Where The Spirit Meets The Bone

Thirty-three: Alina Starkov

Thirty-three:

Alina Starkov

She didn't know her husband. It was the one thing that kept on going around and around in her mind since she had found the book. She hadn't bothered to read it; she'd been so focused on that image. It was Aleksander. She had heard of ancestors looking similar, but could they really look like mirror images of each other? Alina thought of where she'd found him last night. In the attic, looking at a portrait that had been covered up. Was it the same portrait? She paced the library back and forth, wondering what to do. Did she ask him about it? Did she leave him alone? Did she go looking for answers?

The truth was she was his now. His to do with as she pleased. Nikolai had tried to help her, and he was the Prince. If even he couldn't escape Aleksander's power what did that mean for her? The first night she'd spent in his house, she'd been terrified. But since then, aside from the incident with his nightmares.... Alina hadn't felt scared around him. He called her "Little Wife" and made love to her regularly. He was kind to her. If he had secrets, surely they weren't too terrible? And what was the darkest thing a drawing in a book could mean?

Alina stopped pacing. She had to see the portrait in the attic. Anything to put her mind at ease. Alina put the books she had taken down back, making sure they were all exactly in the same spot. Then she went up the stairs, not stopping until she had reached the attic door. Alina went to open it.

The door wasn't locked. Hesitantly, Alina went inside. The room was dark, so she flipped on the light switch. She walked over to where the portrait was in the corner. Aleksander had covered it back up with a blanket. She should have simply asked to see it. If she had, she wouldn't have been there, skulking around in the attic. If he found her there.....

It wasn't too late. She could simply turn back and ask him about the portrait when he returned from the Little Palace. Alina stared at the covered portrait, walked over to it, and hesitantly reached her hand out to pull back the sheet. Just as she was about to however, there was a slamming sound that made her jump.

"Saints!" she exclaimed.

Alina glanced over her shoulder. The door had closed. No. It was fine. It surely didn't mean anything. She wasn't going to be locked in there. She walked over to it, reached out and slowly turned the handle holding her breath as she did. The door remained firmly locked from the outside.

"No," she said, "no, no, no...."

She desperately tried to open the door. Hitting it. Slamming against it. Kicking it. It would not open. She called out, hoping a passing servant would hear her. But none did. Aleksander would come home tomorrow, and he wouldn't find her...she would be locked in there for the night alone. Alina glanced over her shoulder. She was locked in there, alone with the portrait. Wouldn't she be a fool not to look at it now?

Alina walked over to it again. There was no going back once she did this, but she had to know. She ripped off the sheet. A gasp escaped her. "Aleksander...." It was him, eternal, unchanged.

She shook her head, hoping that the image would disappear. That she was wrong.

Alina knew the legends of her country. Ravka was old. It had been built on magic and steal and war and blood. For hundreds of years, grisha soldiers had helped them keep ancient beings at bay that roamed their lands. And then ancient beings became tanks. And then, eventually, technology became stronger than the magic.

The small sciences.

If you believed the rumors, you could still find heart renderers in hospitals. Maybe a tailor if you were lucky. A few healers. But the ones that controlled the elements...fire and water and wind.... when electricity came their powers fell into disuse. As for the ones that were able to manipulate metal, tile, and textures, as technology advanced, the need for them faded too. There were still grisha descendants. But the actual practice of the small sciences had fallen into disuse. There was no need for them over time. A forgotten relic when war had been at its worse, and Ravka had had nearly nothing but its living legends to call upon to keep it floating.

The gifts had never been outlawed. But they weren't exactly welcome either. They reminded people of bad times. And who would want anything to do with those? If Aleksander was grisha, what did that mean? Was he in his twenties, as she had thought? Or......how long did grisha live, even?

She tried to recall her history. The stories they told in school, then the same ones she had begged her own mother for when she was little. Grisha could die, she remembered. She had seen their markers in the cemeteries on school field trips to ancient Ravka battlegrounds. But they were hard to kill. And they lived long lives. The question was, how long?

Alina looked back at the portrait. Maybe she was being foolish. Maybe it was simply an ancestor with a stunning resemblance. Perhaps if she looked through the attic she could find answers. That was what she decided to do. It was filled with boxes. She picked one and started her search. She could sit there and be stuck. Or she could find the answers that she hadn't been given on her own. She decided that, if her darling, dearest husband wasn't going to give her the answers she would find them on her own.