not. No matter how much Alyosha lamented, swore he was against duels and would get into big trouble for it, and attempted to physically escape, Rakitin just tugged on the belt of his cassock and brought him along. By the time they arrived at the meeting place that had been decided through some messengers, Alyosha had stinging nettles sticking to his clothes after an unfortunate encounter due to Rakitin not watching where his monk second was being dragged.

“We’re early…” Rakitin said disdainfully.

Alyosha rubbed his watering eyes, giving up on loading anything for the moment, as he looked around the chosen clearing. It was becoming an unusually hot day for the season, which didn’t help the heat in his face. His skin was turning positively red, even after brushing the nettles away. “Are you sure you have the right spot, Misha? Maybe it’s a sign that we should go home… this is wrong, please listen to me-”

He was silenced by a slap on his cheek that was meant to purposely irritate his already painful skin. Any arguments were given up after that, though Alyosha began to silently pray for forgiveness and for something terrible to happen to Rakitin, although he didn’t quite wish for him to lose the duel.

“Give me the gun,” Rakitin said when he saw Perkhotin and his second come into view.

“Aren’t we supposed to all do that together? What are you thinking of? Oh, this is terrible…” Alyosha murmured and gave the pistols to Rakitin.

Perkhotin was accompanied by a dandified prince who was passing through the town and had happened to visit Perkhotin the day before on account of some relatives in common. This prince was a known duelist, so his expertise was desired for the fight. As soon as he could, he came up to Rakitin and began questioning him on his career and how it was uncommon for men of his standing to engage in duels. This chat slowed down the preparations and almost made Rakitin forget his scheme for winning.

The scheme was, in short, to confuse Alyosha. The monk knew nothing about the rules of dueling besides rumors and jokes made by his father. With Rakitin shoving things in his hands and telling him to do this and that, he wouldn’t notice if one gun was loaded and one wasn’t. Luckily, Perkotin’s second, the Prince, was genuinely absentminded and didn’t give a damn for the correct process of things. He laughed at the monk, let him deal with the pistols, and followed his muscle memory and nothing else. He was mainly concerned with how his pretty tenor voice sounded when counting down and had made doubly sure that he got to be the counter.

When the Prince reached eight counts out of ten, Rakitin realized something. His pistol was lighter than it should have been. He felt the blood drain from his face as Perkhotin took disinterested aim. There were no longer any processes or rules, now the animal survival had come into him and he only cared about fighting off the certain death that had been building for twenty-four hours.

All of a sudden Rakitin’s body was moving without his command, and he was reaching down for the bullets that were hidden under a weed when he took them out of what was meant to be Perkhotin’s gun. His first sign of his rival not caring enough to kill him should have been the lack of desire to use his own pistols, but Rakitin wasn’t thinking of that. He was thinking of how unsightly his dead body would be and how upset Madame Khokhlakova was sure to be.

As he reached down for these bullets that he would never have had enough time to load into the pistol, Perkhotin was aiming off to the side, hoping to get this nasty business over with and forget about it. Rakitin happened to have turned quite a bit to the side when he was flailing around for the dropped bullets. Perkhotin’s shot perfectly landed in his backside.

Alyosha was tasked with getting Rakitin off the ground and back home before the situation got any more embarrassing. The loud cries coming from his ‘friend’ were upsetting, despite his resentment for him. His trembling hands were quite covered in blood by the time Rakitin was able to stand up. The standing only lasted a second or two before he fell over on his stomach again, holding the injured body part as away from the ground as he could. Rakitin didn’t care who heard him or who got in trouble, he only needed to tell everyone that he was hurting an awful lot and wanted it to stop. Because Perkhotin was as equally embarrassed as Alyosha and Rakitin, he was helpful in delivering everyone home where they belonged, before getting drunk and cursing them all, especially the Prince who had gone pale and not said a word out of fear since the shots were fired.

Once Rakitin was home, Alyosha relaxed slightly and allowed himself to be summoned by the Khokhlaova’s servant who was running around town looking for him. Madame Khoklakova was now very adamant in bringing her Rakitin back. Alyosha showed up in her room (she was sick in bed from worry) with most of Rakitin’s blood cleaned off him and his face and hands entirely swollen from the nettles.

