The silence of the room was broken by the sharp CLANG! CLANG! of the morning bell. I sat up fast, my heart racing. The room was freezing, and I could see my own breath in the misty air coming from the tiny window.
Beside me, Manya was already moving. She was quick, pulling her boots on before turning to the small, curled-up shape between us.
"Dasha, wake up," Manya whispered, shaking the little girl's shoulder gently.
Dasha didn't move. She only groaned and buried her face deeper into the straw of our shared bed, pulling the thin blanket over her head. "Five more minutes, Sestra..." she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
"No five minutes, little bird," Manya laughed softly, tugging at the blanket. "The sun is trying to wake up, and so must we. If we are late, we won't have the fire ready for breakfast."
I watched them, feeling a mix of warmth and sadness. Dasha finally sat up, rubbing her eyes with her tiny fists. She looked over at me and gave a small, sleepy wave. "Good morning, Sestra Mary Ann."
"Good morning, Dasha," I whispered.
"Come, Mary Ann," Manya said, handing me my shawl. "We have to go to the garden. The kitchen needs vegetables for the morning soup, and the ground is already freezing."
We stepped outside, and the cold air hit me like a wall. The grass was white with frost, and it crunched under my shoes. Manya handed me a pair of rough, dirt-stained gloves.
"We have to pull the winter cabbages and gather the remaining root crops," Manya explained. "The eldress wants them for the big pot today. If we don't get them now, they will be too hard to dig up later."
I knelt in the dirt and started to pull. It was much harder than it looked. The mud was frozen and gripped the roots like iron. My hands, which were used to holding a pen or a phone, felt weak and clumsy.
Nearby, I heard the rhythmic thwack! thwack! of an axe. I looked over and saw Mikhail at the woodpile. He was working fast, his shirt sleeves rolled up despite the cold. But he wasn't just working; he was watching me.
Every time I struggled with a cabbage or wiped the sweat from my face, his eyes were there—sharp and judging.
"He's still doing it," I whispered to Manya. "He hasn't stopped looking at me since we came outside."
Manya didn't look up from the dirt. "He is a protector, Mary Ann. He cares for the children, but he doesn't know what to make of you. To him, you are a mystery, and he thinks mysteries bring trouble."
Suddenly, the Eldress stepped out of the back door. She watched us for a moment, then looked over at Mikhail.
"The wood is enough for now, Mikhail," she said. She looked at the younger children who were starting to come outside. "Take the little ones to the kitchen. They need to stay warm.
But Mary Ann—" she turned her sharp eyes to me. "Mikhail needs help stacking the heavy oak logs in the cellar before the morning meal is served. Go. Help him."
My heart did a slow, heavy thud. Alone in the cellar with Mikhail?
I looked at Mikhail. He picked up a massive armload of logs and headed toward the dark opening of the cellar door. He didn't wait for me.
"Try to keep up," he said over his shoulder, his voice cold. "The children are waiting for their breakfast, and I don't have time to wait for you."
I grabbed as many logs as I could carry, the rough bark stinging my skin, and followed him down into the shadows of the cellar.
The cellar stairs were steep and narrow, lit only by a single, flickering candle sitting on a stone ledge. The air down there was even colder than outside, smelling of damp earth and old potatoes. Mikhail walked ahead of me, his heavy boots echoing against the stone. He carried a mountain of logs with ease, while I struggled with just four.
The logs were thick and the bark was slick with frost. As I reached the middle of the stairs, my arms began to shake. One of the larger logs started to slide. I tried to readjust my grip, but my frozen fingers slipped.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The heavy log tumbled down the stairs, narrowly missing Mikhail's heels before hitting the dirt floor at the bottom with a loud bang. The sound echoed through the small space like a gunshot.
Mikhail stopped and turned around. He looked at the log on the floor, then looked up at me. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed, which somehow felt much worse.
"I... I'm sorry," I panted, my face turning red from the cold and the embarrassment. "It was slippery."
Mikhail didn't move to help me. He didn't even pick up the log I had dropped. He just let out a short, cold breath.
