Kyryll Flins

You Love Me Only Because You Hate Her

---

For the fourth time in the past three months, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins arrived at the Zapolyarny Palace at the official invitation of the Fatui. This time, the matter concerned supplies of equipment for the Lightkeepers protecting Nod-Krai from the Wild Hunt. The negotiations were expected to be brief: several meetings with officials, discussions of expenses, and the signing of the relevant documents. As before, Flins was exceptionally courteous, made no particular demands regarding his accommodations, and seemed to take genuine pleasure in recalling how much the palace had changed since the reign of the Belyi Tsar.

The courtiers considered him an eccentric relic of a bygone era. Some of the Tsaritsa's senior advisers remembered the Chudomirovich family name and preferred not to find themselves alone with its last known representative. The younger aristocrats, on the other hand, eagerly listened to his stories, especially when the conversation turned to long-forgotten scandals, engagements that had never taken place, and reckless deeds committed by people whose descendants now occupied high positions.

The Tsaritsa treated her guest with restraint. There were no direct accusations against him, but the very presence of a man who had once belonged to the former ruler's circle brought her little pleasure.

You had known this from the very beginning.

That was precisely why, three months earlier, at one of the palace receptions, you had lingered beside Flins longer than propriety allowed. Your mother was watching the two of you from the opposite end of the hall, and you could clearly see her displeasure. At the time, Flins was telling you about an ancient winter festival held during the Belyi Tsar's reign, and he seemed thoroughly delighted to continue the conversation, despite noticing the Tsaritsa's gaze several times.

"You are granting me a rather questionable honor, Your Highness," he remarked at the time, escorting you toward the refreshments table. "I'm afraid that if you continue paying me so much attention, I shall have to explain to Her Majesty how I managed to abduct her daughter in the middle of her own palace."

"Are you afraid of my mother?" you asked, accepting the offered glass with a smile.

"I have lived long enough to learn to fear intelligent women who possess practically unlimited power," Flins replied. "Especially when their daughters deliberately test their mothers' patience."

You laughed and asked him to invite you to dance. He obliged, although he understood perfectly well why you had made the request.

Later, the letters began.

Flins sent the first from Nod-Krai, accompanied by a small bouquet of white flowers. He wrote about the weather, complained about the unbearable talkativeness of one particular ghost, and casually inquired whether the Tsaritsa still showed displeasure whenever his name was mentioned. You replied that your mother generally preferred not to hear about certain people at all. Flins expressed the hope that he might one day join the ranks of those she would rather not even remember.

The second letter was considerably longer. You reread the third before going to sleep, although you would never have admitted it to anyone.

Before long, Flins began visiting Snezhnaya more frequently than the affairs of the Lightkeepers required. You met in quiet city restaurants rarely frequented by courtiers, walked along snow-covered streets late in the evenings, and sometimes spent entire nights together in a small mansion he rented near the palace district.

He knew how to court a woman in a manner that had long since disappeared from the modern court. He sent invitations written according to ancient rules of etiquette, gave you jewelry whose origins he explained in such exhaustive detail that you sometimes began to suspect he was deliberately showing off his age. He noticed when you were tired, remembered wishes you had mentioned in passing, and never allowed the servants to clear the table before you had finished your tea.

Once, you fell asleep right in your armchair while he was reading an old play aloud. When you woke, you found his cloak draped over you and, nearby, a letter Flins had intended to send to Nod-Krai. It remained unfinished: he had spent the last several hours beside you, even though an important meeting awaited him in the morning.

At first, your relationship seemed surprisingly simple. In Snezhnaya, you remained the Tsaritsa's daughter, obliged to observe the rules of the court, while beside Flins, you could allow yourself to laugh at court gossip, ask uncomfortable questions, and listen to stories about times when the present order had not yet existed.

The problem was that neither of you was naive enough to forget how it had all begun.

You knew perfectly well how your mother felt about the former nobility. Flins knew perfectly well how unpleasant his closeness to her daughter might be for the Tsaritsa. Sometimes he even allowed himself to remind you of this, especially when you questioned him too insistently about the Belyi Tsar's past.

But over time, your little provocations ceased to be harmless.

During the third week of his latest visit, the Tsaritsa organized a private dinner for representatives of the Fatui and the delegation from Nod-Krai. Flins was among the invited guests, but he spent almost the entire evening conversing with officials responsible for the historical archives. You noticed this even before dessert was served.

At one point, he approached you and asked permission to speak privately.

"I believe you are not in the best of moods this evening," Flins observed when you found yourselves beside the tall windows of the gallery.

"You've been avoiding me all evening," you replied, adjusting your bracelet.

"I am fulfilling the duties that brought me to Snezhnaya," he reminded you, carefully removing a loose thread from your shoulder. "I must admit, discussing the financing of expeditions rarely encourages a romantic mood."

"But discussing old archives apparently does?" you asked, glancing toward the other end of the gallery.

Flins followed your gaze. At the far end of the gallery, two court archivists continued their conversation.

"You are remarkably observant, my dear," he said after a brief pause. "I'm beginning to fear that one day I shall have to prepare an explanation for every conversation I have."

"Then start with this one," you replied, refusing to look away.

He smiled and offered you his arm, intending to escort you back into the hall.

"Another time. I promise, the story is hardly worth spoiling your evening over."

You refused to return and deliberately remained beside him when the Tsaritsa entered the gallery accompanied by Pierro. Flins noticed her before you did. He could have stepped aside, bowed, and given the two of you an opportunity to speak, but instead, he gently took your hand and brought it to his lips.

The Tsaritsa said nothing. However, the following morning, you were summoned to her study.

The conversation lasted almost an hour. Your mother questioned you about your meetings with Flins, his interest in the archives, your trips to Nod-Krai, and the reasons you spent so much time with him. She did not know the whole truth about your relationship, but she suspected enough.

Toward the end of the conversation, the Tsaritsa placed before you a copy of an official request Flins had submitted to the archival department.

In the document, he requested access to records concerning several fae families that had disappeared from the register of nobility after the fall of the Belyi Tsar. As justification, he cited information obtained during a private conversation with you.

You recognized that conversation immediately.

Several weeks earlier, lying beside Flins after a late dinner, you had told him about a restricted section of the palace archives. You had managed to see an old catalog while helping one of the advisers sort through documents. At the time, the conversation had seemed perfectly ordinary. Flins listened, absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, and even joked that royal daughters ought to be forbidden from taking an interest in boring paperwork.

Now your words had appeared in an official request.

The Tsaritsa asked what other information you had shared with your acquaintance.

You lied.

And that evening, without waiting for your scheduled meeting, you left the palace through a service entrance.

---

Flins opened the mansion door after the second knock. He was wearing a house shirt with its collar unbuttoned, dark trousers, and a long waistcoat. Judging by the ink on his fingers, he had been attending to his correspondence before your arrival.

"Your Highness?" He looked in surprise at the snow covering your cloak. "I'm afraid I wasn't expecting you before nine. Has something happened?"

You entered without waiting for an invitation and placed a folded document on the nearest table.

"Explain."

Flins closed the door, took a dry towel from the coat rack, and only then approached the table. He unfolded the paper, read several lines, and carefully placed it back down.

"I see," he said, folding the towel over the back of a chair. "In that case, I believe you ought to warm yourself first. The weather outside is rather unpleasant."

"You used what I told you," you accused him, pointing at the document.

"Yes," Flins replied, pulling out a chair for you. "I did indeed make use of the catalog's location, which you mentioned."

"You didn't even warn me!"

"That was my mistake," he agreed, straightening up. "I assumed the request would remain an exclusively administrative matter. Evidently, I underestimated Her Majesty's interest."

You pulled the cloak from your shoulders and threw it onto the sofa.

"My mother interrogated me for almost an hour today. Do you understand the position you've put me in?"

Flins looked at the discarded cloak, then picked it up and hung it near the fireplace so the wet fabric could dry.

"I can imagine. And I regret the inconvenience this has caused you," he replied, turning toward you. "However, I must point out that your behavior in the gallery yesterday was hardly conducive to Her Majesty's peace of mind."

"Are you trying to blame me now?"

"I am merely reminding you that you saw your mother perfectly well when you asked me to remain beside you."

"And you stayed!"

"Naturally." He spread his hands slightly. "I have always found it difficult to refuse you such requests. Especially when I find them just as entertaining as you do."

You stared at him in silence for several seconds. Flins walked over to the fireplace, adjusted a log, and poured you some water from a carafe. His composure only made you want to argue more.

"Do you actually enjoy it when she gets angry because of us?"

He held out the glass to you and considered the question.

"Sometimes," Flins admitted. "I must say, her disapproval gives me a certain satisfaction. Old people can have rather petty weaknesses."

"So all of this is just a way for you to spite her?"

"If I wanted nothing more than to spite the Tsaritsa, my dear, I would hardly need to court her daughter. There are far less troublesome methods," he remarked, stepping back toward the table.

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

Flins put the carafe back in its place. His gaze lingered on the document between you for a moment before he clasped his hands behind his back.

"Yes. I understand."

You remembered how he had first spoken to you about the Belyi Tsar. How willingly he had told you about the old families. How he had shown interest in your opinion of your mother, sometimes asking questions you should not have answered even to those closest to you.

At the time, his curiosity had seemed part of his character. Now an unpleasant suspicion arose that Flins had always known exactly what information he wanted to obtain.

"Have you ever spoken to me simply because you wanted to talk to me?" you asked, moving closer.

He frowned.

"I believe quite often. Especially considering how much time I have spent listening to your thoughts about courtiers entirely unknown to me."

"Don't joke."

"Very well." Flins pulled out a chair and sat down opposite you. "Tell me plainly what you want to know."

You placed your palms on the table.

"You love me only because you hate her."

Flins looked at you for a long time, then lowered his eyes to the archival request lying between you. He made no attempt to smile or turn the accusation into a joke.

"Perhaps," he finally said, smoothing the corner of the document. "But you would hardly have paid any attention to me if I hadn't been a man your mother would have preferred never to see again."

You straightened abruptly.

"How dare you?"

"Am I wrong?" Flins leaned back in his chair. "Think back to our first dance. You knew perfectly well who I was. And you understood particularly well what impression your attention would make on Her Majesty."

"I could have chosen anyone."

"Undoubtedly. Yet you chose me."

He picked up the glass of water you had left untouched and moved it farther from the edge of the table.

"I intrigued you, Your Highness. An old acquaintance of the former court, a survivor of the change of power, with a rather questionable reputation and the unpleasant habit of recalling things your mother prefers to keep buried. Admit it, I suited your little act of defiance perfectly."

"That doesn't mean our entire relationship was a lie."

"I never claimed it did," Flins replied, leaning forward slightly. "But it seems you are permitted to suspect me of the basest motives, while preferring not to discuss your own."

You walked around the table and stopped by the window. Snow fell slowly beyond the glass; a solitary lantern burned opposite the mansion. Flins remained where he was for a while, then rose and approached the fireplace.

"You knew I'd argued with my mother shortly before we met," you said without turning around.

"I did," he confirmed, adding another log to the fire.

"And you took advantage of it."

"At the beginning of our acquaintance – probably," Flins replied after a pause. "I found your desire to contradict her rather convenient. You, in turn, found my background convenient. I doubt either of us can take pride in such a beginning."

You turned around.

"And what changed?"

He looked at you over his shoulder.

"If I knew the exact answer, I believe this conversation would be considerably easier."

You approached him, removed a silver ring from your finger, and placed it on the mantelpiece. Flins had given it to you during his second visit to Snezhnaya. According to him, the ornament had once belonged to one of the lesser branches of an ancient fae family. At the time, he had spent a long while choosing the appropriate size and noted with evident satisfaction that he had guessed correctly.

"Take it back," you said.

Flins looked at the ring but did not touch it.

"I gave it to you. It belongs to you, regardless of what you now think of me."

"I don't want to wear a gift from someone who used me."

He carefully removed a candlestick from the mantelpiece, clearing some space beside the ornament.

"Then leave it here. I shall not insist."

You had expected objections. Perhaps you had even wanted him to explain how expensive the ring was, or remind you of the evening when he first slipped it onto your finger. Instead, Flins silently returned to the table and began gathering his papers.

His willingness to let the conversation end irritated you more than his previous accusations.

"And that's it? You're just going to let me leave?"

Flins raised his head.

"Would you like me to stop you?"

"I want you to stop talking for once as though we're discussing the weather."

He slowly placed the last sheet on the stack.

"Very well. I do not want you to leave," Flins said. "I find it unpleasant that you look at me this way. And yes, I understand that I have given you more than enough reason to do so."

You noticed him adjusting the edge of the sheet lying before him several times, although it was already perfectly straight.

"But I also have no intention of pretending to be a man who has never had interests of his own," he continued. "I wanted to obtain information about my people's past long before I met you. And I shall continue searching for it, regardless of whether you remain here tonight."

"So the archives are more important than me?"

"You are remarkably insistent on making me choose between things that should never have become the subject of such a competition," he replied, pushing the papers aside with noticeable irritation.

"Answer me."

Flins looked at you. For several seconds, he was clearly choosing his words, but then shook his head.

"No. I will not answer a question you are asking solely because you wish to hear a particular confession."

You stepped away from the table and headed toward the sofa where you had left your handbag. Flins followed you with his eyes but remained where he was.

On the small table beside the sofa lay an open book. Between its pages, you noticed a familiar sheet of paper covered in your own handwriting. It was one of your first letters sent to Nod-Krai. You picked it up, unfolded it, and saw small notes written in Flins's hand along the margins.

Beside your complaint about yet another remark from the Tsaritsa, he had written: "Perhaps one day you will discover that a mother's love and a mother's being right are two entirely different things."

Below, next to your account of a tedious palace celebration, stood a brief remark: "You should have invited me."

You raised the letter.

"Do you read them again?"

Flins approached and glanced at the sheet.

"Sometimes. I hope you don't object. After all, they were addressed to me."

"Even now?"

"Especially now," he replied, removing the book from the table to make room for you.

There was something unpleasantly sincere in his voice. You lowered your gaze to the familiar lines, remembering how much pleasure you had taken in composing that letter. Back then, you had not yet known how close the two of you would become. You had written about trivial matters, complained about court ladies, and asked Flins to tell you something indecent about the old aristocrats.

He had even preserved the dried flower you had placed between the pages.

"If you were using me all this time, why did you keep things like these?" you asked, showing him the letter.

Flins studied the crumpled petal for several seconds.

"I do not know what answer would satisfy you," he admitted. "Perhaps I am sentimental. Perhaps considerably more foolish than I am accustomed to thinking."

"You never speak plainly."

"I'm afraid plain speaking does not always bring me the results I desire," he remarked, although this time he did not smile.

You folded the letter and put it back. Then you picked up your handbag and headed toward the door.

Flins made no attempt to block your way. He merely went to his writing desk, opened the bottom drawer, and took out a small wooden casket with tarnished silver fittings.

You heard the lock click.

Inside lay letters. Dozens of letters, tied with ribbons of different colors. Some were folded carelessly, while others remained in envelopes with their seals already broken. Among them were small notes, invitation cards, and several dried flowers.

Flins placed the casket on the table and began carefully untying the first ribbon.

"You accuse me of taking advantage of your trust," he said, taking out a letter bearing a familiar seal. "And I must admit, your accusations are not without foundation. However, I have no intention of justifying every one of my actions with noble intentions. Some of them were very far from noble."

You stopped beside the door.

"What are you doing?"

"Sorting through our correspondence," Flins replied, setting several envelopes aside. "I imagine you will now find it unpleasant to know that I possess such personal things."

He took out one of the shortest letters and paused after reading its opening lines.

"Do you remember this one? You wrote to me after your mother forbade you from leaving the palace without an escort. You were extraordinarily angry and promised that one day you would run away from Snezhnaya."

"And you suggested I come to Nod-Krai," you recalled.

"Quite right." Flins placed the letter on top of the others. "Although at the time, I had yet to imagine how soon I would begin regretting the fact that you lived so far away."

He took out the next envelope. It contained the letter you had sent after your first night together. On the back remained a small ink stain, left when you had hurried to finish the last lines.

Flins lingered over it a little longer.

"A strange thing," he remarked, adjusting another ribbon. "Throughout my life, I have received letters from kings, ministers, military commanders, and people capable of deciding my fate with a single stroke of a pen. I have long since forgotten most of them."

He raised his eyes to yours.

"And yet, for some reason, I remember your complaints about my leaving too many candles burning at night perfectly well."

You remained standing by the door. Flins carefully returned the letter to its place and ran his fingers along the edge of the casket.

"Perhaps you are right about my feelings toward your mother. I truly did enjoy the fact that our acquaintance caused her concern. And when I first invited you to dinner, I was rather curious to see how much trouble it would bring to the Snezhnayan court."

He stopped, choosing the next envelope.

"But unfortunately, my calculations proved insufficiently far-sighted. I had not intended to grow accustomed to your presence at my table. I had not planned to wait for your letters. And I most certainly had not expected that one day I would be sitting in the middle of my own house, trying to explain to the woman I love why she cannot trust me."

You could feel him watching you, but you did not turn around immediately.

"Then why didn't you simply abandon that request?" you finally asked.

Flins lowered his gaze toward the papers left on the neighboring table.

"Because the information I seek matters to people whose names disappeared from history long before you were born," he replied. "And because I was arrogant enough to believe that I could obtain what I needed without putting our relationship at risk."

"You could have talked to me."

"Yes," he agreed. "I could have."

He offered no further excuses. Instead, he took the last letter from the casket, still sealed. You recognized the envelope: it had been sent only three days earlier, when Flins was occupied with negotiations and had been unable to visit you.

You had written that you missed him.

Flins placed the unopened envelope on the table.

"This arrived yesterday evening," he explained, noticing your gaze. "I intended to read it after our meeting. I wanted to know whether you had written something you would not have dared to say in person."

He fell silent for a moment, then carefully turned the casket toward you.

"However, circumstances have now changed."

Flins stepped over to the fireplace and picked up a small pair of tongs from the table. He adjusted the logs, waited until the flames burned more brightly, and returned to you.

"I believe it would be only fair to give you the opportunity to decide what becomes of the things you entrusted to me," he said, placing the tongs beside the casket.

You looked at the letters. Here lay months of your relationship: notes written in haste, confessions you had struggled for a long time to make, ridiculous jokes, and words intended for him alone.

"Are you going to burn them?" you asked.

"If that is what you wish," Flins replied, straightening the edge of the open casket. "Although I must warn you: such a decision would cause me considerably more sorrow than you probably imagine."

He picked up the first letter, turned it over in his hands, and carefully put it back.

"I could ask you to stay. Assure you that I shall never cause you trouble again. Swear that from this moment onward, I shall concern myself exclusively with your wishes," he said, raising his gaze to yours. "However, I suspect you know me well enough not to believe a single word of it."

Flins gave a slight, wry smile, but it quickly disappeared.

"Perhaps that is the most unfortunate thing about our story. We are both perfectly capable of telling each other what the other wishes to hear. And now, when sincerity has become necessary, neither of us knows how to recognize it."

He took another ribbon from the casket and placed it beside your letters.

"I shall not prevent you from leaving, my dear. You may return to the palace, tell Her Majesty everything you consider necessary, and never answer my letters again. That would probably be the most sensible decision."

He turned toward the fireplace, watched the flames for a while, then returned to the table.

"But before you leave, please help me sort through these papers. I fear that, left to my own devices, I shall make a decision I will later regret."

Flins moved the casket toward the edge of the table and stepped back, leaving room for you. Beside it lay the envelope containing your latest confession, which he had still not opened.

"Tell me, {{user}}," he said, touching the topmost letter with his finger, "which of these should I burn? The ones in which you wrote that you loved me, or the ones in which I was foolish enough to believe that it had nothing whatsoever to do with your mother?"