“What has happened to you, Alexei Fyodorovitch?” Madame Khoklakova exclaimed, Alyosha’s appearance being so horrifying to her she forgot how important her inquiries were.

To stop himself from bursting into tears out of guilt for allowing it to happen, Alyosha explained it as good of a lie as he could manage. “Our friend, Mikhail Osipovitch, has… a small misfortune has befallen him.”

“Misfortune?! Oh! That’s why he isn’t here with me!” Madame Khoklakova exclaimed louder, already imagining Rakitin attempting suicide over her. “Bring him to me at once! I must make up with him and heal him!”

Alyosha sighed as he exited the room to make another errand that he didn’t have time for. He hoped that his prompt leaving and delivering Rakitin to her would cause them to be busy with each other for as long as possible and leave him free to attend to more serious matters.

Chapter Text

When Rakitin was delivered to Madame Khoklakova’s, he was almost unconscious from the pain and blood loss and his pride was completely lost. He was quickly set up on the sofa after Madame Khoklakova frantic directions. Soon, he was laying on his stomach as comfortably as possible, sleepy and delirious from the laudanum she gave him. The state he was in prevented any sense of shame from returning. Every time he was hit by a particularly strong pang from his wound, he would moan and look around for Madame Khoklakova, grasp wildly for her hand, and beg for her to make some change in the situation. And every time, without fail, Madame Khoklakova would run over, wail his name as if he were dying, and rearrange the five or six uncomfortable embroidered pillows under his head. If this process occurred one more time, Rakitin was prepared to throw a pillow at whoever was next in his line of sight. Unfortunately, this person was Dr. Herzenstube.

“I can make nothing of it,” he said, giving Rakitin a poke in the rear.

“Katyaa,” he groaned, waiting to be saved.

Madame Khoklakova immediately turned red because he had never called her that before. It was already suspicious enough for a young man to be recovering in her house without an explanation, although he could be passed off as a normal house guest or distant relative as long as he didn’t start calling her “Katyushka”.

“No complaining, Mikhail Osipovitch!” she replied in a motherly tone, planning to indulge him with sweetness the second the doctor left.

“He’s killing me, my dear friend, he’s a quack! Save me, beloved friend!” he whined, seeing a chance to establish intimacy by exposing it to a third party who might spread it through town and give him some credit for his charm when it comes to female-kind. He then added in a threatening tone under his breath, “If any articles appear in the local newspaper about this gentleman, I wouldn’t consider it libel.”

“Oh, you poor soul, you poor, sick man!” Madame Khoklakova cried, effectively interrupting him as she patted the back of his thigh in a placating gesture. She completely forgot how she was planning to act a minute before. “He’s ve-e-ery sensitive,” she explained to the doctor, “you can see where he’s been injured! It’s so unfortunate… and his pride, of course, must be very much wounded-”

Rakitin groaned loudly at this point, hoping she would stop embarrassing him soon. There wasn’t anything he wanted less than the exact location of his injury to become a source of gossip, so much so that Lise was carefully being kept out of the room. The one good thing about that certain location being shot at was the intimate contact it encouraged.

The doctor left after prescribing a mustard plaster and a powder with a name Madame Khoklakova couldn’t pronounce. He was about to prescribe leeches, and even pulled a small jar out his doctor’s bag, but Madame Khoklakova was so perturbed that she threatened to faint.

Her main concern was Rakitin getting a horrible infection, since the injury wasn’t in a place that could be amputated if things got serious. She imagined that all infections ended in amputations and all gunshot wounds got infected. Much of her worry came from the fact that her late husband died from an infected injury, though certainly not a gunshot wound as he was nothing close to a soldier and never would have fought a duel in her honor.

Now that there was no one to see it, Madame Khoklakova changed Rakitin’s bandages and cleaned the wound again. “Maybe I should ask Yulia to do this for you,” she said softly, concerned that she wasn’t doing it correctly.

“No, no, don’t stop, Katya,” he groaned, craving her hands on his skin. “My legs are so… cramped. Perhaps my pants should come all the way off.”

She considered this. “Hm, I don’t see any connection there. I believe the medication is affecting your flirting.”

