Chapter 232: The Devil’s Handwriting Pt3
Lydia stared at the sheet of music again, her hands trembling. The notes were written with care, almost tenderly, but something about them felt strange to her. There was nothing obviously wrong. The lines were straight, the strokes neat, the ink still fresh. Yet deep inside her chest, unease spread like fire.
Her heart began to race. She clutched the music sheet tightly against her chest as if it might slip away from her. She needed air. She needed answers. Without another thought, she turned and left the lounge, her steps uneven, her skirts brushing against the polished floor as if they were pulling her down.
Her mind screamed at her, pushing and pulling in every direction.
"It cannot be. It cannot be what I am thinking," she whispered to herself, almost like a prayer. "It is not. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I am losing my mind. Maybe I am imagining things."
The corridors of the palace felt endless as she hurried through them, her pulse louder than her own footsteps. She pushed open the doors to her chambers like a woman chased by ghosts. The door banged softly against the wall, but she didn’t care. She rushed inside and closed it quickly, her back pressed to it as if she had to keep the whole world out.
Her eyes scanned the room wildly. Then she darted forward, pulling open drawers, scattering papers, and tossing books to the floor. She pulled at cushions, unfastened small boxes, anything, everything, until her hands found what they had been hunting for.
The letter.
The cruel letter.
The one that had ripped her apart three years ago. The one that had broken her heart beyond repair.
Her fingers shook as she held it, the edges now worn and creased from the countless times she had stared at it in the dark, cursing his name.
Her breath came hard as she sat down by the lamp and unfolded it with care. She placed it beside the music notes she had taken from the lounge.
Her eyes darted back and forth. The handwriting looked so alike. At first glance, anyone would say they belonged to the same hand. The same curves, the same pressure, the same slant.
Her chest tightened.
But the longer she stared, the more she noticed the truth.
There were differences. Tiny, but there. The way the letters curled at the end, the way the ink seemed to hesitate in places where Ivan’s writing never did. The cruel words on the letter looked deliberate, forced, as if written by someone trying too hard to mimic another man’s voice.
Lydia’s breath caught. She whispered in disbelief.
"No... no, no, no."
She brought both papers closer to the lamp. Her tears blurred her vision, but she kept wiping them away to look again. Once. Twice. Three times. Her eyes refused to believe, but her heart... her heart was already screaming.
She shook her head violently, her hair falling across her face.
"Maybe I am imagining things. Maybe I am seeing only what I want to see. Maybe it is the night making me blind. Maybe I am mad."
But her fingers refused to let go. They clutched both papers tightly, her knuckles pale. She leaned closer to the lamp, reading every line again and again, as if she could squeeze the truth out with her eyes alone.
Her chest rose and fell heavily, and her tears kept coming.
---
Meanwhile, far away in the dark streets of Svetlana, Tatiana moved like a shadow. A heavy cloak covered her form, and the hood shielded her face from the spring breeze. She walked quickly, her steps purposeful, her heart full of venom.
The slums smelled of damp earth, smoke, and cheap liquor. Rats scattered at the edges of the cobblestone paths, and voices of beggars drifted through the alleys. But Tatiana walked without fear. Her hunger for power was stronger than fear.
She reached a small crooked cottage at the corner of a narrow lane. The wood was worn, and the windows were patched with cloth. She lifted her gloved hand and knocked three times.
A moment later, the door creaked open. A middle-aged woman with tired eyes appeared. Her face lit up when she saw Tatiana.
"My lady," the woman said with a bow.
Tatiana stepped inside without answering, her boots clicking against the uneven floor. The air smelled of smoke and herbs.
The woman closed the door quickly and spoke again. "I have done what you asked of me."
Tatiana’s lips curled. "Very good."
The woman gestured for her to follow, and together they climbed a narrow staircase. The wood creaked beneath them, and Tatiana’s cloak brushed against the walls. At the top, the woman opened a door.
Inside the room were five young women. They looked thin, fragile, their eyes full of fear and uncertainty. Some clutched their shawls tightly, while others simply stared down at the floor.
The woman introduced them in a low voice. "This is Lady Orlova. She will help you."
Tatiana stepped forward, her eyes sweeping over them. She smiled, but it was not kind. It was sharp, cold, the smile of someone who saw them not as people but as tools.
"You have been told the truth," Tatiana said smoothly. "I will help you. And in return, you will help me. We will all be helping each other."
Her voice softened as if she were making a promise, but her eyes glittered with hunger.
"I need a son," she said. "One of you will provide me with a son. The grand duke’s heir."
The young women shifted uneasily, some looking at each other, others shrinking further into themselves.
Tatiana turned back toward the door, her cloak swishing behind her. To the middle-aged woman, she said calmly, "Take care of them. Make sure they are in good condition. We will need the child to be healthy."
The woman hesitated, then asked quietly, "My lady... what happens to the one who gives birth to a son?"
Tatiana’s smile widened. "She will be rewarded handsomely. She will live well for the rest of her life."
The woman swallowed hard. "And... and the ones who do not? The ones who birth daughters?"
Tatiana stopped. Her body froze for a moment before she slowly turned her head, her eyes cold as ice. Her voice came out low, sharp, final.
"They will be discarded. That way, the secret will remain forever."
The woman’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at Tatiana, speechless, as the cruel words hung heavy in the air.
Tatiana gave her no chance to argue. She pulled her hood tighter and walked out, her steps calm, her heart racing with wicked satisfaction.
The woman stood there, frozen with fear, her hands trembling. Behind her, the five young women whispered to each other, their voices thin and broken.
And in the night, Tatiana disappeared into the shadows, carrying her cruelty with her.