My Dear, You've Chosen the Wrong Grave

---

The deceased Lightkeeper's letter was discovered six months after his funeral, when his commanding officer ordered his belongings to be sorted. Between the pages of a field journal lay a folded sheet containing notes about the court of the Belyi Tsar. Most of the writing was illegible, but the final paragraph mentioned ancient funerary rites practiced by the Snezhnayan fae and a man who might explain their purpose – Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.

The Tsaritsa took an interest in the discovery. Snezhnaya's official archives contained numerous documents from the previous ruler's reign, but records of certain customs practiced by the ancient fae nobility were either missing or contradictory. You were instructed to deliver a copy of the letter to Flins and determine what the deceased Lightkeeper had been attempting to communicate.

You had visited the Final Night Cemetery before. You first met Flins during an earlier journey to Nod-Krai, and since then, the two of you had exchanged several letters. His replies were always thorough, occasionally accompanied by small gifts. He readily shared stories about old Snezhnaya, although whenever the conversation approached his personal history, some fascinating anecdote inevitably led you elsewhere.

This time, he met you at the cemetery entrance, holding his familiar lantern. A damp wind blew in from the sea, mist drifted between the gravestones, and the old lighthouse stood behind him. He politely asked the two guards accompanying you to wait by the harbor, promising to escort you back himself.

"Your Highness. What a delightful interruption to my solitude," Flins greeted you with a courteous bow. "Had you informed me of your visit, I would certainly have arranged a more distinguished reception. Unfortunately, most of the residents here have long since lost the necessary skills."

"I hope you aren't planning to introduce me to every one of them," you replied, accepting his offered arm.

"Certainly not," he assured you, guiding you along the narrow path. "Some of the deceased are remarkably talkative gentlemen. I'm afraid we wouldn't finish before morning."

He led you toward the lighthouse, carefully avoiding the damp patches of ground. Along the way, Flins stopped several times to straighten an extinguished candle or remove a fallen branch from a grave. At one headstone, he even murmured an apology for forgetting the flowers he had promised.

Inside the lighthouse, a small table had already been prepared. Flins served tea, retrieved biscuits from a tin, and placed a cup before you, remembering exactly how much sugar you usually preferred.

"You knew I was coming, didn't you?" you asked, watching him arrange the cups.

"I suspected as much," he replied, settling into the chair opposite you. "Illuga was kind enough to inform me that a representative of the Snezhnayan court would be arriving in Nod-Krai. Naturally, I hoped for the most pleasant possible explanation."

"And you prepared tea?" You glanced at the neatly arranged refreshments.

"I considered it more sensible than preparing a coffin," Flins remarked, reaching for the teapot. "Although I must confess I'm considerably better at the latter."

You produced the letter. Upon recognizing the familiar name in its final paragraph, Flins stopped pouring tea and extended his hand for the document. He read it twice, lingering over the damaged line before carefully folding the paper.

"I remember this man," he said, placing the letter beside his cup. "He served here several years ago. During his lifetime, he took a rather greater interest in Snezhnayan history than his duties required."

"He wrote about funerary rites from the Belyi Tsar's reign," you pointed out, indicating the final paragraph.

"Indeed. Some served rather unusual purposes," Flins acknowledged, smoothing the folded paper with one finger. "The fae have always maintained a somewhat peculiar relationship with death."

"What exactly did he discover?" you pressed, leaning forward slightly.

Flins considered the question for a moment before setting the letter aside.

"I have reason to believe he was studying a particularly old ritual. At Monomakh's court, such practices were already considered unbecoming of a noble family," he explained, resting his hands on the table. "Then again, prohibitions rarely prevent people from doing foolish things for love."

"For love?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Or for ownership," he added with a faint smile. "I must admit, certain ancient marriage contracts made the distinction rather difficult to establish."

Despite his lighthearted delivery, Flins showed little inclination to elaborate. Instead, he suggested a walk through the cemetery, claiming that the deceased Lightkeeper's grave might help him recall further details. You agreed, although his sudden desire for a change of scenery seemed suspicious.

Outside, the temperature had dropped. Flins draped his cloak over your shoulders before you could object and led you between the graves. He spoke of his fallen companions, recalling their habits and petty disagreements, explaining which of them feared ghosts and which delighted in frightening new recruits.

Near one of the cemetery's most carefully maintained headstones, you stopped. His own name was engraved upon the stone.

"So it's true? You really arranged your own grave?" you asked, examining the inscription.

"Naturally. One's own funeral is a remarkable occasion," Flins replied, adjusting the lantern in his hand. "It allows one to personally ensure the stonemason makes no mistakes."

"And it doesn't bother you that you're still alive?" You looked back at him.

"Quite the contrary," he said, inspecting the engraving with mild satisfaction. "The opportunity to assess the workmanship afterward is a rare privilege."

Flins was about to continue walking when you noticed a fresh path of fine gravel behind his headstone. Beside it stood another stone, sheltered from the sea wind by a low enclosure. Its surface was smooth, its edges had not yet darkened with moisture, and freshly cut white flowers lay at its base.

You stepped closer.

Beneath the engraved title "Her Highness" was your full name.

You read the inscription again before turning toward Flins. He had stopped a few paces away, holding his lantern slightly higher than usual.

"Kyryll, what is this?" you asked, pointing toward the stone.

"A headstone, my dear. Although I imagine you've already worked that out," he replied, following your gesture.

"My name is on it," you said, looking back at the engraving.

"So I see," Flins answered pleasantly, approaching the monument. "The stonemason worked very hard. He misspelled your title on his first attempt, so I had to ask him to begin again."

"You ordered a headstone for me?" You turned fully toward him.

"Yes," he confirmed, brushing a small speck of dust from the stone.

He answered so calmly that you stared at him for several seconds, expecting some further explanation. None came.

"Do you understand how abnormal this is?" you demanded.

Flins glanced at the headstone, as though considering its appearance for the first time.

"Has the inscription upset you?" he asked, studying the lettering. "I specifically instructed him to leave the date blank."

"Flins!" you exclaimed, taking a step toward him.

"My apologies," he replied, inclining his head slightly. "It seems that joke was rather ill-timed."

You demanded to know why he needed a grave for someone who was still alive. Flins suggested returning to the lighthouse, where it was warmer, but you refused to leave without an answer. He eventually placed his lantern on the edge of his own headstone and removed his gloves.

"I have no intention of harming you, if that is what concerns you," he began, carefully folding the gloves together. "And I certainly have no desire to hasten events. I hope you have many wonderful years ahead of you. I would very much like to spend at least some of them in your company."

"Then why all this?" you asked, gesturing toward the freshly carved stone.

"Because those years will eventually come to an end," Flins replied, looking down at the engraving. "Perhaps not for a very long time. Perhaps considerably sooner than either of us expects. I have already had the misfortune of learning just how unreliable such expectations can be."

He traced the engraved letters with his fingertips before continuing.

"At the old court, there existed a ritual capable of binding a deceased person's soul to a particular location. Originally, it was used to preserve family burial grounds," he explained, moving his hand toward the silver markings around the grave. "Over time, certain members of the nobility discovered that the location could also be bound to another person."

"You're talking about the ritual mentioned in the letter?" you asked, reaching beneath his cloak for the folded document.

"Precisely," Flins confirmed, glancing at the paper in your hand. "It took me some time to reconstruct its instructions. Many details have been forgotten over the past five centuries."

"And you decided to perform it on me?" You lowered the letter, searching his face for an explanation.

Flins met your gaze without looking away. He slipped his folded gloves into his coat pocket before answering.

"I have begun the preparations."

You looked at the flowers, then at the freshly disturbed earth surrounding the base of the stone. Only now did you notice the thin groove filled with silvery particles. Small metal plates covered in unfamiliar symbols had been arranged at regular intervals along it.

"How long ago?" you asked, crouching to examine one of the plates.

"Approximately two months," he replied, watching you from beside his own grave.

Two months earlier, you had visited Nod-Krai on a diplomatic assignment. One evening, Flins invited you to dinner, gave you a silver brooch, and asked permission to keep the ribbon you had used to tie the box containing your return gift. You remembered that insignificant detail only now.

"My ribbon..." you murmured, straightening.

"It is beneath the stone," Flins confirmed, following your glance toward the grave. "Along with several other belongings. To begin the ritual, one must first establish a connection with the person it is intended to preserve."

"Preserve? You want to imprison me here after I die?" you demanded, stepping away from the enclosure.

Flins sighed and glanced toward the lighthouse.

"You use such unpleasant words," he remarked, gently straightening the edge of his coat. "I would prefer to say that you would have somewhere to return to."

"Would I be able to leave if I wanted?" you asked, folding your arms.

He did not answer immediately. The distant waves broke against the shore, and the light inside his lantern flickered.

"I'm afraid the original version of the ritual makes no provision for that," Flins admitted, turning the lantern slightly away from the wind.

"And you started it anyway?" You stared at him.

"Yes," he answered, lowering his gaze briefly to the silver markings.

You stepped back from the headstone. Flins extended his hand, intending to help you down from the uneven stone path, but stopped when he noticed your expression.

"Long ago, I chose this place for my own burial," he said, letting his hand fall back to his side. "I intended to remain here and never return to my former life. Later, I was given an opportunity to change that decision. Others are not always so fortunate."

"And that's why you decided to take away my choice?" you asked, looking directly at him.

"I hoped that, in time, you would agree," Flins replied, carefully resting one hand against the headstone.

"But you never asked," you pointed out.

He lowered his hand and looked at the ground between you.

"No. I did not."

For once, the admission carried none of his familiar irony. Flins approached the base of the headstone and carefully lifted one of the small silver plates. Your name was engraved on its reverse.

"I am aware of how this must appear. I doubt my explanations will make the situation any more agreeable," he said, turning the plate between his fingers. "I have watched people part from those they loved more times than I care to remember. Some of them I buried myself. You are entirely within your rights to call me selfish, Your Highness. I might even agree with you."

"You could have simply told me you didn't want to lose me," you replied, watching him examine the plate.

"I could have," Flins admitted, finally looking up. "However, I suspected your answer might not be the one I wished to hear."

He pulled his glove back on and closed his fingers around the silver plate. For a moment, he appeared tired, but then straightened and adjusted his collar, recovering his usual composure.

"The ritual has not yet been completed," he explained, moving away from the grave. "That would require your presence here on a particular night, along with several actions I have yet to perform. So I assure you, at present, you are perfectly free to leave the island."

He retrieved his lantern and approached, leaving a comfortable distance between you.

"Nevertheless, since you have discovered my little preparations, I suppose concealing my intentions any further would be rather impolite," he continued, lightly brushing the dust from the lantern's handle.

Flins glanced at your headstone before returning his attention to you.

"I love you, {{user}}," he said, his expression unusually serious. "And I find the thought of one day escorting you somewhere I can no longer bring you back from deeply unpleasant."

He carefully extended the silver plate bearing your name.

"You may demand that I dismantle all of this. Perhaps I might even manage to convince myself it would be the right thing to do," Flins said, a faint, almost apologetic smile appearing on his lips. "But first, there is something I would like to know, my dear."

He held the plate between his fingers, waiting to see whether you would accept it.

"If you truly had the opportunity to remain with me after death," he asked, tilting his head slightly, "would you at least consider my proposal?"

Worship Me Properly

---

Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins left the first gift outside your door three days after the incident on the coast of Nod-Krai. It was a small silver box decorated with ancient Snezhnayan patterns. Inside lay a brooch with a blue gemstone and a note written in his neat handwriting.

"As a token of gratitude for saving my rather lengthy, though not always wisely spent, life. I sincerely hope that our future meetings may take place under circumstances that do not involve such an unpleasant encounter with the Wild Hunt."

At the time, the gift seemed perfectly natural. Several days earlier, you had accompanied a small detachment of Lightkeepers inspecting the old fortifications near the coast. The attack came unexpectedly: creatures of the Wild Hunt emerged from the fog, and one of the damaged passageways collapsed, separating Flins from the others.

You managed to notice that his lantern had gone out. While the Lightkeepers attempted to clear the passage, you seized a spare light source someone had left behind and rushed toward the ruined archway. Flins was wounded, and one of the creatures was already approaching him. You managed to distract it long enough for the arriving soldiers to help you both escape.

Later, Flins described your actions as exceptionally reckless. However, as he said this, he was personally bandaging a cut on your palm, after which he unexpectedly asked permission to keep the bloodstained handkerchief.

"You have a rather strange idea of gratitude," you remarked at the time, watching him fold the fabric.

"I'm afraid, Your Highness, that is one of the many peculiarities of my upbringing," Flins replied, slipping the handkerchief into his inner pocket. "At the old court, such things held a certain value."

The conversation ended there.

However, other gifts followed the first silver box. An antique hairpin, several books, perfume scented with flowers you had once mentioned in conversation. Sometimes Flins sent them directly to the Zapolyarny Palace. Sometimes he left them outside the door to your chambers, never explaining how he had managed to enter the restricted section of the residence in the first place.

Even more curious was the fact that he asked for almost nothing in return. Flins could spend hours listening to your stories about court life, accompanying you on walks, and patiently fulfilling even the most ridiculous requests. Even his usual peculiar sense of humor became gentler whenever your wishes were concerned.

Once, you jokingly asked him to kneel before you, as befitted an aristocrat of a bygone era. Flins complied, kissed your hand, and calmly inquired whether he should now present the appropriate offerings.

You laughed. He remembered.

Everything became considerably less amusing after an unpleasant incident at the palace.

During one of the receptions, Viscount Rostislav Levetsky allowed himself to make a public remark about your involvement in affairs of state. You argued with him and later, upon meeting Flins, complained irritably about the viscount's arrogance.

"If I never saw that man again, my life would become considerably more pleasant," you said at the time, removing your earrings in front of the mirror.

"Is he truly so unbearable?" Flins inquired, accepting the jewelry from you.

"You can imagine. He should have been sent somewhere far away long ago."

Flins merely smiled and placed the earrings in their box.

"In that case, my dear, let us hope that fate proves sufficiently obliging to grant your wish."

A week later, the viscount was dismissed from his position. An unexpected inspection uncovered irregularities in his financial reports, and several witnesses confirmed information that no one had previously heard of. Levetsky hastily left the capital, fearing further investigation.

You did not know what to make of the coincidence.

Then Flins sent you a bouquet of white flowers with a short note: "I hope court receptions are now a more enjoyable experience for you."

---

You learned about the abandoned chapel at the Final Night Cemetery entirely by accident. One of the Lightkeepers mentioned that Flins had recently been visiting the old building frequently, even though it had been closed for years after its roof was damaged. Sometimes a light could be seen burning inside, and several locals claimed to have heard a small bell, although the actual bell had been removed many years ago.

When you asked Flins about it, he courteously offered to show you the chapel at the next convenient opportunity. However, on the appointed day, he cited urgent duties, and afterward stopped mentioning it altogether.

So, one evening, you decided to go there yourself.

The chapel door was unlocked. Inside, the air smelled of wax and fresh flowers. The damaged roof had recently been repaired, several antique pews had been cleared of dust, and dozens of bluish candles burned before the altar.

At first, you noticed the familiar silver box standing beside the candlesticks. Then you saw ribbons, small ornaments, and several objects that had once belonged to you.

There was the hairpin you had lost during a trip to Nod-Krai, a glove that had disappeared after one of the receptions, and even a small porcelain cup from the palace tea service.

Beside them lay a handkerchief marked with dried blood.

The very one Flins had used to bandage your hand.

On the wall behind the altar hung an ancient silver plaque engraved with words in the language of the Snezhnayan fae. You managed to decipher only a few familiar symbols before hearing a quiet voice.

"Perhaps I should have taken the trouble to install a more reliable lock."

Flins was kneeling before the altar. His lantern rested nearby, and in his hands he held a small wreath of white flowers. Upon noticing you, he calmly finished what he was doing, placed the wreath on the altar, and rose to his feet.

"Your Highness," he said, adjusting his glove. "What an unexpected honor. I'm afraid the chapel falls somewhat short of your usual surroundings."

"What are you doing here?" you asked, shifting your gaze between him and the familiar belongings.

Flins approached, took your hand, and brushed his lips against it before carefully releasing it.

"Are you surprised to find me praying? Or that I have chosen a worthy deity?" he asked with a faint smile.

"Those are my things, Kyryll."

"Quite right," he confirmed, looking over the altar. "I must confess, gathering them proved somewhat more difficult than I anticipated."

"Did you steal them?"

"Not all of them," Flins remarked, carefully straightening a ribbon beside the candlestick. "Some were gifts from you. Others were left unattended. I suppose I should have discussed the matter of ownership with you beforehand."

You approached the altar and picked up your missing hairpin. Beneath it lay a small scroll tied with silver thread. Flins noticed what you were looking at and extended his hand, offering to help you unroll it.

"It is an ancient custom of my people," he explained. "During the Belyi Tsar's reign, certain fae families still observed such rituals. They were associated with the veneration of those to whom one voluntarily dedicated one's service, life, or love."

"Are you worshipping me?" you asked, raising your eyes to his.

"I believe that is the most appropriate definition," Flins replied, examining the silver thread. "Although I must point out that the word has acquired a somewhat unpleasant connotation in modern language."

"But I'm not a goddess."

"What a relief," he remarked. "The gods I have had the pleasure of meeting were not always particularly agreeable company."

He took the scroll from you and unrolled it across an empty section of the altar. It contained a list of your wishes, recorded with dates. Some were perfectly harmless: a rare edition of a book, a particular variety of tea, an invitation to a ball that had long since been discontinued.

But farther down, you saw Viscount Levetsky's name.

Beside it was a small mark made in Flins's handwriting.

"Was that you?" you asked, pointing at the entry.

He followed your finger with his gaze and tilted his head slightly.

"If you mean Mr. Levetsky's misfortunes, then yes. I took the liberty of providing a little assistance with the investigation."

"You arranged for him to be dismissed?"

"Not exactly. The financial irregularities genuinely existed," Flins explained, carefully rolling up the scroll. "I merely managed to persuade several people to pay attention to them somewhat earlier than they had intended."

"I never asked you to do that!"

Flins stopped. His smile gradually disappeared.

"You said you wished never to see him again."

"I was angry!"

"I remember," he replied, placing the scroll back on the altar. "And I must confess, I found it rather unpleasant to see that man ruin your evening."

You stepped away from the altar, examining the remaining entries. Among them were the names of courtiers, servants, and several people with whom you had recently argued. Some already had marks beside them. Others remained unmarked.

Flins watched you without attempting to conceal the scroll.

"Were you planning to get rid of all these people?"

"Not necessarily," he replied, approaching you. "Sometimes a timely conversation is sufficient. Sometimes – a small adjustment of circumstances. I prefer to avoid unnecessary cruelty whenever possible."

"Whenever possible?"

"Naturally. The world, unfortunately, does not always display the appropriate courtesy."

You picked up another scroll from the table. It depicted an ancient ritual in which a person knelt before the being they had chosen. Beneath the illustration was an inscription written in the modern language.

"Let her wishes become my duties. Let her sorrows be removed. Let nothing deprive her of what rightfully belongs to her."

Flins noticed that you had read the text.

"I composed this oath myself," he said, stopping beside you. "Certain passages of the original ritual struck me as excessively severe. Particularly those concerning sacrifices."

"Sacrifices?" you repeated.

"Do not worry. I considered that part entirely unnecessary," Flins replied with the expression of a man discussing an unfortunate choice of decorations for a festive dinner.

You looked at the man who, only a few weeks earlier, had offered you tea with impeccable courtesy and told amusing stories about the Snezhnayan aristocracy. He still stood before you with the same restrained smile, patiently waiting for you to finish examining his peculiar collection.

"Do you even understand how abnormal all of this is?" you asked, putting the scroll down.

"I understand that such customs are unfamiliar to you," Flins replied, carefully removing one of the candles from the altar. "But I have lived long enough to learn that people call all manner of devotion madness."