“Stop your giggling… lay down beside me, hold me… I’m sick.”

She kneeled down next to the sofa and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Don’t cry, my darling, but I couldn’t possibly fit there beside you.”

“Am I your darling?” he asked, thinking of her riches and how close he was to them, and also how close he was to her bosom, her dark eyes, and the curls of her auburn hair that seemed to be asking for his touch. He grabbed one of those enchanting twirls and played with it like a delicate flower between his fingers.

Madame Khoklakova looked away, frightened of becoming too forward. Her thoughts were becoming quite improper, especially when he was touching her so tenderly, even in such a small way. He was a man the tenderness had to be coaxed out of and she had done it, seemingly without trying. It was always flattering for a woman in her position for a man to be falling in love with her as he was (even while he continued to tell himself he wasn’t). His manners could be improved on, but she was surprised with how little she cared. She wanted him like he was, rudeness and all, and she wanted him that instant.

“Are you my darling?” she repeated his question back to him. “I was only being affectionate.”

“Let me be affectionate. Let me thank you for taking care of me.” He reached his arms around her neck and pulled her into a kiss. They were about at the same level while she was kneeling, though she did have to lean down a bit. This struck them both as very romantic.

Rakitin dug a hand into her hair and pressed himself as much to her as he could without getting up. What started as an almost chaste, tentative kiss had grown in intensity and was even getting a little aggressive. The endorphins flooding his system drove the pain away better than the medication that was only dulling his senses. It was pleasurable to feel less pain, so he searched for more of the retreat her warm lips were providing. A quiet moan escaped from those soft lips when she felt his tongue.

The kiss was only stopped when Madame Khoklakova was forced to pull away. Rakitin had accidentally bit her lip and though she didn’t really mind, it was a sign that things were getting to be too much.

“Why?” he asked simply, making his voice sound as miserable as possible.

“We’re not even engaged, you can’t do that!”

“As if you weren’t excitedly participating!”

“We’re not even engaged,” she repeated, “and furthermore, Lise could come in, unannounced, as she often does. Did you know, she used to sneak around when her father was alive and ruined every romantic moment, although there weren’t many… and anyway, I had a cousin (distant, mind you, so it’s not much of a mar on our family) who was having an extremely scandalous affair and got caught because her dog saw people moving around in the shed in the middle of the night and started barking and woke everyone up. But a dog can’t be reasoned with by being given sweetmeats like a mischievous daughter can.”

“You don’t have a dog, do you?” he mumbled, the medication suddenly hitting him harder. “My head hurts…”

“No, no dogs, but we did have borzois when we lived in the country and Lise loved one of them so very much! I’ve thought of getting her a small pet. But what did you say? Your head hurts? Maybe the doctor did poison you even if I’ve heard wonderful things about him.”

“No, Katya,” he stopped her, not wanting her to go into listing the wonderful things. “We should keep kissing. It helped.”

“How could it help anything? It’ll only make your heart beat more and then you’ll bleed more!”

“That’s not how it works my dear. Come here and heal me.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “I really do believe the medication is affecting your flirting.”

“Mm, maybe so. Kiss me?” he asked again, in the most casual of tones.

“Oh, you’re such a terrible man! I keep allowing you to attack me with your affections! I can’t help how charming you are, can I?” she kept talking as she let him kiss her cheek, then move onto her neck.
In general, Madame Khoklakova was a very sensitive woman, but her neck was a major weakness, especially when Rakitin discovered the effect of letting her feel the presence of his teeth. She covered her mouth to muffle the noises he was drawing out of her. It became a useless gesture when he moved down to her collarbone and used every bit of his strength to cover her in kisses that would leave marks she’d have to cover up for days after.

“Why won’t you just ask me to marry you?” she suddenly said loudly, pushing him away by a hit to the forehead. “I want you to keep going, damn you, but you’re not understanding what I need from you!”

He fell back down on the sofa, feeling more lightheaded than he could handle. “Wait, Katya, are you certain-”

“Hm, I can’t believe Lise didn’t come in to bother us when I mentioned marriage. She could have heard that, couldn’t she?”

Rakitin breathed easier when she changed the subject.

