Inventing Wonders

Chapter 6: It Could Have Been in Me

On a sizable dark wood desk, amidst other papers, lay the morning newspaper. The paper was open to the third page, and at the bottom of the page, the author's name of a dubious article was circled in ink. Nikolai Pavlovich never understood why his brother allowed printers to spread such nonsense. The Grand Duke had read the text three times and remained utterly displeased. If it were up to him, all the press, at least in the capital, would be under serious supervision by specially trained people.

How could they publish such drivel? The writing style was overly light, if not frivolous. And the manner of expressing thoughts? It was mere mockery of public policy! Nikolai Pavlovich was so enraged that he rushed to write to his brother. Upon reaching the author's name, he suddenly froze: a familiar short surname. Four letters and not a hint of nobility—Vovk. Maxim Vovk, surely from a bourgeois, or perhaps even peasant, family.

He slowed the swift movement of his pen, then wrote the surname two more times and finally added a completely new name. The result was: "Larisa Vovk." Did she have any relation to the author of the text? The General seemed to have mentioned something about her brother. But what? Recalling Countess Vovk, Nikolai Pavlovich wanted to see that delicate silhouette he had met at the ball. But before his eyes emerged a rosy-cheeked girl with snow stuck to her skirt.

Another stroke of the pen. Nikolai Pavlovich looked at the spoiled document—a portrait. Wavy strands escaping from her hairstyle and a mischievous smile. The Grand Duke couldn't stand it any longer, irritably crumpled the sheet, and threw it aside. Where were these thoughts coming from? He had no time for dubious girls right now! Yet, his thoughts were already tangled and unlikely to return to equilibrium. Nikolai Pavlovich ordered his coat to be brought. He needed to go outside and take a walk, to distract himself from this madness.

***

Tearing her eyes, inflamed by sleeplessness, from the manuscript, Lara finally admitted to herself that she was finishing up everything. She had often encountered the idea of quitting the game without hitting "save" in the corridors of her mind, and now she realized that for the first time in her life, she was standing on the edge. With horror, she threw the pile of papers aside and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Lara was experiencing immense emotions without the possibility of getting advice, even on an anonymous forum, not to mention a psychologist or, better yet, a psychiatrist. Was she really in the 19th century, or had she just gotten lost in the halls of her imagination? You couldn't honestly say that Lara had never imagined transporting to another world.

Lara desperately wanted some changes, but what if she was now living a moment between life and death, what if she was already dead, and all her meetings with the Decembrists were just the last impulses of an inflamed mind?

Lara staggered and quickly crawled under the dressing table; she preferred to suffer in confined spaces. Suddenly, she realized with horror that even if she was still alive, even if this wasn't a delusional dream, she would likely take her own life, and no one would be able to help her. And what if by ending her life in this world, Lara could return to her own time?

Frightened by her own thoughts, she hastily dressed, tied up her hair, and ran outside. The weather was vile: neither spring nor winter. The wet snow hampered her movements. She didn't know how long she wandered the grim streets, but at some point, she realized she no longer felt anything. A borderline feeling of indifference. The psychologist had advised her to pay close attention to her emotions, to describe them, to name her states. Lara couldn't describe it, but at some point, she characterized her mental state: "He didn't deserve the light, he deserved peace." She sighed with relief, realizing that at least for today, she had rid herself of the frightening state.