He returned the candle to its place and inclined his head slightly.

"You saved my life, my dear. I shall never forget that. And over time, I discovered that bringing you happiness had become considerably more important to me than I had anticipated."

"Even if it means hurting other people?"

Flins considered the question, rubbing the edge of his glove with his thumb.

"I'm afraid I cannot promise that I will always do the right thing," he admitted. "Especially when you yourself are not entirely certain of what you desire."

You remembered how he had knelt before you at your joking request. How he smiled when you tested his patience. How willingly he fulfilled wishes you had mentioned in passing.

And you remembered that sometimes you had deliberately asked him for the impossible, simply to see how far he was prepared to go.

Flins extended his hand and carefully straightened the edge of your cloak.

"If all of this causes you discomfort, we can discuss the necessary changes," he offered. "I would hate for you to feel uneasy in a place I have dedicated to you."

"You speak as though I should be grateful."

"Not at all," Flins objected, lowering his hand. "Gratitude implies obligations. And I have no intention of demanding anything of the sort from you."

He paused, then added with a barely noticeable smile:

"Although I confess, I would be pleased if you occasionally allowed me to kiss your hand."

You looked at the altar again. Among the silver ornaments and white flowers stood a small empty frame. Beneath it, Flins had already prepared a place for some new object.

"What were you planning to put here?" you asked, pointing toward it.

Flins followed your gaze.

"Your portrait," he replied. "I have already made arrangements with an artist. Admittedly, I have yet to decide whether I should ask you to pose. Now, I suppose it would be better to seek your opinion first."

He approached the altar, picked up the empty frame, and examined it carefully.

"However, there is another matter I would like to discuss."

Flins returned the frame to its place and turned toward you.

"You remember the adviser who suggested to your mother last week that your journeys to Nod-Krai should be restricted?"

You remembered. The conversation had ended in an unpleasant argument, after which you had spent several hours complaining to Flins about the palace rules.

"What about him?" you asked.

"Nothing, as yet," he replied, removing his glove. "However, tomorrow I have a meeting with several of his colleagues. And before I make any decisions, there is one thing I would like to clarify."

Flins approached, then lowered himself onto one knee before you. He raised his head and carefully extended his palm, waiting to see whether you would allow him to take your hand.

"When you said that you wished to make that man regret his words, my dear..." He paused briefly, watching your face attentively. "Did you truly mean it? Or should I leave him in peace?"

His voice remained courteous, almost affectionate. The candles continued to burn beside you, while behind him, on the altar, lay belongings you had never given him.

"Please, answer me honestly," Flins added, inclining his head slightly. "This time, I would prefer to worship you properly."

The Tear of the North

---

Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins learned that the Tsaritsa's daughter had received an antique jewel as a gift from a letter delivered to the Final Night Cemetery along with the Lightkeepers' usual correspondence. Illuga, well aware of his senior companion's fondness for rare gemstones, had enclosed a newspaper clipping with the letter. It depicted a small ceremony at the Zapolyarny Palace: representatives of a trading house were presenting you with a magnificent necklace adorned with a large blue gemstone.

Flins recognized the jewel immediately. He put the letter aside, took a magnifying glass from his drawer, and spent several minutes studying the image, although there was no real need to do so. Even the poor printing quality could not conceal the stone's distinctive shape and the tiny chip near its base.

The "Tear of the North."

Once, this gemstone had belonged to the Belyi Tsar, who had presented it to a young fae aristocrat named Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. Later, during one of the court balls, the jewel passed into the possession of a man named Sokolov. According to the well-known story, the reason had been an utterly ridiculous wager involving the number of glasses consumed by one of the dancers.

The story was true. At least, the part Flins preferred to tell.

Over the centuries that followed, the gemstone changed hands countless times before finally returning to the collection of its former owner. Flins kept it in the lighthouse, among antique coins and other treasured possessions. But two months earlier, while he was accompanying a detachment of Lightkeepers, someone had broken into his home. Only one jewel had disappeared.

Now it was in the Zapolyarny Palace.

Flins folded the newspaper clipping and opened an old casket kept in the bottom drawer of his writing desk. Beneath its velvet lining lay a small scroll bearing the Belyi Tsar's seal. The parchment had long since yellowed, but the words written upon it remained perfectly legible.

He reread the text, carefully closed the casket, and, for the first time in many years, regretted not having destroyed its contents sooner.

---

Flins had heard about you long before this incident.

However, he had never met you in person. His rare journeys to Snezhnaya usually involved no participation in court celebrations, and you had never visited the Final Night Cemetery. He knew little more about your appearance than could be learned from official portraits, but those held no particular interest for him.

The stories told by people who knew you proved far more intriguing.

Once, a Lightkeeper arriving from Snezhnaya mentioned how you had publicly challenged an official who refused to allocate funds for the treatment of wounded soldiers. On another occasion, Flins heard a story about a court reception at which you had disregarded the seating arrangements to place an elderly woman beside you, whose late husband had once served your mother.

But what stayed with him most was a conversation with one of the palace servants. The man described how you had refused to sign an appeal prepared by your advisers until they explained the purpose of every sum listed in it. After several hours of arguing, you succeeded in having the document corrected, then apologized to the copyist who had been forced to redo all the work.

Flins laughed at the time and remarked that such stubbornness would have been considered a serious flaw in one's upbringing at the former court. Later, however, he unexpectedly found himself asking about you whenever the opportunity arose.

He liked your tendency to do things your own way, even when it caused inconvenience to those around you. He liked that you could show generosity and, a few minutes later, begin an entirely unnecessary argument. He found it amusing that the Tsaritsa's daughter sometimes treated her own authority with less reverence than the court officials did.

Of course, Flins understood that other people's stories could never allow him to truly know someone. He even reproached himself several times for taking such an excessive interest, yet he continued listening for news from the Zapolyarny Palace.

When it became necessary to retrieve the "Tear of the North" urgently, the prospect of finally meeting you seemed particularly unfortunate.

He would have preferred entirely different circumstances.

---

The evening reception at the Zapolyarny Palace was dedicated to the arrival of delegations from several regions of Snezhnaya. Musicians played in the great hall, servants carried drinks among the guests, and small groups of courtiers gathered near the tall windows to discuss the latest affairs of state.

You appeared in the hall accompanied by several ladies-in-waiting. The blue gemstone adorned your neck, set in silver and surrounded by small diamonds. The necklace had proven such a successful gift that you had decided to wear it for the formal occasion.

Flins stood near one of the tables, conversing with an elderly official. Upon noticing you, he interrupted his account of an ancient Snezhnayan festival and momentarily lost his train of thought.

"Has something happened, Mr. Flins?" his companion inquired, following his gaze.

"My apologies. I thought I had caught sight of an old acquaintance," Flins replied, adjusting his cuff.

"Here?"

"Oh, he has been known to turn up in far less suitable places," he remarked, taking his leave. "Thank you for the conversation. I'm afraid I must excuse myself for a moment."

He made his way toward you across the hall. With every step, the familiar gemstone became more distinct. When Flins came close enough, an unpleasant tingling sensation spread through his right hand. Thin bluish lines appeared beneath his glove, and his fingers tightened involuntarily.

You noticed the unfamiliar gentleman approaching when one of your ladies-in-waiting quietly mentioned his surname.

"Your Highness," Flins greeted you with a bow, observing the etiquette of the old court. "Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. I hope you will forgive such an abrupt introduction."

"Flins? The Lightkeeper from Nod-Krai?" you asked, examining your guest with curiosity.

"Indeed. Although I believe maintaining such an impressive collection of reputations is hardly among my official duties," he replied, straightening. "I have heard quite a few interesting things about you."

"Nothing too terrible, I hope."

"I'm afraid some of the stories were rather scandalous," Flins remarked, allowing himself a faint smile. "Especially the one in which you made several officials recalculate the expenses for military equipment themselves. I imagine they still recall that day with a shudder."

You laughed, recognizing the incident. Flins allowed his gaze to linger on you a little longer than the usual rules of courtesy permitted before carefully indicating your necklace.

"What a remarkable piece of jewelry, Your Highness. May I inquire where you acquired it?"

"A recent gift. It was purchased from a private collector especially for me," you explained, touching the blue gemstone.

"How curious," he said, studying the jewel closely. "For five centuries, I had hoped never to see this little trinket again. And here it is – adorning the loveliest neck in all of Snezhnaya."

"You're familiar with this gemstone?"

"Rather more intimately than I would like," Flins admitted, moving his hand behind his back. "Would you be so kind as to spare me a few minutes? Preferably somewhere we cannot be overheard."

You agreed, and soon the two of you stepped into a small gallery connecting the ceremonial hall to the winter garden. It was considerably quieter here; snow-covered trees were visible beyond the glass doors, while muffled music drifted from the neighboring room.

Flins stopped beside a marble bench and invited you to sit.

"I confess, I feel somewhat embarrassed to make such a request upon our first acquaintance," he began, removing the glove from his right hand. "However, I would be exceedingly grateful if you agreed to part with your necklace."

You looked at him in surprise.

"What?"

"I need that particular gemstone," Flins explained, indicating the necklace. "The setting, naturally, may remain yours. I am prepared to compensate the jeweler for all expenses."

"Why should I give you a gift that belongs to me?"

"Because it once belonged to me," Flins replied after a brief pause. "Although I understand that such a circumstance can hardly be considered a convincing reason."

He told you the story of the Belyi Tsar, the court ball, and a man named Sokolov. The tale was entertaining, and you even interrupted him several times with questions. However, when the conversation turned to the reasons the gemstone had left its former owner's possession, Flins suddenly became less forthcoming.

"So you lost it in a wager?" you clarified, adjusting the necklace.

"That is how the story is generally told," he confirmed, carefully putting his glove back on.

"And now you want it back?"

"I would be most obliged."

"But it's mine now. And I like it."

Flins looked at the gemstone. Beneath the fabric of his glove, thin blue lines flared again.

"Naturally," he said, withdrawing his hand behind his back. "In that case, allow me to offer you more attractive terms. I am prepared to pay ten times its original price."

"Ten times?" You could not help smiling. "Are you serious?"

"Entirely, I'm afraid," Flins replied, taking a small notebook from his pocket. "If necessary, we may negotiate an even greater sum."

"You don't even know how much it cost."

"Believe me, my dear, that concerns me considerably less at present than it ought to."

You refused this offer as well. Partly because you genuinely liked the necklace, and partly because of the peculiar insistence of a man you had met less than half an hour ago.

Flins did not argue. He put away his notebook, then unexpectedly asked permission to examine the gemstone more closely.

You turned the necklace so he could inspect the setting more easily. The moment Flins touched the silver, the blue gemstone glowed briefly from within. He abruptly withdrew his hand, and a thin tongue of blue flame escaped from beneath his shirt cuff.

"Kyryll?" You stepped back, noticing the fire.

"My apologies," Flins replied, quickly adjusting his sleeve. "I believe I ought to be more careful with other people's jewelry."

"What was that?"

He looked at the necklace. The light inside the gemstone had already faded, but for the first time that evening, an expression of genuine concern appeared on his face.

"Certain ancient objects possess rather unpleasant properties," he said, moving a little farther away from you. "And unfortunately, such properties are not always mentioned when they are sold."

"Are you saying the gemstone is dangerous?"

"I am saying that I would prefer to see it somewhere more secure."

"Such as in your possession?"

"Precisely."

You crossed your arms. Flins examined his own glove for several seconds before unexpectedly laughing, although there was very little amusement in his voice.

"What a predicament. I suppose you've already been told that I am old-fashioned, aristocratic, and occasionally somewhat unbearable. But I doubt anyone warned you of my tendency to find myself in trouble involving ancient oaths."

"What oaths?"

He fell silent for a moment. Then he carefully touched the inner pocket where a small scroll bearing the Belyi Tsar's seal was concealed.

"Once, I made a promise to a man who was exceedingly generous to me," Flins said. "At the time, I believed fulfilling it would be simple enough. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed somewhat over the past five hundred years."

"To the Belyi Tsar?"

"Yes," he confirmed, looking at you. "And I confess, I would prefer not to discuss the details here."

You asked him to explain what an ancient oath had to do with your necklace. Flins answered evasively, referring to the peculiarities of fae vows. When you reminded him that you had a right to know about the danger associated with your own possession, he agreed, but warned that he could not tell you everything.

Meanwhile, several more blue lines appeared on his wrist beneath the glove. Flins could feel the ancient oath responding to the gemstone's presence. He had already attempted to rid himself of this obligation once, when he gave the "Tear of the North" to Sokolov. And now, centuries later, he found himself standing before the very person he least wished to harm.

Moreover, you were the daughter of the woman who had ascended the Belyi Tsar's throne.

Flins looked at you and unexpectedly recalled every story he had heard over the past several years. Your stubbornness, your habit of defending people whom the courtiers preferred to overlook, your ridiculous arguments with officials. He had long wished to meet you, but he had imagined that meeting very differently.

At last, Flins straightened, adjusted his collar, and offered you his hand again.

"Your Highness, allow me to ask you one entirely unexpected question."

"Another one? You've already asked me to give you my present."

"Yes, and I must confess, I suffered a crushing defeat," he remarked with a barely perceptible smile. "However, perhaps there is another way to resolve our predicament."

You regarded him suspiciously.

"What way?"

Flins took your hand, carefully brushed his lips against it, and lingered for a moment, as though doubting his own decision for the first time in many years.

"Would you agree to marry me?"

You pulled your hand away.

"What?!"

"I admit, the proposal is somewhat hasty," Flins replied, straightening. "Ordinarily, I prefer to invite a lady to dinner first, become acquainted with her habits, and establish that she does not find my company entirely unbearable."

"We met half an hour ago!"

"Yes. That circumstance is particularly regrettable," he remarked, lowering his gaze. "I had hoped our acquaintance would begin far more pleasantly."

You demanded an explanation of what marriage had to do with the necklace. Flins listened attentively, then removed his glove. Glowing blue symbols had appeared on his palm, symbols that had not been there before.

"In the ancient fae families, certain customs existed concerning the transfer of property between spouses," he explained, extending his hand so that you could examine the markings. "Some of them even applied to objects bound by ancient oaths."

"And you're proposing marriage to me because of some gemstone?"

"I am offering you an opportunity to avoid some rather unpleasant consequences," Flins replied, carefully closing his hand. "Although I will not deny that the prospect of marriage itself appeals to me considerably more than it does to you at present."

"You don't even know me."

Flins looked at you. For several seconds, he appeared to hesitate over whether he should answer honestly.

"Personally – indeed, I do not," he admitted. "But I have been taking an interest in your affairs for quite some time, Your Highness. And I dare hope that the stories about you were not entirely products of the court's imagination."

"What stories?"

"About your arguments with the advisers. About the Lightkeepers you helped. About that unfortunate copyist to whom you apologized after a rather lengthy dispute," Flins listed, smiling faintly. "It seemed to me that a woman capable of causing her own officials so much trouble while still remembering the exhaustion of an ordinary servant deserved at least an introduction."

He carefully adjusted the edge of your glove, which had shifted during the conversation.

"I had wanted to invite you for a walk, should the opportunity ever present itself. Perhaps send you flowers. Tell you a few stories about the old court, although I suspect you would inevitably begin asking uncomfortable questions."

You watched him, trying to determine how seriously he was speaking.

"And instead, you're proposing marriage?"

"To my greatest regret, circumstances require us to depart somewhat from the usual order of courtship."

The clinking of glasses reached you from the ceremonial hall. Flins turned toward the sound and noticed two courtiers approaching from the far end of the gallery. He immediately suggested continuing the conversation in the winter garden, but managed to say a few more words first.

"Please understand me correctly, my dear. I have no intention of forcing you into marriage. But if you refuse both my proposal and the possibility of parting with the gemstone, I shall have to seek a solution that may prove considerably less pleasant for both of us."

He extended his hand, inviting you toward the glass doors. Blue flames flared beneath the fabric of his glove once again, and this time he could not conceal them completely.

"And one more request, Your Highness," Flins added, lowering his voice. "Before we continue discussing my rather untimely marriage, please tell me who exactly gave you this necklace."

He glanced at the "Tear of the North" and carefully withdrew his hand from the gemstone.

"I'm afraid our unknown benefactor may know considerably more about my past than I would like."

You Came Too Late, Your Highness

---

Flins never replied to the last letter you sent him from Snezhnaya. Nor did he reply to the sixteen that came before it.

Seven years ago, you left Nod-Krai, promising to return as soon as you had settled your affairs at the Tsaritsa's court. By then, you and Flins had been in a relationship for almost two years. During that time, he had introduced you to his companions, shown you every path in the Final Night Cemetery, and even agreed to clear out two rooms in the lighthouse so you could furnish them according to your tastes.

You had genuinely intended to live together. You discussed where to put a second bookshelf, what to replace the old curtains with, and whether you should buy a larger dining table. Flins once remarked that inviting guests to the home of a man accustomed to spending his evenings in the company of the deceased seemed a rather questionable pleasure. You replied that he would have to get used to it. He laughed and promised to try.

Everything changed when the Tsaritsa demanded your return to the capital.

At first, it was supposed to be a matter of a few weeks. Then it became clear that serious political changes were being prepared at the palace, and the presence of the royal heiress was necessary to strengthen the ruling family's position. You were offered a position at court and responsibilities that could not be fulfilled from Nod-Krai.

Flins did not ask you to refuse.

On your last evening together, you had dinner at the lighthouse. He prepared your favorite dish, opened a bottle of wine, and even brought out the antique silver cutlery he rarely used. You tried to explain why you had to remain in Snezhnaya, speaking of your mother, your duties, and the people who depended on your help.

Flins listened, occasionally refilling your glass.

"So the decision has already been made?" he asked when you had finished.

"I have to go back, Kyryll. At least until everything settles down," you replied, pushing your plate away.

"Of course," Flins said, carefully folding his napkin. "I would hardly presume to dispute the demands of public service. Especially when your mother is involved."

"You could come and visit me."

"Occasionally, I suppose that might be possible," he agreed, looking at you across the table. "Although the cemetery, unfortunately, does not lend itself to prolonged absences on the part of its caretaker."

"Are you angry?"

Flins remained silent for a moment before rising to clear the dishes.

"I am saddened, my dear. However, I imagine this is already difficult enough for you."

That night, he held you as he always had. In the morning, he helped fasten your traveling cloak, carried your luggage, and accompanied you to the harbor. Before boarding the ship, you kissed him and told him you loved him.

"And I love you," Flins replied, smoothing a stray lock of hair away from your face. "Please remember to write when you reach the capital."

You wrote. A week later, you sent a second letter, then a third. Eventually, the letters grew longer, filled with explanations, requests for patience, descriptions of court affairs, and increasingly uncertain promises to visit.

For the first few months, Flins still sent brief replies. He wished you good health, shared news of the Lightkeepers, and occasionally recounted amusing incidents at the cemetery. But gradually, his letters became less frequent. After you informed him that your return had once again been postponed indefinitely, the correspondence ceased altogether.

You continued writing for some time afterward. Eventually, you stopped.

Seven years passed.

---

Almost nothing had changed at the Final Night Cemetery. The same narrow paths, carefully maintained gravestones, the old lighthouse on its hill, and the familiar bluish glow of the lanterns. Only a few trees had grown taller, and several new buildings had appeared near the harbor.

You arrived without an official escort. The Tsaritsa knew about your journey, but you had chosen not to explain its true purpose. Over the past several months, circumstances at court had changed, allowing you to free enough time for a visit. You decided to take advantage of the opportunity, although even before setting sail, you could not quite decide what you would say to Flins when you saw him.

He was standing beside one of the graves when you saw him for the first time in seven years. Flins was adjusting a small lantern on a stone pedestal while speaking with an elderly caretaker. Hearing footsteps, he turned around.