“Maybe she’s asleep. Let me check, then we can continue!” she said, and got up to go to Lise’s room. “Oh dear! Where did she go? Misha, she’s not here!”

He blushed and smirked at the diminutive. “Oh, Misha, is that right? I’m Misha now?”

“Be quiet, you monster, go find her!” she said, then realized she was the only one between them who could currently go and do anything. “Fine, fine, she’s probably outside poking at run over animals again… I’ll be back, but you think about what I said!”

He closed his eyes and thought about how she used the familiar you, a thought that lulled him into a pleasant sleep while he waited for her return.

Chapter Text

In all the fuss over Rakitin, the coast was clear for Lise to escape the house. She had to take Yulia with her, in case her wheelchair got snagged on anything and for appearance’s sake. The purpose of her mission was to find Alyosha and make inquiries about why exactly Rakitin was treating her mother so strangely. The idea of a marriage occurring was mostly unpleasant to her, though she liked Rakitin more than she liked Perkhotin, since he struck her as too stupid, even for her mother. The other reason was that Alyosha had been around less (in an attempt to avoid Rakitin) and she missed his company.

It was almost dinner time when they left, so Lise observed to Yulia that Alyosha would most likely be at his father’s, having dinner, since he mentioned something of the sort the last time they spoke. Yulia was not overjoyed with being dragged along on a misguided adventure, but it was better than Lise going out on her own.

She couldn’t wait to bother him with all the news of his friend’s advancements on her mother, and hopefully she could convince him to give her a lecture on how awful Rakitin was. That way Lise wouldn’t have to see him anymore.

When they arrived at Fyodor Karamazov’s, a quick survey around the yard found no Alyosha. Lise did not especially want to go inside, from what she knew of that foul man’s reputation. Yulia wasn’t going to let her either way.

“He’s not here, is he? That stupid boy is at the monastery,” she groaned, not having any plans to go all the way to the monastery now. “He mentioned he was going to be here. Look in the windows!”

Yulia snuck up and looked in the windows before running back to Lise. “Only the old man. He must be at the monastery. We can go back out again and look tomorrow?” she suggested hopefully.

“This is your fault,” Lise said. “Now who’s going to tell my mother how weird Rakitin is? I bet Alyosha has seen his notebooks full of evil schemes.”

“Does anyone really have notebooks of evil schemes?” Yulia asked meekly. “You should be more forgiving.”

“I do.” Lise shrugged and looked around the yard. “Let’s check again before leaving.”

They went around the yard again, before Lise saw some movement on a bench. “Is that him? Is he hiding?!”

Yulia stood up on her tiptoes behind a bush. “No, it’s that epileptic servant and a woman. Hm, I didn’t know he was married. How charming.”

“What!” Lise stood up unsteadily and immediately sat back down to ponder. “Smerdyakov is not married. I know that. And there he is, doing such things with a lady! Get his attention, will you?”

“I think we should go back home. Madame Khoklakova is going to notice your absence about this time…”

Smerdyakov noticed Lise in the bushes and stepped away from his lady. He called out, hoping to scare the intruders away so his rendezvous could continue. “Aren’t you a little young to be wandering around here, unless you’re one of Karamazov’s mistresses?”

Yulia did not waste any more time in conducting Lise back home. After being scolded by her mother for leaving the house to buy sweets, Lise added in her notebook for later that Pavel Fyodorovitch and Marya Kondratyevna were having an affair.

“Sometimes I worry I’m not the best mother,” Madame Khoklakova admitted, once Lise was securely put in her room. “How could she run off like that? Do you think she hates me, Misha? She’s at that age, I suppose… She has no reason to like me, does she? I know she doesn’t listen to anything I say, and maybe she shouldn’t… I only wish.. That she liked me…” she admitted softly, wiping the tears from her eyes.

Rakitin wanted to agree with her and tell her that she didn’t seem capable of keeping a turtle alive, much less an entire human child, but her tears, however hysterical he found them, indicated that this was a perfect moment to impress her with his “tenderness.” He patted her thigh and gave her a sympathetic look.

“What? What are you doing? You aren’t listening either, are you?” she whimpered and cried harder.

