Page 96 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
Yaromir. The invisible answer to everything in this house.
After she leaves, I spend another hour trying not to be angry.
It doesn’t work.
I bathe. I brush my hair. I put on the least offensive dress left for me in the wardrobe, a plain dark blue one that fits well enough to make me wonder who guessed my size before the maid came. I walk around the room. I open drawers. I look at books I don’t read. I stare out the window at the estate grounds until my eyes ache.
No Yaromir.
Last night, he was everywhere. His hands, his mouth, his voice, his eyes watching every reaction I tried to hide.
Today, he’s gone.
I tell myself I’m relieved.
I am not.
By late afternoon, boredom turns into irritation, and irritation turns into something worse. I’m not staying in this room like some decorative prisoner. If Yaromir wants me kept indoors, he can come upstairs and say it to my face.
I leave.
No one stops me. That’s the strange thing.
The hallway is quiet. A guard at the far end glances at me, then looks away. A maid carrying folded sheets dips her head and continues walking. The house seems to know I’m moving through it, but no one challenges me.
Maybe that is worse.
A cage doesn’t need bars if everyone inside already knows where the walls are.
I walk down the staircase slowly, pretending I know where I’m going.
I don’t.
The estate is larger than it looked during the rushed tour. Corridors branch into other corridors. Some rooms are open and cold, others closed. I pass the library, the formal sitting room, a narrow gallery filled with old paintings, and a sunroom full of plants that look like the only soft things in the house.
Eventually, I find a side door. It opens into the garden.
For the first time all day, I breathe properly. The air is cold, but clean. The sky is pale gray. The grounds stretch out around the house, all stone paths, dark trees, and patches of winter grass. In the distance, beyond a line of hedges, I see a long low building with a sloped roof.
Stables.
I hesitate. Then I remember Alexei’s story at lunch.
The terrible horse. The one Yaromir kept because it had spirit.
A stupid part of me smiles.
So I walk toward it.
The stable smells of hay, leather, and animals. It’s warmer inside than I expect, with golden light falling through high windows and dust moving slowly in the air. A man near the far stall looks up when I enter. He’s older, broad, with a gray beard and sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His eyes widen slightly when he sees me. “Madam.”
The title still feels strange.
“I’m just looking,” I say.
He wipes his hands on a cloth. “Of course.”