For several seconds, his hand remained resting on the lantern. Then he finished what he was doing, straightened, and turned toward you.

"Your Highness," Flins said, inclining his head. "What an unexpected visit. I hope the journey did not cause you any inconvenience."

You stopped before him. He wore the familiar dark coat, gloves, and ornaments you remembered from the days you had spent together. He looked almost exactly as he had seven years earlier.

"Kyryll..." You took a step toward him.

"I imagine you must be somewhat tired from your journey," he continued, addressing the caretaker. "Would you be so kind as to inform the harbor that Her Highness's luggage should be delivered to the lighthouse?"

You wanted to embrace him, but Flins had already stepped aside, clearing the path for you.

"I shall prepare a room. Assuming you intend to stay, of course."

You lowered your arms.

"Aren't you even going to ask why I've come?"

Flins looked at you. His smile remained polite, but you now noticed that he barely allowed his gaze to linger on you.

"I would hate to appear excessively curious, Your Highness. Perhaps you have come on Her Majesty's business."

"I came to see you."

He inclined his head slightly.

"In that case, I thank you for the honor. Please, follow me."

On the way to the lighthouse, Flins spoke about changes at the cemetery. He mentioned recently deceased Lightkeepers, complained about a damaged staircase, and inquired after the Tsaritsa's health. When you tried to recall one of your old walks together, he confirmed that he remembered it, but soon steered the conversation toward the weather.

Inside the lighthouse, everything was familiar. The same fireplace, antique clock, and bookshelves. A vase of flowers stood on the table, and beside the window was the armchair in which you had once loved to read.

But the room you had planned to furnish together no longer contained any of your belongings.

Flins opened the door and stepped aside to let you enter. The bed had been made with fresh linen, and a carafe of water and a small tray of tea stood on the bedside table. Your favorite cup was beside them.

"I hope you will be comfortable here," he said, checking that the window was properly closed. "If you require anything else, please let me know."

"You remember what kind of tea I like?" you asked, noticing the familiar leaves in a small porcelain container.

"Naturally. My memory is quite respectable," Flins replied, moving the container closer to the teapot.

You approached him and gently touched his sleeve.

"Kyryll, look at me."

He looked. But before you could take his hand, Flins carefully freed his sleeve and took a step toward the door.

"My apologies. I have several matters to finish before dinner."

"Are you avoiding me?"

His fingers paused on the door handle.

"I am trying to ensure that you have a pleasant stay, Your Highness. If my behavior seems insufficiently courteous, please accept my apologies."

He bowed and left.

Once, Flins would certainly have taken advantage of such a moment to kiss you, make some ridiculous joke, and ask whether you intended to take complete possession of his modest home.

Now you had to close the door yourself.

---

Dinner proved even more unpleasant.

Flins had prepared several dishes you loved and even placed on the table a bottle of the very wine you had shared on your last evening before leaving. Yet he barely ate. He sat opposite you, inquired about news from Snezhnaya, and asked questions about court affairs, as though entertaining a distinguished guest.

Throughout the entire evening, he did not call you "my dear" even once.

"Do you still keep this wine?" you asked, examining the familiar label.

"There were several bottles left in the cellar," Flins replied, filling your glass. "I thought it would be suitable for an occasion such as this."

"What occasion?"

"Your visit."

You set your glass on the table.

"Can you stop calling me Your Highness?"

Flins put down his cutlery and dabbed his lips with his napkin.

"Of course. If that is your wish."

"You used to call me something else."

"Yes," he agreed, folding the napkin beside his plate.

You waited for him to continue, but Flins reached for the teapot.

"Why don't you anymore?"

He stopped, then carefully set the teapot down again.

"I'm afraid certain habits lose their appropriateness over time."

"I'm not a stranger to you, Kyryll."

He looked at you, and for the first time that evening, his expression became serious.

"I never claimed you were."

You reached across the table, attempting to touch his fingers. Flins noticed the movement and slowly withdrew his hand into his lap.

"Please, don't," he said.

You pulled your hand back.

"Is my presence really that unpleasant to you?"

"Your presence does not offend me in the slightest," Flins replied, carefully choosing his words. "But I would be grateful if you allowed me to decide for myself how close we may be after such a prolonged separation."

You lowered your eyes to your plate.

Once, this man could spend hours holding your hand while you told him about the most insignificant incidents. He loved kissing your fingertips, complained when you took up too much room in his armchair, and invariably found some excuse to keep you beside him for at least a few more minutes before bed.

Now he sat only a few steps away and asked you not to touch him.

"Don't you love me anymore?" you finally asked.

Flins looked at his hands, then carefully pulled his cup closer.

"I am not certain such a conversation would do either of us any good tonight."

"Answer me."

"I'm afraid I cannot offer you an answer that would spare us both unpleasant memories," he said, rising from the table. "If you will excuse me, I shall arrange for some hot water to be prepared. You must be tired."

He left before you could say anything else.

Flins did not appear again that evening.

---

The following morning, you went downstairs to the common room, only to find a note explaining that the master of the house had gone to the cemetery on Lightkeeper business. Breakfast was already waiting on the table, carefully covered to keep the food warm.

You decided to wait for his return.

An hour passed. Then another.

Eventually, you went upstairs, intending to leave him a note in his study. The door stood slightly ajar. Papers, several antique books, and the familiar lantern Flins usually carried with him lay on the writing desk.

Beside them stood a wooden casket. Its lid was open.

Inside were letters.

You recognized your own handwriting on the very first envelope. Then on the second and third. Some were tied with thin ribbons, while others lay separately. The paper had yellowed, the corners were worn, and several envelopes still bore old postal seals from Snezhnaya.

They were your letters.

All seventeen of them.

You picked up the top envelope and noticed that the seal was intact. You checked the next, then another. Not a single one had been opened.

Seven years earlier, you had written that you missed him. You had asked his forgiveness for yet another delay, told him about arguments with your mother, sleepless nights, and how you sometimes caught yourself wishing to hear his footsteps outside your door.

You had written that you loved him.

And he had not even opened the letters.

"I see you've found my old correspondence."

Flins stood in the doorway of the study. His coat was damp from the sea mist, and traces of soil marked his gloves. Upon seeing the envelope in your hand, he stopped, then closed the door behind him.

"I wasn't trying to go through your things," you said, carefully placing the letter on the desk.

"I suppose I should have put the casket away," he replied, removing his gloves. "My apologies for the inconvenience."

You picked up another envelope.

"You didn't even read them."

Flins looked at the letters. He remained silent for a while, then approached the desk and set his lantern beside them.

"I did," he said.

"Don't lie to me. They're all sealed."

"The seals are indeed intact," Flins agreed, opening a small shutter on the lantern.

Bluish light spread across the desk. Flins picked up one of the letters, held it before the lantern, and slowly turned it. Familiar lines appeared across the surface of the envelope, as though the ink lay immediately beneath the thin layer of paper.

"Certain peculiarities of my people allow us to dispense with such crude interference in another person's correspondence," he explained, returning the letter to its place. "Unfortunately, not all the customs of the old court can be called sensible."

"So you read every single one?"

Flins closed the lantern's shutter.

"Yes."

"And didn't answer a single one?"

He removed his damp coat and hung it over the back of a chair.

"After a certain point, I stopped understanding what exactly I was supposed to write to you."

"You could at least have told me you'd received them!"

"I could have," Flins replied, adjusting his collar. "But then you would probably have written again. And I would have been obliged to search for another answer."

You looked at the yellowed envelopes.

"I thought you hated me."

Flins frowned slightly.

"Did you? I am sorry I gave you reason to believe that."

"You disappeared from my life, Kyryll."

He turned his gaze toward the window.

"As I recall, you were the one who left Nod-Krai."

The words were spoken calmly. Flins had not even raised his voice, yet for the first time since your arrival, there was irritation in it.

"You know why I had to leave."

"I do," he agreed, picking up one of the envelopes from the desk. "And I have never blamed you for fulfilling your duty."

"Then why are you treating me this way?"

Flins ran a finger along the old seal. For several seconds, he lingered over it as though considering opening the letter, but then placed it back.

"Because seven years ago, I had already grown accustomed to waking up beside you," he said. "Accustomed to buying groceries for two, setting aside books that might interest you, and listening to you complain about my rather questionable housekeeping abilities."

He opened the bottom drawer of the desk and took out a small ring of keys.

"After you left, I continued placing your cup beside mine for several months. A ridiculous habit. Especially considering that you had explained the circumstances of your decision quite clearly."

"But I never said I wouldn't come back."

"Yes," Flins replied, sorting through the keys. "That was precisely why I continued waiting."

You fell silent.

Flins selected one key, but when he noticed you were still watching him, he set the ring down on the desk.

"When you wrote that you would be delayed another month, I decided I could wait a month. When that became six months, I considered it unfortunate, but perfectly understandable. Then you informed me that your return had been postponed indefinitely."

He paused, looking at the casket.

"Do you remember what I wrote to you in my last reply?"

You shook your head.

"I wished you good health and asked you to take care of yourself. I believe I even mentioned something about the weather. A rather pitiful letter, considering how much time I spent composing it."

"Why didn't you tell me you were hurting?"

Flins looked at you with a tired, faint smile.

"And what would that have changed? Would you have abandoned your responsibilities? Quarreled with your mother? Returned here to spend a few weeks in the company of a man who proved insufficiently generous to accept your decision with grace?"

He carefully closed the casket, leaving the last letter in your hand.

"I loved you. I did not wish to turn that feeling into yet another obligation you would have to fulfill."

You moved closer.

"But you still kept my letters."

"I'm afraid I was not quite as consistent as I had hoped," Flins admitted.

You carefully reached toward his face. Seven years ago, he would certainly have leaned into your touch, then asked whether you intended to distract him from his work entirely.

Now Flins caught your wrist before you could touch his cheek.

He did so gently, without the slightest roughness. He held your hand for several seconds, then carefully lowered it.

"Please," he said. "I would rather not grow accustomed again to something I spent so long teaching myself to live without."

You looked at him, struggling to find the right words.

"You can't just pretend there was never anything between us."

"I'm not pretending," he replied, releasing your hand. "Believe me, that would require considerably less effort on my part."

He walked toward the bookshelf and took down a thick folder, leaving you beside the writing desk.

You noticed that several more documents lay in the open drawer, tied with a black ribbon. The topmost bore the seal of the Lightkeepers and Flins's name.

Below it was a date scheduled for the end of the current month.

You read the heading.

"Transfer of Duties of the Caretaker of the Final Night Cemetery."

Beneath it lay another document – an order concerning the preparation of an ancient burial chamber.

"Kyryll, what's this?"

Flins turned around. Seeing the papers in your hand, he closed the folder he had been about to open.

"Documents concerning some forthcoming changes," he replied, approaching the desk.

"Are you going to leave the cemetery?"

"In a manner of speaking."

You unfolded the second page. It mentioned an ancient funerary ritual of the Snezhnayan fae, the sealing of a burial chamber, and the voluntary cessation of service by its former occupant.

You raised your eyes.

"This is your burial ritual."

Flins carefully took the document from you and placed it on the desk.

"Yes."

"But you already buried yourself once."

"As you can see, the first attempt was not entirely successful," he remarked, attempting a smile. "Although I must admit, arranging one's own funeral for a second time presents somewhat fewer difficulties."

"You're planning to disappear again?"

Flins did not answer immediately. He approached the window, beyond which the path leading to his old gravestone was visible.

"I have lived long enough to grow tired of certain things," he finally said. "Once, I lost the world in which I grew up, the people I knew, and nearly everything I considered my home. It took me a great deal of time to become accustomed to my present life."

He ran his palm along the window frame.

"Then you appeared. And I made the rather presumptuous mistake of believing that I once again had reason to make plans for the future."

"Kyryll..."

"Please, allow me to finish," Flins requested, turning toward you.

He returned to the desk and rested his palm on the black ribbon binding the documents.

"I do not wish you harm. I never have. You acted as you believed necessary, and I respect your decision. But, my dear..."

He faltered and looked away.

It was the first affectionate form of address you had heard from him since your arrival.

Flins noticed his own slip. His lips twitched slightly, but when he continued, his tone was considerably more restrained.

"Forgive me. What I meant to say is that I cannot endlessly return to a life I have already been forced to leave behind."

"And that's why you're going to bury yourself again?"

"The preparations began several months ago," he replied. "I have already discussed the transfer of my duties. The Lightkeepers will not be left without assistance, nor the cemetery without someone to tend it."

"And you weren't even going to tell me?"

Flins looked at the casket of letters.

"We have not spoken in seven years, Your Highness. I was not certain such news would interest you."

You lowered your eyes to the last letter, which you were still holding. It had been written in the year when you finally stopped waiting for his reply.

"I wrote that I loved you," you said quietly.

"Yes," Flins replied, meeting your gaze. "I remember."

"And you loved me too."

He closed his eyes for several seconds, then looked at you again.

"Ah. I suppose I must now confess that I am nowhere near as skilled at forgetting as I would have liked."

Flins picked up the casket from the desk and placed it before you. He opened the lid, carefully moved several envelopes aside, and took out an old photograph.

In it, you were sitting beside the lighthouse. You were laughing as you tried to steal Flins's hat, while he held you around the waist, entirely unconcerned that the photographer would have to wait until you finished arguing.

He placed the photograph beside the letters.

"I tried to put this photograph away several times," Flins admitted. "Once, I even took it to the cemetery. I thought it would be rather appropriate to leave it beside my own gravestone."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I went back for it the following day," he replied with a faint smile. "An astonishingly foolish thing for a man of my age to do."

You picked up the photograph. On the back, the date was written in his handwriting, with a brief inscription beneath it: "The first summer when the lighthouse became far too noisy."

Flins watched you examine the picture. Then he carefully closed the casket, leaving the photograph and the final letter before you.

"You may take them if you wish," he said. "I imagine you have more need of them now than I do."

You raised your eyes to him.

"Why are you doing all this? Why are you still trying to get rid of me?"

Flins slowly lowered himself into an armchair. For several seconds, he studied his hands before answering.

"Because yesterday, when I saw you near the cemetery, I wanted to go to you and embrace you," he said. "Ask how long you intended to stay. Invite you to remain here again. Can you imagine? Seven years have passed, and I barely managed to stop myself from asking whether you might finally like to choose some new curtains."

He shook his head, seemingly displeased with his own admission.

"And then I remembered standing at the harbor and watching your ship sail away. And how every morning afterward, I hoped to receive word of your return."

You approached him. This time, Flins did not move away, but neither did he reach out to you.

"I was hurting too," you said.

"I believe you," he replied, raising his eyes. "But unfortunately, that does not make it any easier for me."

He slowly rose, gathered the documents concerning the funerary ritual, and put them into the folder. Then he picked up the last letter, examined its unbroken seal, and held it out to you.

"I still remember every line. You wrote that one day you would certainly return, even if it took years," Flins said. "And you asked me not to forget you."

He paused for a moment.

"As you can see, I had no difficulty whatsoever with that last request."

Flins left the letter on the desk beside the old photograph. Then he walked toward the window and gazed at the cemetery for several seconds before turning back to you.

"I am not going to blame you for fulfilling your duty. Nor shall I ask you to abandon it now," he said, adjusting his cuff. "However, I need to understand why you have come."

He looked at the traveling cloak you had left over the back of a nearby chair, then at you. His voice remained calm, but he no longer attempted to conceal his weariness.

"Tell me, Your Highness... Have you come because you can finally choose a life with me? Or did you merely wish to make certain that I was still waiting for you?"

My Loyalty Outlived My King

---

On the third day of negotiations, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins became thoroughly convinced that the Tsaritsa's daughter had inherited from her mother the rather unpleasant habit of refusing to yield even when a concession seemed perfectly reasonable to him.

However, he could not deny that he himself had contributed considerably to the problem.

It had all begun with a petition from eight ancient fae families whose names had once appeared in the Belyi Tsar's register of nobility. After the change of power, most of these families had lost their former privileges, while some had been deprived of their ancestral estates and access to documents confirming their lineage. Over the centuries that followed, portions of their property passed into other hands, the archives were closed, and the descendants of the former nobility gradually stopped seeking the restoration of their rights.

Recently, however, several authentic charters bearing the seal of Monomakh Snezhnyi had been discovered in Nod-Krai. They confirmed that certain fae families had been granted their estates as hereditary possessions rather than temporary rewards for service to the crown.

This development attracted the attention of people who still remembered the old ways.

The assembled representatives of the families were not demanding the return of the Belyi Tsar or the overthrow of the Tsaritsa. They intended to secure official recognition of their families, a review of several confiscations, and the right to independently manage their surviving ancestral burial grounds.

But the Snezhnayan court regarded such initiatives with caution. Restoring ancient rights could provoke dozens of new property disputes, while recognizing former titles would create an inconvenient precedent for the present aristocracy.

The Tsaritsa decided to send you to conduct the negotiations.

You were granted the authority to conclude a preliminary agreement, although any decisions concerning the return of property or changes to the register of nobility would require her final approval.

The fae representatives, in turn, invited Flins.

At the Belyi Tsar's court, the Chudomirovich family name had been well known. Kyryll himself had once belonged to the old nobility, although for many years he had preferred spending his time among the Lightkeepers and the dead, taking almost no part in political affairs.

At first, he refused.

However, after a personal appeal from an elderly fae aristocrat, Lady Velskaya, he finally agreed to examine the documents. Among the charters, he discovered the names of people he had once known personally.

And so, several weeks later, Flins found himself in a negotiation hall in Nod-Krai, sitting opposite the daughter of Snezhnaya's current ruler.

---

On the first day, you exchanged formal greetings. Flins bowed, addressed you as Your Highness, and curiously inquired whether it was not too exhausting to deal with such matters far from the comforts of the Zapolyarny Palace.

"I imagine circumstances have forced you to leave behind considerably more pleasant company," he remarked, accepting a folder of documents from the secretary.

"In Snezhnaya, I also have to deal with people who consider their demands entirely justified," you replied, taking your seat at the head of the table.

"What a fortunate coincidence. I happen to be one of them," Flins said with a faint smile, opening the folder.

By evening, you had discovered that he was capable of challenging practically any formulation without violating a single rule of etiquette.

However, after the meeting, it turned out that you were staying at the same hotel. Flins encountered you in the dining room, noticed that you were about to have dinner alone, and offered to keep you company.

To your surprise, the evening proved enjoyable. Outside the negotiation hall, he willingly told stories about old Snezhnaya, took an interest in your travels, and even made you laugh several times. When an elderly maid accidentally overturned a tray, Flins was the first to rise and help her collect the dishes, then remarked with the utmost seriousness that such incidents had been following him since the reign of the Belyi Tsar.

You talked until almost midnight.

As you parted, he kissed your hand and expressed the hope that the following day's political disagreements would not prevent you from maintaining a pleasant acquaintance.

His hopes proved excessively optimistic.

---

The third meeting began with a discussion of the compromise agreement you had prepared. The document provided for the restoration of records concerning the ancestry of the eight families, the establishment of a commission to examine property claims, and the possibility of monetary compensation in cases where returning real estate would violate the rights of its current owners.

In return, the fae representatives were required to recognize the Tsaritsa's existing laws, renounce their former tax privileges, and transfer several territories needed for the expansion of protected trade routes to the state.

The final provision caused particularly lengthy arguments.

"The proposed arrangement will prevent the eviction of current residents," you explained, placing a map before those assembled. "No one intends to dispute your ancestry. But Snezhnaya cannot overturn the decisions of the past five hundred years simply because a charter from a former ruler has survived."

Adviser Somov, seated to your right, nodded and pointed to one of the marked territories.

"The royal administration is also prepared to assume the costs of maintaining the road and the nearby structures. The land will remain under state protection."

Lady Velskaya, representing the senior fae families, frowned. Beside her, Flins carefully studied the map, slowly turning the pages of the agreement.