“No, no! I didn’t mean that at all!” Rakitin stood up in a panic and took her hands. “You are such an unhappy woman… You have all the money in the world, but no one to love you…” he started, hoping that a change of subject would work. When she looked up at him hopefully, he sat down beside her and kissed the top of her head. A little kiss was not enough, but he figured anything more lustful might anger her.

The little kiss made Madame Khoklakova forget about anything else. She wrapped her arms around Rakitin and pulled him into her lap. He was very surprised at this and even tried to push her away at first, however he saw the way she looked calm and happy when he was so close to her. It made him feel very useful. Normally he didn’t like the idea of being of use to anyone but himself, but when it came to very beautiful women… he understood in part why some men are so chivalrous. Could a woman’s attention be bought so easily in any other manner than submitting to her whims and becoming her servant? Rakitin thought probably not.

“What do you need from me, Katya?” he whispered, resting his head on her bosom. He felt like a woman in this weak, emotional position, and yet it was very nice to relax with her.

“You’re not like my first husband at all, you know,” she said, only somewhat changing the subject, in her mind. “He never wanted me to hold him like this. But that’s all a woman wants sometimes, isn’t it? Have you been with very many women, Misha?”

He sighed happily. His face was getting rather squished with how she kept pulling him closer and he could not ever imagine complaining in this scenario. The question was a difficult one, since Madame Khoklakova surely had an answer she wanted to hear that would not be the same as the truth. Even though he knew very well how to talk to women, every situation was different. Considering her experience, being married and all, she might want Rakitin to have a little experience as well. Or she might want him to be an innocent virgin. It was difficult to tell. So he just let her stroke her face and stayed quiet, as he knew she would eventually keep talking.

“I’ve only been with my husband, of course,” she said, barely noticing his silence. “There was another man, when I was younger… right before I got married. Nothing happened, of course, but I did love him.” She looked closely at Rakitin when she said this, hoping to spark some jealousy.

“Every girl falls in love five or so times before getting married,” Rakitin replied carelessly. “When I was younger I too, had a fling or two, I admit.” He decided to go for something closer to the truth, which was he had slept with prostitutes that he didn’t love at all, and things of that sort. Madame Khoklakova was a sentimental woman and wanted to hear about love.

“Oh. It wasn’t a fling, not at all. I would never speak in such a lighthearted way of love… With this man in particular it was much different from my husband, which I suppose makes it less serious, but if I did pursue him it would have been possible to get married, except I never knew if he really enjoyed my company very much, and that’s important to think of when getting married. Flirting and dancing is lovely, but can one stand to have dinner with someone every night? I probably couldn’t have had dinner with that man once. He always put his forks in the wrong place on the table and dropped them. But he was very handsome! A little like you, I admit.”

“Really? How much like me? Does he live here, by any chance?” Rakitin sat up and pushed away her hands that were stroking his face.

“N-no, I haven’t seen him in years! It was all ended when I was betrothed to my late husband, anyway. And you’re actually much more good looking. He had green eyes, too, but yours are so pretty…”

“My eyes are hazel,” he grumbled and put his face back down.

“Really? Well, his eyes were green.” She blushed in embarrassment and pet his hair. “I have to admit I lied a bit. I said nothing happened, but it did, a tiny bit. We walked alone in the garden now and then, you understand. He did kiss me when he could. It was very nice. I thought I’d never be that happy again. I was wrong, though.”

“Were you?” he whispered while pressing a kiss to her neck.

“If you start that again I’m afraid I may get out of hand!” she giggled and put her hand on the back of his head. “I-I couldn’t stop you, though… not really… because I want it so badly, it would be a shame to be dishonest to myself in that way,” she gasped. She was sure he was going to leave marks. That thought almost made her stop him, but she had spent so long denying the possibility of real, harmless pleasure that it was impossible to stop once she had started. Finally she added breathlessly, “Don’t stop there, Misha, please…

Rakitin stared at her in surprise. She had taken his hand and moved it between her legs. “I shouldn’t do that, Katya, not if you’re not going to be my wife.”

“I would be your wife,” she insisted.

He thought it over. It was worth it for the moment, since he couldn’t bring himself to consider any consequences beyond what the next thirty seconds might have in store. “Alright then, you can be my wife.”