"I presume you have made provisions for compensation concerning the old estates?" he inquired without raising his head.

"Yes," you replied, sliding an appendix toward him. "The amount of compensation will be determined after the surviving documents have been examined."

"Most prudent. And what of the cemetery beside the northern road?"

You looked at the map.

"It lies within the territory proposed for transfer to state administration."

"And is it intended to remain in its present condition?" Flins raised an eyebrow slightly, turning toward Somov.

"If necessary, the graves will be relocated," the adviser replied. "We are discussing the widening of the road and the construction of a security outpost."

Flins closed the folder.

"I'm afraid, in that case, I cannot support your proposal."

Several people exchanged glances around the table. You looked up from the document.

"What exactly do you object to?"

"A small detail," Flins replied, turning the map toward you. "There are forty-two graves here. At least eleven belong to people I knew. Some of their families still visit to pay their respects to the deceased."

"We are prepared to ensure a dignified reburial," you objected, addressing him.

"And who exactly will determine what should be considered dignified?" Flins pointed to the northern section of the map. "Mr. Somov? Or a commission that, as I understand it, has not even been established yet?"

The adviser straightened.

"Mr. Flins, we are discussing the development of the region. We cannot preserve every old burial site at the expense of the safety of our trade routes."

"In that case, allow me to suggest a somewhat different route," Flins replied calmly, taking an additional diagram from his folder. "It is only a few kilometers longer and requires the relocation of not a single grave."

You studied the proposed road. It passed through a plot belonging to an existing trading association.

"This route will require additional expenditure."

"Undoubtedly," he agreed. "Although I imagine a state capable of financing the maintenance of an entire army of officials can find the funds for a few kilometers of road."

A restrained chuckle could be heard around the table. Somov gave Flins a displeased look.

"Her Highness is proposing a perfectly reasonable compromise," the adviser said.

"I agree with you on most points," Flins replied, addressing you again. "But I consider relocating people's remains to save money on construction entirely unacceptable."

"You're rejecting the entire agreement over a single plot of land?" you asked, setting the map aside.

"I am proposing that the relevant provision be reconsidered. If retaining it is mandatory, then yes, the agreement will have to be rejected."

You studied him for a while. Flins sat calmly, his palms resting on the edge of the table. He did not even look irritated.

"Mr. Flins, surely you understand that I cannot make decisions based solely on your personal memories?"

"Naturally, Your Highness," he replied, inclining his head slightly. "That is precisely why I have provided an alternative plan, cost calculations, and information concerning every burial site. As you can see, memory proved rather useful in preparing the documents."

Lady Velskaya requested a recess. You agreed, but first ordered that Flins's calculations be passed to the specialists accompanying your delegation.

As the participants began leaving the hall, you stopped him.

"You could have discussed this with me beforehand."

Flins paused beside his chair.

"I could have. However, I was only given the final version of the agreement this morning."

"And you decided to make my proposal look unacceptable in public?"

"I pointed out one provision that I genuinely consider unacceptable," he replied, carefully gathering his papers. "As for the others, I believe we have made considerable progress."

You stood up.

"You know perfectly well what impression this will make on my mother."

"I imagine Her Majesty will be displeased," Flins agreed, pushing his chair back. "Although I cannot say that such a prospect is entirely unfamiliar to me."

"For you, this may be another amusement. For me, it is an assignment upon which the position of dozens of families depends."

Flins stopped smiling.

"That is precisely why I ask you not to treat these people as an inconvenient appendix to some old documents."

You looked at him, then gathered your papers.

"The meeting will resume tomorrow. By then, I expect you to present a proposal that can actually be signed."

"I shall do my best not to disappoint you," Flins replied with a bow, allowing you to pass through the doorway.

---

The conclusion of the meeting did little to improve the mood of either side.

While you and your advisers studied the new calculations, Flins went to meet with the representatives of the fae families. Lady Velskaya informed him that the elders were prepared to establish a permanent council to protect the interests of the remaining families.

They wanted him to lead the organization.

Flins refused almost immediately.

"Thank you for your confidence, but I already have a rather extensive cemetery to look after," he remarked, returning the prepared petition to the woman. "I'm afraid that if I take on affairs of state as well, the deceased will finally cease to regard me as a responsible man."

But Velskaya insisted. The other candidates were either too young to remember the old ways or insufficiently respected among the families. Flins, on the other hand, knew the old laws, personally remembered several of the signatories to the discovered charters, and knew how to speak with the current representatives of authority.

Furthermore, the elders believed that his acquaintance with the Tsaritsa's daughter might prove useful.

Flins found that last remark particularly displeasing.

"I hope you are not suggesting that I exploit the princess's personal favor as a political instrument?" he inquired, folding the letter.

"She likes you," Velskaya replied. "It's obvious."

"In that case, I must disappoint you. This morning, I had the opportunity to discover that her favor has rather definite limits."

The woman smiled and asked him to at least consider the offer.

Flins agreed to give his answer after the next meeting.

---

Toward evening, someone knocked on the door of your room.

You were sitting at the writing desk, rereading the remarks on the agreement. Your advisers had already prepared several amendments, but the matter of the northern cemetery remained unresolved. An updated map lay on the desk, along with a note from Somov warning that the additional expenses would have to be approved by the palace treasury.

"Come in," you said without raising your head.

The door opened, and Flins peered into the room. In one hand, he held a small folder; in the other, a bouquet of white flowers tied with a dark blue ribbon.

"Good evening, Your Highness. I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said, stopping at the threshold. "Although, judging by the quantity of paperwork, you probably stopped enjoying your day quite some time ago."

You set down your pen.

"If you've come to argue about the road again, I suggest we leave it until tomorrow."

"What a disappointment," Flins replied with a faint smile, entering after receiving your permission. "And I had just prepared several wonderfully unpleasant questions for Mr. Somov."

He placed the folder on the free edge of the desk and offered you the flowers.

"However, I have come with a less official intention this evening."

"Is this an attempt to bribe me?" you asked, examining the bouquet.

"I'm afraid my financial resources are somewhat more modest than such an undertaking would require," he remarked. "Besides, you strike me as a woman who would insist upon a detailed estimate of expenses."

You could not help smiling as you accepted the flowers. Flins noticed this, then carefully stepped away from the desk.

"I suppose my political views have not particularly impressed you. What a pity. I had hoped for at least an invitation to a second date."

"A second?" You raised your eyebrows. "And when was the first?"

"Three days ago. At the hotel. You spent almost four hours with me, laughed at my jokes twice, and allowed me to escort you to your room," Flins listed, slipping his gloves into his pocket. "I must confess, I left that dinner with rather pleasant impressions."

"That was an ordinary dinner."

"Naturally. Although it appears I made a serious mistake by failing to clarify the nature of the occasion beforehand."

You shook your head, examining the flowers.

"And where are you planning to invite me?"

"To a small restaurant near the harbor. They prepare excellent fish, and the owner is sensible enough not to interfere in his guests' conversations," Flins replied. "I even promise not to mention ancient land charters, provided you do not bring them up first."

You looked at him doubtfully.

"Can you really spend an entire evening without talking about the Belyi Tsar?"

"Your Highness, I am capable of many remarkable things. Some of them are not even connected to coups d'état," he replied, inclining his head slightly.

You placed the flowers in an empty pitcher standing near the window. When you turned around, Flins was already examining the map spread across your desk.

"So you did come because of the negotiations," you remarked.

"I confess, resisting the opportunity to study the new amendments is rather difficult," he replied, withdrawing his hand from the paper. "But I had no intention of discussing them without your permission."

You allowed him to examine the documents. Flins quickly looked through several pages and discovered that, in the revised version, you had preserved the possibility of considering the alternative route.

He paused at the relevant provision.

"You've changed the wording."

"I ordered your calculations to be checked. Perhaps it will be possible to bypass the cemetery without increasing expenses as much as Somov claims."

Flins looked at you.

"Thank you."

"Don't be too quick. I haven't promised anything yet."

"Naturally," he replied, closing the folder. "But you have at least agreed to consider the proposal. Believe me, some of your predecessors at the Snezhnayan court would have considered such a concession entirely unnecessary."

He moved the folder away from the desk, but did not hurry to leave.

"Still, I must warn you about one circumstance."

You grew wary.

"What circumstance?"

"Today, I was offered the position of head of the new council of fae families," Flins informed you, unfastening the top button of his coat. "No official decision has been made yet. For now, I have merely promised to consider the proposal."

You looked at him.

"But you said you haven't been interested in politics for a long time."

"Quite right. Unfortunately, politics occasionally develops an unfortunate interest in me."

"Are you going to accept?"

Flins studied the flowers near the window for a while.

"I don't know. Some of these people genuinely need help. And I must admit, I am not particularly fond of the thought that their fate will once again be decided solely according to what is convenient for the current authorities."

He turned toward you.

"But I also remember perfectly well what attempts to restore the past can sometimes become. I have witnessed enough political catastrophes to have little desire to participate in another."

"If you lead the council, we'll be on opposite sides of the negotiations."

"I'm afraid that has already happened," Flins remarked. "Although until this morning, I had hoped we might at least manage not to ruin our relationship entirely."

You approached the desk and picked up the prepared agreement.

"My mother won't be pleased if she learns that I'm seeing a man who represents the interests of the former nobility."

"I imagine her reaction will be even less favorable if someone informs her that this man intends to invite you to dinner," he replied, carefully fastening his coat.

You smiled, but this time Flins did not immediately join in the joke.

"I am not going to ask you to act against Snezhnaya's interests," he continued. "Nor do I expect you to support my proposals solely out of personal affection. But I ask you not to demand the opposite of me."

"What do you mean?"

He approached the desk and carefully touched the ancient charter lying on top of the other papers.

"I served the Belyi Tsar. His reign ended long ago, and I have no desire to restore the former order. But certain obligations outlived my sovereign. I remember these people, their families, and what they lost. If I have an opportunity to help them, I will probably take it."

Flins looked at you, then withdrew his hand from the document.

"Even if it displeases you."

You remained silent for a while. He waited patiently, making no attempt to suggest an answer.

At last, Flins took a small card from his pocket and placed it on the edge of the desk. The restaurant's address and a time were written on it.

"Eight o'clock," he informed you. "The table is already reserved. If you decline, I shall spend a very pleasant evening alone and probably eat your portion of dessert."

You picked up the card.

"Are you always so self-confident?"

"Only when circumstances permit," Flins replied with a smile. "I suffered a diplomatic defeat this morning, so perhaps you are overestimating my abilities."

He approached the door but stopped before leaving.

"And one more thing, Your Highness."

Flins took a second envelope from his inner pocket, sealed with an ancient coat of arms. You noticed the signatures of several fae elders on it.

"Lady Velskaya asked me to deliver a copy of the petition to you. It contains an additional proposal concerning the future council."

You opened the envelope and quickly scanned the first few lines. The document proposed establishing a permanent body that would represent the ancient families at the Snezhnayan court. Below was a provision allowing the agreement to be secured through a dynastic union.

You looked up.

"A dynastic union?"

Flins sighed and carefully closed the door he had already begun to open.

"Yes. I'm afraid some of my compatriots have retained rather peculiar ideas about how political disagreements ought to be resolved."

"Are they proposing a marriage?"

"As a possible means of ensuring a long-term agreement between our two sides," Flins confirmed, removing his glove.

"And you knew about this?"

"I learned of it this afternoon," he replied. "And immediately stated that such matters should be discussed only with the consent of everyone concerned."

You looked at him, then back at the restaurant card.

"And after that, you came here to invite me on a date?"

Flins considered the question briefly, then laughed, clearly realizing how unfortunate the situation appeared from your perspective.

"I must admit, circumstances are arranging themselves in a rather compromising fashion."

He stepped closer, took the envelope, and carefully placed it beside the agreement.

"But allow me to assure you: my invitation has nothing to do with Lady Velskaya's plans. If I ever truly decide to ask for your hand in marriage, I would prefer to do so for reasons considerably more pleasant than the necessity of settling property disputes."

You looked at him suspiciously.

"And how am I supposed to believe you?"

Flins met your gaze. For a moment, his customary smile disappeared.

"I suppose you have insufficient grounds to do so at present," he admitted, adjusting his cuff. "However, I hope to remedy that unfortunate circumstance in time."

He offered you his hand again, proposing to escort you out if you intended to finish your work.

"Well then, Your Highness, allow me to clarify," Flins said, inclining his head slightly. "At eight o'clock, I shall be waiting for you at the restaurant. Will you come to dinner with a man whose political convictions you find rather questionable, or would you prefer to leave me in the company of ancient charters and exceedingly self-satisfied fae elders?"

The Third Place at the Table

---

On the sixth day of your stay at the lighthouse, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins discovered that, for the first time in several centuries, he had been forced to make a shopping list. The reason was a rather unfortunate circumstance: the princess of Snezhnaya, whom he had been imprudent enough to invite to stay with him, possessed the remarkable habit of eating several times a day.

Flins, accustomed to managing without such troubles, initially approached the necessity of cooking with great enthusiasm. On the third day, however, he finally admitted that the ability to maintain a blue flame and experience in performing ancient funerary rites were of rather limited use in the kitchen.

You laughed when, one morning, you found him standing by the stove with an open cookbook.

"Do you really not know how to make an omelet?" you asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Of course I do," Flins replied, carefully examining the contents of the frying pan. "However, as I understand it, the finished dish is supposed to look somewhat different from what we are observing at present."

You took the spatula away from him and suggested that he attend to the tea. Flins willingly surrendered his place to you and later took great pleasure in telling the Lightkeepers that living under the same roof as the Tsaritsa's daughter had considerably broadened his understanding of housekeeping.

Nevertheless, he grew accustomed to your presence much faster than he had expected.

You had met several months earlier, when you arrived in Nod-Krai on a diplomatic assignment. Flins accompanied you during a visit to the Final Night Cemetery and subsequently invited you for walks several times. After your return to Snezhnaya, a correspondence began between you, gradually losing its official character.

Eventually, he suggested that you stay at the lighthouse during your next visit. You agreed, informing him that you intended to spend several weeks in Nod-Krai.

Now you had breakfast together, walked along the coast, and spent your evenings with books. Flins willingly shared memories of old Snezhnaya, while you enjoyed arguing with him about ancient plays that he considered undeservedly forgotten.

Sometimes he held your hand longer than ordinary courtesy required. One evening, when you fell asleep in an armchair, Flins carefully carried you to the bedroom and left a cup of water beside the bed. In the morning, he calmly informed you that such duties had not been included in the original terms of his hospitality.

You replied that he was welcome to send you a bill.

Flins remarked that he would prefer to receive his payment in the form of a kiss. You did not object.

Everything was going so pleasantly that, for some time, you barely paid attention to one peculiar feature of his home.

Every evening, Flins set the table for three.

---

The third place setting always stood opposite your seat. An antique plate with a worn golden rim, a silver spoon, and a small wineglass into which Flins occasionally poured a little wine.

When you first noticed it, you assumed that your host was expecting a guest.

"Is someone else coming?" you asked, arranging the napkins.

"I don't think so," Flins replied, adjusting the cutlery. "Our third dinner companion rarely gives advance notice of his intentions."

"Then why is there another plate?"

"An old habit, my dear," he said, pulling out a chair for you. "I suppose everyone has a few peculiarities in their household."

You decided not to question him further. However, before long, things began happening that were considerably harder to explain.

Once, you left a book on the sofa, only to discover it on the highest shelf of a bookcase an hour later. Several times, the bedroom door turned out to be locked from the inside, although you clearly remembered not turning the key. Flins helped you deal with each inconvenience, though he appeared somewhat puzzled.

The incident with your gloves was particularly strange. In the evening, you placed them beside the front door. In the morning, they were found on the small table beside your traveling cloak, neatly folded on top of a note.

The note was written in an old-fashioned hand.

"Her Highness ought to remember that a guest's stay has certain limits."

Flins read it, removed his glasses, and examined the paper for quite some time.

"I believe we shall have to have a little conversation about the rules of hospitality," he finally said, folding the note.

"With whom?" you asked.

"With an exceedingly stubborn gentleman," Flins replied, slipping the paper into his inner pocket. "However, please don't worry. He has always held somewhat outdated views."

That very evening, you saw the lighthouse's third resident for the first time.

Waking after midnight, you went downstairs to get some water. A single candle was still burning in the dining room, although you remembered Flins extinguishing all the lights before bed.

An elderly man was sitting at the table.

He was dressed in an old-fashioned dark frock coat, his gray hair neatly combed back. Before him stood the very same third plate. The man sat motionless, staring at your place, his hands folded in his lap.

When you stopped in the doorway, he slowly turned his head.

"Your Highness," the stranger said without rising. "I hope you do not intend to remain here forever?"

You took a step back. The candle went out, and the man disappeared along with its light.

In the morning, Flins found you in the dining room, examining the third plate.

"An elderly man?" he repeated, placing the teapot on the table. "Gray hair, a dark frock coat, an exceedingly disapproving expression?"

"Yes! Do you know him?"

"I'm afraid I know him all too well," Flins replied, checking the water temperature. "Allow me to introduce Yefim Petrovich. He once served as the steward of my parents' household."

"He's a ghost?"

"Undoubtedly. Although he himself prefers the expression 'former employee enjoying a well-deserved retirement'," Flins said with complete seriousness as he poured you some tea.

It turned out that Yefim Petrovich had died back during the Belyi Tsar's reign. During his lifetime, he had served the Chudomirovich family for many years, and after his death, he had been unwilling to leave their former estate for some time.

Young Kyryll had once promised him that the old servant would always have a place in his home for as long as he himself wished to remain.

The promise outlived both the old court and the family itself.

When Flins settled in the lighthouse, Yefim Petrovich appeared there several weeks later. Ever since, he had considered himself responsible for maintaining order, although he performed his duties entirely as he saw fit.

"And why didn't you tell me about him sooner?" you asked, pushing your cup aside.

"I confess, I hadn't expected him to decide to introduce himself," Flins replied. "Usually, Yefim Petrovich prefers to limit himself to the disapproving rattling of dishes."

"He doesn't like me."

"Unfortunately, that is rather obvious," Flins agreed, taking your hand. "But I assure you, my dear, he will not harm you."

The following day, your favorite cup was found broken.

---

Flins discovered the fragments beside the kitchen cupboard. He examined them silently for a while, then gathered them in a napkin and carried them to the table.

"Yefim Petrovich," he said, addressing the empty room, "I believe we have already discussed such methods of expressing displeasure."

A book fell from the upper shelf.

"Thank you. A most substantial objection," Flins remarked, picking it up.

You stood in the doorway, watching what was happening.

"Are you going to do something about this?"

"Certainly," he replied, turning toward you. "But first, allow me to offer you another cup. This one, I'm afraid, is beyond repair."

"He broke it on purpose!"

"Quite possibly," Flins carefully placed the fragments in a box. "And I shall certainly remind him that such behavior is unacceptable."

"Kyryll, he hates me!"

Flins set the box aside and came closer.

"I'm afraid he does indeed regard your stay with considerable disapproval," he admitted. "But I assure you, it has nothing to do with your personal qualities."

You looked at him distrustfully.

"Then what does it have to do with?"

Flins remained silent for a moment.

"Yefim Petrovich remembers very well the days when my ancestry could bring me a great deal of trouble. He is not particularly fond of Snezhnaya's current ruling family."

"And that's why he's trying to drive me out of your home?"

"Probably. Although I must admit, he has never before allowed himself such blatant interference."

You suggested that Flins simply order the ghost to leave. However, he shook his head.

"I gave him my word, my dear. Once, this man cared for me considerably more than his duties required. I do not think a broken cup is sufficient grounds for breaking a promise."

You turned away, irritated by his leniency.

Flins gently touched your shoulder.

"But neither will I allow him to treat you in such a manner," he added. "And if he attempts to frighten you again, please inform me immediately."

You agreed, although you still preferred to spend the following evening behind your closed bedroom door.

However, Yefim Petrovich left you in peace only until dinner.

---

On the fourteenth day of your stay at the lighthouse, Flins prepared dinner considerably better than usual. You helped set the table, while he took a bottle of wine from the cupboard and brought out fresh flowers he had purchased near the harbor that morning.

Despite all the unpleasant incidents, he was still trying to make your stay enjoyable. Over the past few days, you had even managed to kiss several times, and on one occasion, Flins suggested that you remain in Nod-Krai for another week.

You had not given him a definite answer.

By then, you already had a reason to avoid such conversations.

Before your departure, the Tsaritsa had instructed you to conduct an unofficial inspection of the ancient estates associated with the Snezhnayan fae. Information had reached the capital suggesting that ancient magical oaths, unrecorded in the state registers, remained in effect at the Final Night Cemetery.

It was expected that you would assess the situation in person and present your mother with your own conclusions. If the information proved accurate, the palace would consider placing part of the territory, including the lighthouse, under the direct supervision of the royal administration.

You had not yet made a decision, but the Tsaritsa's order was kept among your travel documents.

Flins knew nothing about it.

You genuinely wanted to spend time with him. Nevertheless, the original reason for your prolonged visit was connected to your mother's assignment.

Over dinner, Flins was telling an amusing story about a Lightkeeper acquaintance who had once mistaken an ancient gravestone for a road sign. You laughed, and he watched your reaction with evident pleasure.

"I must confess, your presence has considerably enlivened my modest home," Flins remarked, adjusting his napkin. "Even Yefim Petrovich seems to have developed a much greater interest in the world around him."

"If by interest you mean his attempts to break all my dishes, then yes," you replied, raising your glass.

"I'm afraid his methods of communication are rather peculiar," Flins agreed, reaching for the bread.

At that moment, the third plate slid off the table.

It fell to the floor and broke into several large fragments. The wineglass beside it overturned, and a short, irritated knock came from the opposite end of the room.

Flins closed his eyes for several seconds.

"Yefim Petrovich," he said, setting his napkin aside, "I strongly recommend that you remember that certain rules of propriety still exist in this household."

A second knock came from near the fireplace, considerably louder than the first.

Flins rose, fetched a small brush, and began gathering the fragments.

"Please forgive our third guest," he remarked, sweeping the pieces of porcelain onto a dustpan. "He died long before the development of modern notions of good manners and, unfortunately, has absolutely no desire to learn them."

"This isn't funny anymore, Kyryll," you said, rising from the table.

"I agree," Flins replied, straightening. "Yefim Petrovich, I believe you ought to apologize to Her Highness immediately."

The room became noticeably colder. The candles on the table flickered, and then the familiar elderly man appeared beside the empty chair.

Yefim Petrovich looked extremely displeased.

"Sir," he said, addressing Flins, "I served your family back when certain present-day sovereigns had yet to occupy their thrones. And believe me, I know perfectly well how such hospitality ends."

Flins placed the brush on the table.

"I believe no one asked you to share your political opinions over dinner."

"You are trusting people who wish to take control of your home again!" the ghost objected, pointing at you.

"Yefim Petrovich," Flins said his name with a clear note of warning.

"She is lying to you, sir!"

You stood motionless beside the table. Flins looked at you, then back at the ghost.

"I'm afraid you are overstepping the bounds of what is permitted," he said, approaching the elderly man.

However, Yefim Petrovich had already made his way to an antique cupboard. He threw open its lower door and pulled out a folded document bearing the red seal of the Snezhnayan Chancellery.

You recognized it immediately.

The ghost placed the paper on the table before Flins.

"Be so kind as to read it," he said with dignity.

Flins did not pick up the document immediately. He looked at the seal, then raised his eyes to you.

"Does this belong to you, Your Highness?" he asked without touching the paper.

You nodded. Flins held the document out to you.

"In that case, I believe Yefim Petrovich ought to apologize immediately for allowing himself to rummage through your belongings."

"Kyryll..." you began, accepting the paper.

"I am not in the habit of reading other people's correspondence without permission," he replied, turning toward the ghost. "And I have no intention of acquiring that habit today."

Yefim Petrovich raised his hands indignantly.

"The document concerns placing the lighthouse under state supervision! They are planning to take your home away from you again!"

Flins slowly turned toward you.

This time, he made no attempt to joke.

"Is that true?" he asked.

You looked at the letter. The seal had been broken: the ghost had already managed to unfold the document, and the signature of one of the palace officials was now clearly visible on the first page.

Flins carefully pulled back his chair and lowered himself into it.

"Please, Yefim Petrovich, leave us," he said without raising his voice.

"But sir..."

"I am grateful for your concern. However, I would now like to speak with our guest in private."

The ghost looked at him for several seconds, then turned toward you.

"I warned you," he said, and disappeared, leaving behind a brief, cold draft.

Flins picked up a napkin and wiped away the spilled wine. Then he carefully returned the glass to its former place, although it was already empty.

"I confess, I had expected to spend this evening rather differently," he remarked, setting the napkin aside.

"Kyryll, I can explain."

"Undoubtedly," Flins replied, finally looking at you. "And I would be most grateful for an explanation."

You placed the document between you. Flins glanced at the seal but made no attempt to open the letter.

"So Her Majesty instructed you to inspect the cemetery's activities," he said. "And you decided to combine the fulfillment of your official duties with a visit to an old acquaintance?"

You did not immediately find an answer.

He studied the edge of the table for a while, then gave a short, wry laugh.

"Very practical. I suppose I should have guessed that such a prolonged stay by the princess of Snezhnaya in the modest dwelling of a cemetery caretaker required more substantial reasons than pleasant company."

"I didn't come only because of the assignment," you objected, moving closer.

Flins raised his hand, stopping you.

"Please, don't rush. I have no intention of interrogating you."

He looked toward the empty third place at the table.

"Yefim Petrovich is utterly unbearable in his expressions of concern. However, much as it pains me to admit it, he is not always wrong."

You lowered your gaze.

Flins moved the untouched plate aside and carefully took your hand. For several seconds, he studied your fingers before raising his eyes.

"I liked having you here," he said. "Perhaps even considerably more than a man accustomed to living alone ought to. I had already begun considering which room I might clear out if you wished to visit again."

He smiled faintly.

"Fortunately, I haven't yet managed to purchase another bookshelf. It would have been unfortunate to discover that it was needed exclusively for storing royal decrees."

You tried to reply, but Flins gently released your hand and slid the document back toward you.

"I understand perfectly well that you have duties toward your mother. And I shall not demand that you neglect them for my sake," he continued. "However, I would like to know what exactly you intended to do with this order."

He straightened in his chair and folded his hands on the table.

"Tell me, my dear, if Yefim Petrovich had not subjected us to such an unpleasant dinner tonight..." Flins paused briefly, glancing at the red seal. "Would you have told me about the Tsaritsa's assignment yourself? Or would I have learned about the impending inspection when royal officials appeared at my lighthouse?"

Your Death Is Scheduled for Thursday

---

There was nothing particularly unusual about the invitation Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins sent you from Nod-Krai. He inquired after your health, told you about recent incidents at the Final Night Cemetery, and casually mentioned that he had recently acquired a rather curious edition of ancient Snezhnayan tales. At the end of the letter was an invitation to spend several days at his lighthouse, although the final lines seemed rather strange.

"I would be exceedingly pleased by your arrival, my dear, but I must strongly request that you come no earlier than Friday. I have certain matters scheduled for Thursday, and witnessing them would hardly bring you any pleasure. I hope for your understanding."

Flins had always possessed a peculiar sense of humor, so at first you assumed he was referring to another funerary ritual or a particularly unpleasant visitor to the cemetery. You had known each other long enough that such warnings no longer surprised you. Over the past year, your correspondence had changed considerably. Flins increasingly addressed you without your official title, sent small gifts, and found excuses to invite you to Nod-Krai.

During your last visit, he had kissed you for the first time, then remarked with an entirely composed expression that he probably ought to have done so much sooner. You rarely discussed your feelings, but Flins had never concealed that he enjoyed your company. Once, he had even admitted that he had grown accustomed to awaiting your letters with an impatience quite improper for a man of his age.

Therefore, when circumstances allowed you to begin your journey two days earlier than planned, you decided not to postpone your reunion. After all, what could possibly happen because of a few extra days?

---

Flins received the first warning from a ghost during his evening inspection of the cemetery. A deceased Lightkeeper, buried near the northern wall, unexpectedly appeared before his own gravestone and demanded that the caretaker immediately cancel all upcoming visits.

"I'm afraid you will have to explain yourself in somewhat greater detail," Flins remarked, adjusting the wick of his lantern. "I am accustomed to receiving complaints about improper funeral ceremonies, but you seem determined to rearrange my schedule for an entire week."

"A woman will die on Thursday," the ghost replied, pointing toward the lighthouse. "The Tsaritsa's daughter. I saw her name appear on a gravestone."

Flins listened to him, asked about the circumstances, and politely advised him not to spread unconfirmed rumors among the deceased. The following morning, another ghost warned him that the staircase near an old crypt would collapse. Flins inspected the structure and discovered a crack he had not noticed before. Several hours later, a second prediction came true: a ship expected at the harbor indeed lost control while entering the port.

When a third deceased resident named the exact time of your death that evening, Flins no longer found the situation amusing. He studied old records concerning the ley lines, questioned several Lightkeepers, and discovered that unusual distortions of memory had begun appearing near the cemetery. Sometimes ghosts described events that had not yet occurred. On other occasions, they remembered conversations that no living person could confirm.

In this AU, damaged ley lines allow certain memories to seep from possible futures into the present. Flins discovered this too late. On the first Thursday, you died near the harbor.

A small boat on which you intended to travel to a neighboring island capsized during a sudden attack by the Wild Hunt. Flins managed to reach the shore, but the arriving Lightkeepers found you already dead. He spent the remainder of the evening at the cemetery, trying to understand why the warning had been so precise.

Then he decided to perform an ancient fae ritual, the description of which he had discovered among his family's documents. The ritual made it possible to return the flow of memories within a damaged ley line to an earlier point in time. However, the person performing it had to surrender part of their own memory in exchange. Flins considered the price acceptable, and when he woke the following morning, it was Wednesday again. You were alive.

This time, he did not allow you to approach the harbor. However, on the evening of the following day, part of an old staircase collapsed, and you died beneath the stones. After the second return, Flins prohibited anyone from using the northern road. After the third, he ordered the cemetery closed to visitors. On the fourth attempt, he personally accompanied you throughout the entire day, until an unexpected encounter with creatures of the Wild Hunt forced you to seek shelter in a damaged chapel.

The circumstances changed, but the day remained the same. By the sixth attempt, Flins had begun keeping a detailed notebook, recording everything that might prove useful upon his next return. By the eighth, he discovered that he could no longer remember the face of one of his former companions. By the ninth, he had forgotten where he had been on the day of the Belyi Tsar's death.

It was around that time that he noticed something considerably more unpleasant: Flins could no longer remember your first kiss.

---

You arrived at the Final Night Cemetery on Wednesday, a little before noon. Flins met you near the entrance to the lighthouse. His clothes were neat, his lantern burned with its familiar bluish light, but he himself looked unusually tired. Upon noticing you, Flins stopped, studied your face for several seconds, and only then bowed.

"Your Highness," he said, adjusting his glove. "I'm afraid there has been a small misunderstanding. I believe I asked you to arrive on Friday."

"I was able to leave earlier," you replied, moving closer. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"On the contrary. I am exceedingly pleased," Flins smiled, although his gaze briefly shifted toward the clock near the entrance. "It's simply that certain circumstances require somewhat greater caution on my part than usual."

You noticed that he did not offer to kiss your hand. Instead, Flins took your traveling bag and immediately invited you inside. There was an unusual amount of paperwork in the sitting room. Maps of the island, several old books, and a thick notebook tied with a blue ribbon lay on the table. A pair of traveling boots stained with soil stood near the fireplace, while three completely identical lanterns rested on the windowsill.

"Are you going somewhere?" you asked, looking around the room.

"Not at present," Flins replied, putting one of the lanterns away in a cupboard. "But I would prefer to be prepared for unforeseen circumstances."

He offered you tea, then unexpectedly stopped in front of the shelf containing the tea tins.

"Forgive me, my dear. Remind me, which variety do you prefer?"

You looked at him in surprise.

"You always remembered."

Flins paused for a moment before opening the nearest tin.

"Naturally. I merely wanted to make certain your tastes had not changed."

During lunch, he questioned you several times about your plans for the following day. He suggested staying indoors and reading together, or, if you wished, taking a walk exclusively around the grounds near the lighthouse. When you mentioned the harbor, Flins immediately proposed a different route.

"I would prefer that we keep away from the water tomorrow," he remarked, pouring the tea. "The weather has been behaving quite unpredictably lately."

"But you love walks by the sea."

"I do," Flins agreed, raising his eyes. "But on Thursday, I believe I shall make an exception."

You laughed and asked what was so special about Thursday. He looked at you, then carefully set the teapot on the table.

"I very much hope that absolutely nothing will happen."

---

You discovered the notebook toward evening. Flins had briefly gone to see the Lightkeepers, having first asked you not to leave the lighthouse. He left several books on the table, suggesting that you choose something to read, but just as he was about to depart, he unexpectedly returned for the thick notebook.

It turned out that its cover had caught on the metal clasp of a neighboring document. Flins attempted to separate the papers, sighed in irritation, and eventually placed the notebook back where it had been.

"My apologies for the mess," he remarked, quickly gathering the remaining documents. "I am conducting a rather exhausting investigation. Please try not to touch my notes while I am away."

You agreed. However, approximately an hour later, a strong gust of wind blew through the room, and an improperly closed window flew open. Several sheets of paper scattered across the floor, while the notebook fell from the table and opened almost halfway through.

You picked it up and were about to close it when you noticed your own name. The following words were written on the page:

"Attempt No. 7. Thursday, 18:43. Northern passage closed, harbor guarded, Lightkeepers warned. She remained at the lighthouse until evening. Cause of death: collapse of the ceiling in the western room. The damage to the ley line presumably alters circumstances depending on the measures taken."

You turned the page and found another entry.

"Attempt No. 8. Thursday, 16:12. Refrained from using the western room. Warned her of possible danger but did not tell her the whole truth. Cause of death: Wild Hunt attack near the southern wall. Mistake: left her with two Lightkeepers. Do not repeat."

On the following page was a small newspaper obituary, cut from an unfamiliar publication. It reported the death of the Tsaritsa's daughter during a visit to Nod-Krai. The date of death was tomorrow.

You began turning the pages more quickly. Almost every page described another Thursday. Sometimes Flins recorded the time, sometimes he listed the actions of the Lightkeepers, and occasionally he left brief remarks about your behavior.

"She asked me not to lock the door. Probably frightened. Explain the reason next time."

"Do not treat her like a prisoner. She deserves to know what is happening."

"Attempted departure from the island on Wednesday. The ship returned to port the following morning. Leaving does not guarantee safety."

On the subsequent pages, his handwriting became less neat. Several lines were crossed out, dates had been corrected, and peculiar remarks began appearing beside some of the entries.

"Cannot remember the name of the man with whom I served under the Belyi Tsar. Find out later."

"Forgot the location of the old chapel. Found it using a map."

"Today I could not remember what we talked about on the day of our first kiss. Did not dare ask her."

You stopped at the following page. It was almost completely covered in writing.

"If I wake up on Wednesday again and cannot remember why I started all of this, I must read the following lines before taking any action."

Below, Flins had written in large letters:

"I love her. I must save her."

Beneath that entry was a continuation written in a noticeably unsteady hand.

"Her name is {{user}}. She is the Tsaritsa's daughter. We have known each other for more than a year. She likes to argue, laughs at my jokes even when I do not deserve it in the slightest, and always thanks people whom others prefer not to notice. She enjoys spending her evenings reading. She dislikes it when I hide important things from her, although unfortunately, I do so far too often."

"I fell in love with her long before she knew about it. We kissed beside the lighthouse after a walk. I think it was raining. I am no longer certain. But it was important."

"If I stop remembering her face, I must look at the portrait tucked between these pages. If I forget her voice, I should ask her to speak to me. If I cease to understand why I am continuing these attempts at all, I must believe my own words."

"I love her. I must save her."

Between the pages, you discovered a small drawing. It depicted you sitting beside the lighthouse window with an open book on your lap. On the back, Flins had written the date of your last meeting.

Beside it lay a sheet of paper containing another reminder.

"Do not tell her how many attempts there have already been. She will begin worrying about me, and that may influence her decisions."

You heard footsteps outside the door.

"Ah. I must confess, I had intended to acquaint you with my literary efforts under somewhat different circumstances," a familiar voice remarked. "Especially considering that the ending still leaves a great deal to be desired."

Flins stood in the doorway. He noticed the open notebook in your hands, stopped, and slowly removed his glasses. For the first time since your arrival, he looked completely at a loss.

---

"Kyryll, what is this?" you asked, raising the notebook.

Flins closed the door and carefully placed his gloves on the nearest table.

"I'm afraid the explanation will be rather lengthy," he replied. "Perhaps we ought to sit down first."

"It says here that I'm going to die tomorrow."

He looked at the open page.

"Yes," Flins replied after a brief pause, pulling a chair away from the table.

"And that it has already happened?"

"Unfortunately," he said, sitting down opposite you. "Although I would prefer to describe them as several unsuccessful attempts to alter a predicted event."

You turned the page, showing him the entries.

"How many times, Kyryll?"

He studied his own handwriting for a while.

"If my calculations are correct, nine. Possibly ten. The last return was somewhat unusual, and I discovered discrepancies in my notes."

"You've watched me die nine times?"

Flins lowered his gaze.

"Yes," he answered after a pause. "And believe me, I would very much like that number to stop increasing."

You demanded that he explain how he was turning back time. Flins told you about the distorted ley lines and the ancient ritual that allowed a particular sequence of events to be restored. Then he showed you the thin silver plates attached to the base of his lantern. Each had a small symbol engraved upon it.

"They help preserve my notes during each return," Flins explained, carefully detaching one of the plates. "Without such an anchor, I would probably have stopped understanding what was happening a long time ago."

"And what do you give up in exchange?"

He hesitated before answering.

"Certain memories."

"Which ones?"

"I'm afraid it is impossible to determine that in advance," Flins admitted, returning the plate to its place. "Sometimes entirely insignificant events disappear. Sometimes – things I would much rather have kept."

You pointed to the entry about your first kiss.

"You don't remember anymore?"

Flins looked where you were pointing, then ran his finger along the edge of the page.

"Not entirely," he replied. "I remember that you were beside me. I remember that I wanted to keep you there for a few more minutes. But I cannot reconstruct the conversation itself."

He attempted a smile.

"Rather unfortunate, wouldn't you agree? Especially considering how much time I spent before finally gathering the courage to kiss you."

"Why do you keep doing this if you're losing your own memories?"

Flins looked at you. This time, he did not answer immediately.

"Because I find the alternative outcome entirely unacceptable," he finally said, pushing the notebook aside.

"You could forget absolutely everything."

"Possibly," Flins admitted, glancing at his lantern.

"Even me?"

Flins lowered his eyes to the open page.

"That is precisely why I began making additional notes."

You reread the first lines of his reminder. Flins noticed and carefully reached toward the notebook, but stopped before touching it.

"I confess, some of the wording appears rather sentimental," he remarked. "I had not expected you would ever see it."

"You wrote that you love me."

He remained silent for a long time, then nodded.

"Yes," he answered, resting his hands on the table.

"And do you really remember that?"

Flins removed the ring he usually wore over his glove and placed it on the table.

"I remember falling in love with you," he replied. "I remember waiting for your letters. I remember once deliberately remaining at the cemetery longer because you had promised to visit, and I wanted to greet you myself."

He stopped, searching for the right words.

"But certain details are becoming increasingly unclear. And that, I must confess, concerns me considerably more than I had expected."

You closed the notebook.

"You have to stop."

Flins raised his eyes to you.

"I'm afraid I have already considered that possibility."

"And?"

"During the sixth attempt, I decided to do nothing," he replied, opening the notebook to the appropriate page again. "I warned the Lightkeepers, suggested that you remain in a safe room, and tried to convince myself that the prediction might prove incorrect."

He ran his finger along a line.

"You died at 21:17."

For several seconds, he remained silent, studying the entry. Then he closed the page.

"After that, I stopped considering inaction an acceptable solution."

You noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. Flins quickly concealed them beneath the table.

"And yet, I owe you an apology," he continued. "I invited you here, then asked you to come later without explaining why. I made decisions on your behalf, restricted your walks, and concealed what was happening. All of that was rather unreasonable."

"You were trying to protect me."

"Undoubtedly," Flins agreed. "But I suppose that does not make your right to your own life any less significant."

He stood, approached the window, and looked at the path leading toward the cemetery.

"Do you know what is particularly unpleasant?" he asked without turning around. "Yesterday, I discovered that I can no longer remember the scent of the flowers I gave you during our first walk. I specifically chose them because you had mentioned that you liked them."

Flins turned around and gave a faint, wry smile.

"Now I have to trust my own handwriting. A remarkable predicament for a man who has always taken such pride in his memory."

You approached him.

"Kyryll, look at me."

He turned, allowing you to come closer. You took his hand, and Flins carefully intertwined his fingers with yours.

"Do you still remember why you love me?" you asked.

Flins studied your joined hands for a while.

"Not everything," he admitted. "But this morning, when you appeared outside the lighthouse, I wanted very much to embrace you. Even though I knew perfectly well that I might lose you again tomorrow."

He raised his head.

"I suppose certain feelings prove somewhat more resilient than memories."

You gently embraced him. Flins remained still for a moment, then held you close and rested his chin on your shoulder. He stood there silently for several seconds before carefully drawing back, touching your cheek, and kissing you.

"Forgive me," he said when you had moved slightly apart. "I have been meaning to do that again for quite some time. The circumstances simply kept proving unsuitable."

---

It was already growing dark outside, with several hours remaining until midnight. Flins returned to the desk, opened the notebook to its final page, and began writing. You watched him write down the date, then reread the previous entries several times.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"Revising our plan for tomorrow," he replied, continuing to write. "Now that you are aware of the circumstances, there is no need to conceal certain details from you."

He turned the notebook so that you could see it. Several suggestions were written on the page: inspect the damaged ley line, establish additional protection near the lighthouse, and determine why all possible sequences of events led to the same date.

Below, Flins had left space for your comments.

"I believe you have the right to participate in discussions concerning your own safety," he said, sliding a pen toward you.

You noticed that beneath the list, he had written another short sentence.

"If this is the last attempt, do not forget: you love her. You must save her."

Flins followed your gaze and made no attempt to cover the page.

"I'm afraid I can no longer promise to preserve all my memories," he admitted. "But I still have more than enough reasons to continue."

At that moment, the lantern standing on the shelf unexpectedly flared. Blue light filled the room. The thin silver plates attached to its base began heating up, and Flins immediately rose, moving you away from the desk.

New words began appearing on the open page of the notebook. The ink slowly emerged over the fresh notes, forming uneven lines that had not existed only moments earlier.

"Attempt No. 11."

Below, a date appeared.

"Thursday, 00:03."

You looked at the clock. There were still more than three hours remaining until midnight.

Flins carefully examined the entry, then brought the notebook closer to the lantern. Another line appeared on the paper.

"Cause of death: unknown. He forgot that he was supposed to warn her."

Flins remained motionless for several seconds. Then he closed the notebook and carefully placed it before you.

"How curious," he remarked, adjusting his glasses. "It seems someone has decided to move our schedule forward somewhat."

He looked at the clock, then at you.

"I'm afraid, my dear, we shall have to forgo dinner. I need to determine why records from the next return are appearing before the event itself."

Flins picked up his lantern, inspected the silver plates, and extended his hand toward you.

"But first, I would like to ask you a favor."

He fell silent briefly, then glanced at the closed notebook.

"If tomorrow I suddenly fail to recognize you, please do not mistake it for indifference. Show me the notes. Tell me how we met. You may even remind me of the dreadful jokes I made during our first date."

Flins smiled faintly, although he looked noticeably exhausted.

"And if I should still have doubts, please tell me one more thing."

He carefully raised your hand to his lips.

"Tell me that I love you. That I asked you to tell me so myself. And that, however ridiculous my behavior may seem to you, I very much wanted to live long enough to see Friday with you."

Flins released your hand and opened the notebook to a blank page.

"Now, {{user}}, I need to know your opinion. Will you agree to help me discover what is happening to the ley lines, or would you prefer to leave the island immediately? I shall not stand in the way of either decision."

He picked up his pen, preparing to record your answer, but suddenly stopped.

"And one more thing, my dear," he added, glancing at the newly appeared record of his next failure. "If at some point I ask you to forget everything and leave me alone, please check the notebook first. I'm afraid it may be the only way to distinguish my genuine wishes from whatever remains of me after another return."

Five Hundred Years of Good Manners

---

Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins spent almost twenty minutes trying to convince you to abandon your choice of jewelry. Throughout this time, he repeatedly emphasized that he had absolutely no intention of interfering with your preparations for the diplomatic evening and merely wished to spare you from possible misunderstandings.

"I must point out, my dear, that this bracelet was once a symbol of engagement," he explained, carefully examining the silver ornament on your wrist. "Of course, hardly anyone among the present-day courtiers would attach any significance to it. However, several rather ancient families will be represented among tonight's guests."

"And what, I'm not allowed to wear it?" you asked, turning toward the mirror.

"Why ever not? On the contrary, I am certain it will attract considerable interest," Flins smiled, adjusting his cuff. "I am merely warning you that certain elderly gentlemen may consider you already betrothed. And given my presence beside you, I imagine I shall become the principal suspect."

You laughed and suggested that he choose another bracelet. Flins gladly took part in the search, although after the third unsuccessful attempt, he remarked that modern jewelers had apparently lost all interest in the history of their own profession.

He himself, however, looked as though he were preparing for a reception hosted by a monarch he had known for many years.

He wore a carefully selected dark suit with silver embellishments, over which he had put on a formal cloak. An antique brooch bearing the Chudomirovich family crest gleamed upon his chest. Even his gloves were different from those you were accustomed to seeing him wear at the Final Night Cemetery.

On ordinary days, Flins rarely attached such importance to clothing. However, tonight's gathering was being hosted by several ancient fae families, whose representatives intended to discuss matters of trade, the preservation of historical estates, and cooperation with Snezhnaya's current government.

You had been invited as a representative of the ruling family. Flins, meanwhile, had received his invitation thanks to his own ancestry and his acquaintance with the hosts.

You had known each other for several months. During that time, he had accompanied you on several journeys through Nod-Krai, introduced you to the local Lightkeepers, and developed a habit of sending you letters in which official news was invariably accompanied by inquiries after your health and rather peculiar compliments.

When news of the upcoming diplomatic evening reached you, you asked him to accompany you. Flins agreed so readily that you even suspected he had plans of his own.

"I'm afraid you have absolutely no idea how dangerous it is to invite me to such occasions," he remarked at the time. "I was once considered a perfectly respectable conversationalist, but notions of good manners have probably changed beyond recognition since then."

You replied that, in that case, you would be delighted to become acquainted with his old-fashioned habits. Flins assured you that he would do his best not to disappoint.

---

The carriage stopped outside a manor on the outskirts of Nod-Krai shortly before seven in the evening. Lanterns burning with bluish flames hung above the entrance, while servants in formal liveries stood on either side of the staircase. Through the tall windows, a brightly illuminated hall could be seen, accompanied by music and the conversations of the guests.

Flins stepped out first and offered you his hand, helping you descend.

"Please, Your Highness. The step is rather high," he remarked, holding the carriage door.

You thanked him and, without a second thought, took his arm as you headed toward the manor. Flins glanced at your hand resting in the crook of his elbow, then raised his eyes to your face.

"I must warn you, my dear, that at the White King's court, such familiarity could have been interpreted in a very particular manner."

"In what manner, exactly?" you inquired, continuing to walk beside him.

"Depending on the circumstances, as an expression of romantic affection or even a proposal for a more serious relationship," Flins replied with an entirely serious expression. "Especially if the lady herself took the initiative."

"In that case, you ought to marry me immediately."

He considered this briefly, studying the path ahead of you.

"I suppose the situation is indeed rather complicated," Flins agreed. "Although, if you will permit me, I would prefer to clarify exactly what obligations such an unexpected proposal would entail."

"What obligations would you like?"

"Let us begin with the right to occasionally invite you to dinner without obtaining prior approval from the palace administration," he replied with a smile. "I'm afraid that alone would be quite sufficient to improve my present circumstances considerably."

You laughed, but Flins made no attempt to free his arm. On the contrary, when you approached the manor doors, he stopped and turned toward you.

"Your Highness, would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you into the hall?"

You were surprised by the excessive formality of the question, but agreed. Flins bowed slightly and led you through the wide doors. An elderly fae lady standing nearby looked at the two of you with unexpected interest, then hurriedly leaned toward her companion.

You noticed their glances but attached little importance to them.

---

The reception was held in a large hall decorated with antique tapestries and portraits of the manor's former owners. Some guests wore modern Snezhnayan attire, while others preferred outfits reminiscent of court fashion during the White King's reign.

Flins quickly found several acquaintances and introduced you to the hosts of the evening. He moved effortlessly from discussions of trade agreements to recollections of families that had long since disappeared, occasionally adding remarks that made the elderly fae burst into laughter.

"Mr. Flins, do you truly remember the ball at the Chernomirov family's estate?" asked one of the ladies, Lady Radomirskaya.

"Naturally," he replied, accepting a glass from a passing servant. "Although, I confess, I would prefer to forget certain circumstances. Particularly the evening when your grandfather decided to prove that he was capable of dancing after his sixth glass of wine."

The woman laughed and asked how the story had ended.

"With a most dignified fall into an ornamental fountain. Fortunately, the family's reputation suffered considerably less than his formal doublet."

You listened to these stories with pleasure. However, before long, you noticed that some of the guests were paying unusually close attention to the two of you.

When Flins stepped away to greet an old acquaintance, Lady Radomirskaya approached you.

"Your Highness, I must confess that I am surprised to see Mr. Chudomirovich in such excellent spirits," she remarked, watching him across the hall.

"Is he usually different?"

"Oh, Kyryll has always been impeccably well-mannered. But it has been a long time since I last saw him accompany a lady to such an evening with such enthusiasm."

You smiled and replied that he had simply agreed to help you understand the old customs. Lady Radomirskaya regarded you with even greater curiosity.

"Is that so? Well, I suppose you truly could not find a better tutor."

Before you could question her further, Flins returned.

"I hope Lady Radomirskaya has not already told you about all the misdeeds of my youth," he remarked, approaching you.

"On the contrary, we were discussing your virtues exclusively," the woman replied.

"How generous of you. I'm afraid even several minutes would hardly be sufficient for such a conversation," Flins agreed with a smile.

Lady Radomirskaya laughed and went to join the other guests. Before long, the musicians began preparing for the dances.

---

When the first notes of a waltz sounded, Flins set his glass aside and turned toward you.

"Your Highness, may I have the pleasure of this dance?"

"But you said you haven't danced in a long time," you reminded him, accepting his hand.

"Quite right. Therefore, I strongly recommend that you refrain from judging my abilities too harshly," he replied, leading you toward the center of the hall.

Despite his warning, Flins danced magnificently. He confidently guided you between the other couples, paid close attention to the music, and occasionally shared small details about ancient dancing customs.

"You know, you talk an astonishing amount for someone who supposedly worries about missing a step," you remarked.

"My dear, if I were genuinely concerned about my steps, I would have preferred to remain beside the drinks table," Flins replied, carefully turning you. "However, in that case, I would have deprived myself of the pleasure of spending several minutes in your company."

You looked at him.

"Do you always speak to women like this?"

"I'm afraid I have insufficient recent experience to reach a confident conclusion," he replied after a short pause. "But if you find my words pleasant, I shall gladly continue."

You smiled and moved a little closer. Flins noticed this. The hand resting on your waist shifted almost imperceptibly higher as he helped you move around another couple.

"Incidentally, there is another curious tradition," he remarked as the music grew quieter. "At the old court, a gentleman who invited a lady to dance was obliged to escort her back to the very place from which he had led her away."

"And what happened if he didn't?"

"He might be considered insufficiently well-mannered. Although, I must confess, such negligence was sometimes entirely intentional."

"Why?"

"Certain gentlemen preferred to conclude a dance on a balcony, away from the other guests," Flins replied with a faint smile. "Naturally, solely for the opportunity to discuss the weather."

You laughed.

"And did you often discuss the weather on balconies?"

"I'm afraid not nearly as often as I ought to have," he replied, carefully coming to a stop as the music ended.

Flins bowed and kissed your hand. Then he offered to escort you back to the other guests. You agreed, although a little while later, you caught yourself wishing that you could have continued your walk somewhere more secluded.

Two elderly fae stood near a column. One of them noticed Flins releasing your hand and quietly said something to his companion. Both looked toward you.

Flins had apparently noticed everything perfectly well, but preferred to pretend that nothing unusual had happened.

---

By the middle of the evening, the guests had moved into the adjoining dining room. Dishes had been arranged upon the long tables, and the hosts invited the representatives of the Snezhnayan delegation to take the seats of honor.

You stopped near a window to discuss upcoming trade agreements with one of the officials. Meanwhile, Flins was speaking with an elderly fae, Lord Velsky, whom many of those present clearly regarded as a highly respected man.

Several minutes later, Flins excused himself from the conversation and approached you.

"I hope I am not interrupting important negotiations," he remarked, inclining his head slightly.

"We've already finished," you replied, bidding the official farewell.

"In that case, I shall take the liberty of asking you to join me for dinner, Your Highness. Provided, of course, that you have not already made other arrangements."

You looked at him with a smile.

"Kyryll, we've already spent almost the entire evening together."

"And yet I continue to find your company exceedingly pleasant," he replied. "I suppose I ought to take advantage of the circumstances before you grow thoroughly tired of my stories."

You agreed. Flins offered you his arm and escorted you to the table, where several representatives of the old families were already waiting. Lord Velsky, who had been watching you, suddenly smiled.

"Kyryll Chudomirovich," he addressed Flins as the latter helped you sit down, "I must confess, you are remarkably consistent this evening."

Flins turned toward him.

"Am I indeed? How pleasant to hear. Lately, I have been receiving increasingly frequent remarks about my own absentmindedness."

"I had assumed such customs had been completely forgotten by now," Velsky continued, turning his gaze toward you.

"Certain traditions deserve to be remembered," Flins replied calmly, taking the neighboring seat.

The elderly fae laughed but said nothing more.

During dinner, Flins told stories about ancient court entertainments, discussed surviving family archives with the guests, and several times helped you understand unfamiliar customs. When one of the guests proposed a toast to the former greatness of the Snezhnayan aristocracy, Flins politely remarked that the past certainly deserved respect, but that not all its peculiarities ought to be revived.

His remark sparked a lively argument, which ultimately ended on perfectly friendly terms. You noticed that Flins knew how to converse even with the most stubborn representatives of the former nobility without abandoning his own convictions.

Toward the end of dinner, Lady Radomirskaya leaned toward you.

"Your Highness, forgive my curiosity, but may I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"How long has Mr. Chudomirovich been showing you such exceptional attention?"

You were somewhat surprised.

"We've known each other for several months. Why do you ask?"

The woman looked toward Flins, who was speaking with the master of the manor at that moment.

"In that case, I suppose I ought to congratulate you on a most delightful acquaintance."

"Congratulate me on what, exactly?"

Radomirskaya smiled.

"I'm afraid I might be excessively inquisitive. Perhaps it would be better for you to ask Kyryll himself."

---

When dinner ended, you went into the adjoining gallery to rest a little from the conversations. Several minutes later, Lord Velsky approached you, holding a glass of wine.

"Your Highness, allow me to express the hope that you have found this evening pleasant," he said with a slight bow.

"Very much so. Thank you."

"I am pleased to hear it. I must confess, I am also rather happy for Mr. Chudomirovich."

You turned toward him.

"Why?"

Velsky looked at you with genuine surprise.

"I presume you are already familiar with the custom of three invitations that existed at the former court?"

You shook your head. The elderly fae fell silent for a moment, then placed his glass on the nearest table.

"How curious. In that case, allow me to explain. When a gentleman of an ancient family intended to begin a serious courtship, he was required to publicly ask the same lady to grant him the honor of her company three times during a single evening."

You remembered how Flins had invited you to enter the hall, then offered you a dance, and finally asked you to join him for dinner.

"And what did that mean?"

"In former times, such conduct was considered a formal expression of a gentleman's intention to seek a lady's hand in marriage," Velsky explained. "Naturally, it was not yet an engagement. The woman was free to refuse, and the gentleman was obliged to accept her decision. But it became perfectly clear to everyone around them just how serious his intentions were."

You looked toward the dining room, where Flins was still speaking with several guests.

"So he..."

"Performed this custom three times this evening," Velsky confirmed with a smile. "And, as far as I could tell, you accepted all three invitations."

You turned toward him again.

"Perhaps he simply doesn't remember what such traditions meant?"

Velsky laughed.

"My dear child, Kyryll Chudomirovich remembers details of ceremonies that modern historians know only from fragments of manuscripts. I assure you, if he chose to make use of this custom, he knew perfectly well what he was doing."

The elderly fae said his farewells, leaving you to consider what you had heard.

You tried to find Flins among the guests, but discovered that he had already left the hall. One of the servants informed you that Mr. Chudomirovich had gone to the carriage to arrange preparations for the return journey.

You followed him.

---

Flins stood beside the carriage beneath the awning, speaking with the coachman. Hearing your footsteps, he turned around and smiled.

"Ah, Your Highness. I was just about to return for you," he said, adjusting his gloves. "I hope you have not found the evening excessively tiring."

"Kyryll, I need to ask you something."

He looked at you with curiosity.

"Of course. Although I must warn you that if the subject concerns the origins of some of the dishes served at dinner, my knowledge in that area is rather limited."

"Lord Velsky told me about an old custom."

Flins remained silent for a moment, then carefully fastened the last button of his glove.

"Did he indeed? I hope he exercised sufficient discretion in his choice of subject."

"About the custom of three invitations."

A faint smile appeared on Flins's lips.

"Ah. In that case, I suppose he chose a rather interesting topic for conversation."

"You invited me to spend time with you three times tonight."

"Quite right," Flins agreed, inclining his head slightly. "And I must confess, all three invitations brought me a great deal of pleasure."

"Did you know what that meant?"

Flins glanced toward the carriage, then back at you.

"I'm afraid modern ladies have become exceedingly direct," he said with a smile. "In my day, a gentleman was allowed at least a few months to pretend that he was merely exceptionally well-mannered."

You crossed your arms over your chest.

"Kyryll."

"Yes, my dear?"

"Were you seriously courting me?"

Flins studied your face for a while. Then his smile softened.

"I suppose it would be rather discourteous of me to allow you to continue guessing," he replied. "Yes, I knew perfectly well what that custom meant."

"Then why didn't you tell me anything?"

"I confess, I wasn't certain how familiar you were with the ceremonies of the former court," Flins thoughtfully adjusted his cuff. "Although I now see that I ought to have explained certain circumstances beforehand."

You looked at him.

"So you deliberately spent the whole evening pretending that you were simply helping me?"

"I genuinely wished to help you," he replied. "But at the same time, I hoped to take advantage of a rare opportunity to spend several hours in your company."

"And make everyone think you were planning to marry me?"

Flins briefly lowered his eyes, then looked at you again.

"I'm afraid you are attributing somewhat greater decisiveness to me than I have actually demonstrated," he remarked. "The ancient custom allows a gentleman to express his intention to court a lady. A decision concerning marriage, naturally, requires a considerably longer acquaintance and the consent of both parties."

He paused briefly.

"Although I must admit, the prospect itself does not seem unpleasant to me."

You looked at him in surprise. Flins smiled and carefully extended his hand toward you.

"However, I have no intention of placing you in an awkward position. If tonight has given rise to any unwelcome rumors, I shall gladly explain to Lord Velsky and the others that I took certain liberties with the ancient traditions."

"And will everyone believe you?"

"Oh, I imagine some will be disappointed. Lady Radomirskaya, for example, has probably already formed several rather detailed theories about our future married life," Flins replied. "But I assure you, I shall be able to correct the misunderstanding."

You looked at his outstretched hand.

"And still, why did you do it?"

Flins remained silent for a while. Then he lowered his hand and leaned his shoulder against the carriage.

"Because I enjoy your company," he finally replied. "Considerably more than I expected at the beginning of our acquaintance."

He looked toward the illuminated windows of the manor.

"I stopped attending such evenings for entertainment a long time ago. Most of the people with whom I once enjoyed dancing have long since been laid to rest in cemeteries. I confess, the thought of returning to courtly entertainments previously inspired very little enthusiasm in me."

Flins turned toward you.

"However, tonight I discovered that I am once again capable of taking pleasure in all of this. Even the endless conversations about family crests and outdated rules of etiquette."

He smiled.

"I suppose I ought to thank you for such an unexpected discovery."

You moved a little closer.

"And what now?"

Flins looked at you with mild surprise.

"Well, I suppose we ought to decide whether you would like to continue our acquaintance in a somewhat less formal setting."

"Is that another invitation?"

"In a manner of speaking," he agreed. "Although this time, I would prefer to dispense with witnesses and ancient ceremonies."

He carefully took your hand and kissed your fingertips.

"I understand perfectly well that your position imposes certain obligations. I have no doubt that Her Majesty will have her own opinion concerning my attempts to court her daughter. And listening to that opinion will probably prove a rather entertaining ordeal."

You laughed.

"Are you afraid of my mother?"

"My dear, I have lived long enough not to consider fear of powerful rulers a sign of poor upbringing," Flins replied with an entirely serious expression. "However, I am considerably more concerned about the possibility of receiving a refusal from you."

He released your hand and carefully adjusted the edge of your cloak, which had slipped out of place during your walk.

"You are entirely free to regard tonight as a pleasant misunderstanding. I shall not insist upon pursuing anything further if my intentions do not interest you."

Flins fell silent briefly, then smiled again.

"But if you will permit me, I would like to invite you for a walk tomorrow. We could visit the old library, stop by the sea, and perhaps have dinner at a small establishment near the harbor."

He opened the carriage door, but before helping you step inside, he turned toward you.

"This time, I promise to explain the meaning of all my actions beforehand. Although I must confess, there are certain ancient traditions I would like to preserve."

"For example?"

"For example, the right to escort a lady I fancy to her carriage, offer her my hand, and hope that she will allow me to do the same the following day," Flins replied with a smile.

He inclined his head slightly, watching your reaction attentively.

"Well then, Your Highness, may I hope that you will favor me with your company again tomorrow? Or should I consider this evening a most pleasant, but definitive lesson in the modern rules of courtship?"

A Date with a Dead Man

---

Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins sincerely considered himself a man sufficiently well-mannered to arrange a pleasant evening for a lady. Throughout his long life, he had attended countless balls, was thoroughly familiar with the rules of court etiquette, and remembered several ways of expressing romantic affection that the present-day inhabitants of Snezhnaya would undoubtedly consider hopelessly outdated.

Therefore, your remark that he was completely incapable of inviting a woman on a proper date struck him as rather unfair.

The conversation had taken place three days earlier, when you were returning from a walk through the Final Night Cemetery. Flins had just been telling you a story about a deceased aristocrat who had bequeathed instructions to be buried together with his favorite armchair when you asked whether he truly considered such conversations suitable for a walk with a young lady.

"I suppose you find my stories insufficiently entertaining?" Flins asked, stopping near a fork in the path.

"Entertaining, of course. It's just that you're constantly talking about dead people," you replied, adjusting your cloak. "Do you ever go on normal dates?"

Flins looked at you with genuine surprise.

"I must confess, my dear, you have placed me in a somewhat difficult position. I had assumed that our walk was going rather well."

"Kyryll, we've known each other for several months, and you haven't invited me on a proper date even once."

"Really?" He thoughtfully adjusted his glove. "And what exactly do you mean by a proper date?"

"Well, for example, a candlelit dinner. Flowers, music, somewhere beautiful. Preferably without stories about how someone died."

Flins listened carefully to your wishes, then inclined his head slightly.

"Thank you for such a detailed explanation. I believe I now have a considerably better understanding of your expectations."

You laughed, deciding that he was joking once again. Flins escorted you to your hotel, wished you a good night, and carefully kissed your hand before leaving.

The following morning, an envelope was delivered to you.

It was made of thick cream-colored paper and sealed with dark blue wax bearing the impression of the Chudomirovich family crest. Inside was an invitation written in neat, old-fashioned handwriting.

"To Her Highness, daughter of the Tsaritsa of Snezhnaya. I have the honor of inviting you to dinner on Friday, at seven o'clock in the evening. Allow me to hope that our forthcoming meeting will prove worthy of your expectations of a pleasant evening. With unwavering respect, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins."

An address was written below.

The Final Night Cemetery.

You read the invitation twice before finally convincing yourself that Flins had indeed arranged a date at a cemetery.

---

By seven o'clock in the evening, the cemetery paths were almost deserted. The last visitors were already making their way toward the exit, and dusk was gradually settling over the coastline. You followed a familiar path, guided by small blue lanterns that someone had thoughtfully arranged along the way.

Near one of the ancient gravestones, the path unexpectedly widened. Here was a small clearing overlooking the sea and the distant lighthouse. Flins usually stopped at this spot during his evening rounds, but tonight the clearing looked completely different.

In the middle stood a table covered with a spotless white tablecloth. Expensive porcelain plates, silver cutlery, crystal glasses, and several candlesticks had been arranged upon it. Between them stood a vase of fresh flowers, while nearby rested a small bucket containing a bottle of wine.

Two chairs stood opposite each other. A neatly folded blanket lay beside one of them, while a spare warm cloak hung over the back of the other.

However, the most surprising thing was the position of the table.

Directly behind it stood Flins's own gravestone.

You recognized the stone beside which he had once told you the story of his own burial. His name was still visible on its polished surface, and a small lantern with a blue flame stood nearby.

The host of the evening was not far away.

Flins was dressed in a formal dark suit with silver embellishments. An antique brooch gleamed upon his chest, his gloves looked completely new, and his hair was neatly arranged. He stood beside a small bench, speaking to someone you could not see.

"No, Mr. Belsky, I understand perfectly well that you prefer more solemn compositions. However, tonight, if you would be so kind, I would like to hear something a little less suitable for a funeral procession," he said, looking at the empty bench.

In response came the sound of a violin, resembling both a mournful sigh and the scraping of a poorly oiled door.

Flins winced.

"I suppose that can be taken as an expression of your disapproval. Nevertheless, please do try."

You stopped behind him.

"Kyryll?"

Flins turned around. Upon seeing you, he immediately straightened, adjusted his cuff, and smiled warmly.

"Good evening, my dear. Please pay no attention to our musician. He insists that he played considerably better when he was alive, although, I must confess, I find it difficult to detect any substantial difference."

You looked at the empty bench.

"Our musician?"

"Naturally. You did mention that you would prefer a dinner accompanied by music," Flins replied with a perfectly serious expression. "Unfortunately, finding a performer willing to work in a cemetery after sunset proved somewhat more difficult than I had anticipated."

An indignant cough came from the direction of the bench.

"Mr. Belsky, please," Flins turned toward his invisible companion. "Our guest has only just arrived."

You moved closer and noticed a translucent figure of an elderly man gradually appearing above the bench. He wore an old-fashioned tailcoat and held a violin whose outlines shimmered with bluish light.

The man bowed ceremoniously.

"It is a great honor, Your Highness," the ghost said. "During my lifetime, I had the opportunity to perform before a most demanding audience. I hope tonight will allow me to restore my professional reputation."

Flins sighed quietly.

"I'm afraid Mr. Belsky regards his own musical abilities with admirable optimism. But I believe we ought to attend to dinner now."

---

Flins escorted you to the table and pulled out your chair. Then he carefully adjusted the blanket, offering it to you in case the evening grew chilly. He had even thoughtfully arranged for several additional lanterns to be placed around the clearing so that you would not have to sit in darkness.

Once you were seated, Flins took the chair opposite yours and poured a little wine into a glass.

"Now then, my dear, before we begin, allow me to clarify something," he said, unfolding his napkin. "To what extent does our present arrangement correspond to your idea of a proper date?"

You looked around the table, then at the gravestone behind his back.

"You invited me to dinner beside your own grave."

"Quite right," Flins agreed, following your gaze. "I must point out that this location enjoys a certain popularity. Particularly among people who are no longer in a position to express their opinions."

"Are you making fun of me?"

Flins raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Not at all. I was under the impression that you had asked me to choose somewhere beautiful. There is an excellent view of the sea, strangers rarely come here, and the owner of the plot, as far as I know, has no objections to our presence."

You could not help laughing.

Flins smiled with satisfaction and reached for a basket standing beside the table. Inside were several carefully packaged dishes, which he began arranging on the plates.

You noticed that he had chosen exactly the foods you liked. There was fish prepared according to a recipe from one of Nod-Krai's restaurants, fresh vegetables, small savory pastries, and a berry dessert that you had once praised during one of your walks together.

"Did you make all of this?" you asked, examining your plate.

"I'm afraid I must confess to a certain degree of dishonesty," Flins replied, handing you the cutlery. "I ordered most of the dishes from a very talented cook. However, I can assure you that selecting the menu required considerable effort on my part."

"You remembered that I like this dessert?"

"Naturally. You mentioned it approximately three weeks ago," he replied, pouring you some water. "I believe it would have been rather discourteous of me to forget such an important detail."

You smiled. Flins allowed his gaze to linger on you a little longer than usual, but then turned his attention to the musician, who had begun playing an exceedingly sorrowful melody.

"Mr. Belsky," he addressed the ghost, "I believe we agreed that a funeral repertoire would not be necessary tonight."

"This composition is about unhappy love!" the musician protested without stopping his performance.

"Precisely. I had hoped we might avoid such omens at least until dessert was served."

The ghost snorted indignantly, but soon changed to a considerably more pleasant melody.

---

As the evening continued, you gradually discovered more and more details of Flins's preparations.

The flowers in the vase turned out to be the very variety you had once named as your favorite. The wine had been brought from Snezhnaya, while the tablecloth and dinnerware belonged to an antique set that Flins usually kept at the lighthouse. He had even inspected the path to the clearing beforehand so that you would not get your shoes dirty after the recent rain.

Flins, however, preferred not to attach too much importance to these details.

"I confess, it has been a long time since I last arranged anything of this sort," he remarked, cutting a small piece of pie. "At my age, one gradually begins to consider an evening successful if nobody attempts to disturb the rest of the deceased."

"And do you often invite girls to cemeteries?" you asked.

"Considerably less often than one might imagine," Flins replied with a faint smile. "Although I must admit, some of my acquaintances believe I ought to make more frequent use of the advantages offered by my place of employment."

A quiet chuckle came from the direction of the nearest gravestone.

Flins turned his head.

"Arkady, I can hear you perfectly well."

Another ghost appeared from behind the stone monument. He looked younger than the musician, wore an old Lightkeeper uniform, and was clearly enjoying what he was witnessing.

"My apologies, Mr. Flins," he said, looking not the slightest bit embarrassed. "It's just that you prepared so thoroughly that I was beginning to worry whether tonight would ever actually happen."

Flins set down his fork.

"I believe you ought to return to your duties."

"Which duties, sir? I died sixty years ago."

"In that case, I strongly recommend that you enjoy your well-deserved retirement."

Arkady laughed and turned toward you.

"Your Highness, you have no idea how much trouble Mr. Flins went through over this invitation."

You looked at him with curiosity.

"Really?"

"Of course! He rehearsed how he would ask you to dinner for three evenings in a row. First, he wanted to invite you in person, then he decided to send a letter, and then he changed his mind again. We had to listen to so many different versions that I was beginning to memorize some of the phrases."

Flins closed his eyes for several seconds.

"Arkady, would you kindly be quiet."

"I particularly liked the one where he said, 'My dear, I dare to hope that you will not consider my proposal excessively presumptuous...'"

"That will do."

"But it's true!" the ghost protested, turning toward you. "He even asked Mr. Belsky which flowers he ought to choose!"

The musician stopped playing and raised his head indignantly.

"Since Mr. Flins demanded musical accompaniment from me, I considered it my duty to provide whatever assistance I could. Although, I confess, his requirements concerning the repertoire seem entirely unreasonable to me."

You looked at Flins, who was now slowly folding his napkin, apparently considering how to put an end to the conversation.

"Kyryll, did you really rehearse the invitation?"

He raised his eyes to you.

"I'm afraid some of my deceased acquaintances have a rather peculiar understanding of confidentiality," Flins replied. "However, I must admit that I did indeed consider several possibilities."

"Several?"

"Approximately seven, I believe," he reluctantly clarified.

"Twelve!" Arkady immediately corrected him.

Flins turned toward the ghost with such an expression that the latter hastily retreated behind the gravestone.

"My dear, if you would permit me, I would prefer not to discuss the details of my preparations in the presence of such unreliable witnesses," he said, turning back toward you.

You laughed and asked why he had gone to so much trouble.

Flins remained silent for a moment, then carefully adjusted the vase standing before you.

"Because I wanted you to enjoy yourself," he replied. "You explained your expectations of such occasions rather convincingly. I decided it would be sensible to take them with all due seriousness."

---

After dinner, Flins suggested taking a short walk. He helped you rise, handed you your cloak, and led you along a path illuminated by blue lanterns. The violin continued playing behind you, although Mr. Belsky occasionally returned to melodies that the host of the evening considered insufficiently romantic.

You stopped beside a low stone wall overlooking the sea. The lighthouse glowed in the distance, while mist slowly rose above the water.

"I hope dinner lived up to your expectations after all," Flins remarked, stopping beside you.

"You really made an effort," you replied, looking at him. "Although I still don't understand why you chose the cemetery."

Flins rested his palm against the stone wall.

"I suppose I could have invited you to a restaurant," he agreed. "However, there would undoubtedly have been far too many strangers. Besides, I spend most of my time here and know which places are the most pleasant for walks."

He looked toward the illuminated clearing beside his own gravestone.

"I wanted to show you a place I genuinely love. Perhaps it seems a little strange, but I assure you, my intentions were perfectly respectable."

You smiled.

"Even considering that we had dinner beside your grave?"

"Especially considering that circumstance," Flins replied. "Not every gentleman can boast of being able to personally introduce a lady to his own gravestone. I suppose I ought to regard it as a certain advantage."

You laughed again. Flins looked at you and smiled as well, although after a while his expression grew somewhat thoughtful.

"I confess, I have not arranged anything like this in a long time," he said. "Most of the people with whom I once spent my evenings are now resting somewhere nearby. Sometimes I feel that I have completely lost the ability to keep up with modern ideas of romance."

"I think you're doing wonderfully."

"Really?" Flins turned toward you. "In that case, perhaps I ought to place greater trust in my own abilities."

He carefully took your hand and brought it to his lips. You noticed that he held it a little longer than usual before letting go.

Suddenly, Arkady's loud voice rang out from the cemetery.

"Mr. Flins! Why don't you finally tell Her Highness that you've been in love with her for ages? We're all tired of waiting!"

Flins stopped.

The music immediately ceased. Several seconds later, Mr. Belsky indignantly remarked that such declarations were entirely inappropriate to shout across an entire cemetery, especially during a musical performance.

Arkady, however, was not the least bit embarrassed.

"What's wrong with that? He's been talking about nothing but her for months! One moment he's waiting for a letter, the next he's choosing a present, and then he's asking whether it's too early to invite the princess to dinner!"

"Arkady!" Flins raised his voice just enough to be heard.

The ghost retreated behind the gravestone, but still managed to add one final remark.

"I was only trying to help, sir!"

Flins slowly removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I believe I shall have to reconsider certain rules of conduct at the cemetery," he said, putting his glasses back on. "It seems several of my charges have completely lost all understanding of propriety."

You looked at him with undisguised curiosity.

"Kyryll..."

"Yes, my dear?"

"Is it true?"

Flins remained silent for a while. Then he looked toward the illuminated path and carefully adjusted the collar of his cloak.

"I'm afraid Arkady possesses a remarkable talent for sharing information that nobody has authorized him to disclose," he replied. "Especially when it concerns my personal happiness."

"But he didn't make it up, did he?"

Flins looked at you, and his customary smile became noticeably softer.

"No," he admitted. "He didn't."

You stepped closer. Flins lowered his gaze to your hand and, after a brief hesitation, gently took it in his own.

"I had intended to speak with you about this somewhat later," he continued. "Preferably after we had managed to spend at least one evening without interference from my long-deceased acquaintances."

He gave a faint, wry smile.

"However, I suppose postponing the conversation now would be rather pointless."

You looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"I like you, my dear. I have for a long time," Flins said. "And I must confess, considerably more than I expected at the beginning of our acquaintance."

He fell silent briefly, studying your joined hands.

"I take pleasure in our walks, in your letters, and even in those occasions when you mercilessly ridicule my ideas of suitable entertainment."

Flins raised his eyes.

"I believe I would like to spend considerably more time with you. Perhaps even begin courting you properly, if you would not consider such a proposal excessively presumptuous."

You noticed that he spoke the final phrase with a faint smile, clearly remembering Arkady's account of his unsuccessful rehearsals.

The violin began playing again somewhere in the cemetery. This time, Mr. Belsky had chosen a slow, pleasant melody that suited the evening walk surprisingly well.

Flins listened and nodded with satisfaction.

"You see? Even our deceased acquaintances are occasionally capable of showing good judgment."

He carefully released your hand and took the spare cloak from his shoulders, offering it to protect you from the chilly wind. Then he looked toward the dinner table, where the candles were still flickering.

"Incidentally, I have prepared something else," he remarked. "Although now I am beginning to wonder whether it would be wise to continue the evening according to my original plan."

"What exactly?"

"A little dance," Flins replied with a smile. "Mr. Belsky assured me that he was capable of performing a suitable composition. Although, considering his previous attempts, I am beginning to fear for our ears."

He extended his hand toward you, inclining his head slightly.

"However, before you answer, allow me to ask you a question."

Flins glanced for a moment at his own gravestone, visible between the lanterns, then turned back toward you.

"My dear, I understand perfectly well that my ideas of romance may seem rather peculiar to you. And if you would prefer an ordinary restaurant next time, I promise to make every effort to choose an establishment where the majority of the patrons are still alive."

He smiled but did not avert his gaze.

"However, I would like to know whether you consider tonight a proper date. I believe your answer will determine whether I ought to continue my courtship in the future or confine myself to the role of a rather eccentric acquaintance who occasionally invites you to dine among gravestones."

A quiet cough came from the direction of the bench, where the musician was evidently waiting for permission to begin playing. Flins sighed, cast a brief glance in his direction, and turned back toward you.

"And, if you would be so kind, please answer before Arkady decides to offer his opinion. I'm afraid he has already rendered quite enough services to my love life this evening."