"You are so weak," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it was sharp. "You have soft hands and a soft heart. In this house, weakness is a luxury we cannot afford. If you cannot even carry wood, how do you expect to survive the winter?"
"I'm trying, Mikhail! I've never done this before," I snapped back, my voice echoing.
He didn't care. He simply turned his back on me and finished stacking his pile against the wall. "Then try harder. Or go back inside and stay out of the way. I have work to do."
Without another word, he walked right past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he headed back up the stairs. He left me standing there in the dim light, staring at the single log on the ground.
A hot spark of anger flared in my chest. I wasn't just a "city girl" or a "stranger"—I was a person who had survived a car crash and a trip through time, and I wasn't going to let him talk to me like I was a burden.
"Fine!" I shouted after him, though he was already gone. "I'll do it myself!"
I stomped down the last few steps and grabbed the dropped log. It was heavy and rough, biting into my skin, but I didn't care. I shoved it onto the stack and headed back up for more. If Mikhail wanted to see me as weak, I was going to spend the rest of the morning proving him wrong, even if my arms fell off.
I stood alone in the damp, dark cellar, my chest heaving. I looked at the heavy oak log lying on the dirt floor, then looked up at the empty doorway where Mikhail had just disappeared. My hands were stinging, and my pride was stinging even more.
I bent down and gripped the log, digging my fingernails into the rough, frozen bark. It was heavy, but I didn't care. With a loud grunt, I heaved it onto the stack.
"You think I'm just some helpless girl, don't you, Mikhail?" I whispered to myself, my voice echoing off the stone walls. "Do you think I can't handle this? Just wait. I'll prove to you that I'm not a weak person. I'll prove I belong here just as much as you do."
I didn't stop. I went back up and down the stairs three more times, carrying as much as my arms could hold until they felt like lead. By the time the last log was stacked, my face was flushed and my breathing was ragged, but I felt a small spark of victory.
I walked back into the main house, wiping the dirt and wood dust onto my apron. The air inside was thick with the delicious, savory smell of cooking.
In the large, open kitchen, Manya was standing over a massive iron pot hanging in the hearth. She was stirring it with a long wooden spoon, her face glowing from the heat of the flames. Dasha was sitting at the small wooden table nearby, peeling a few small onions with a dull knife, her eyes still looking a bit sleepy.
"You're back!" Manya said, looking up with a bright smile. Then her eyes narrowed as she saw my messy hair and red face. "Mercy, Mary Ann! You look like you've been in a wrestling match with a bear. Did the logs give you that much trouble?"
"Not the logs," I muttered, moving to the washbasin to scrub the sap from my hands. "Mikhail."
Manya stopped stirring for a moment, her expression softening. "Ah. I see. What did he do now?"
"He told me I was weak," I said, the anger returning to my voice. "He didn't even help me when I dropped one. He just looked at me like I was a burden and walked away."
Dasha looked up from her onions, her eyes wide. "Mikhail is just cranky because he hasn't had his cider yet, Sestra. He's always grumpy in the morning."
Manya chuckled, but she walked over to me and placed a warm hand on my shoulder. "Don't let his words get under your skin, Mary Ann. Mikhail has survived things that would break most men. To him, strength is the only thing that keeps us safe. He isn't trying to be mean; he's trying to see if you will break."
"Well, I'm not going to break," I said firmly, drying my hands. "What can I do to help with breakfast?"
Manya handed me a large wooden bowl filled with hard, black rye bread. "Here. Slice this into thick pieces. The soup is almost ready—it's just cabbage, potatoes, and a bit of salted pork today. It's simple, but it's warm."
As I started sawing through the dense bread, I looked over at Manya. "Does he ever smile, Manya? Or does he just spend his whole life guarding the door and judging people?"
Manya looked toward the doorway, making sure Mikhail wasn't nearby. "He smiles for the children," she whispered. "And sometimes, if the harvest is good and the Eldress is happy, you might catch a glimpse of a real person behind that wall of his. But for now, Mary Ann, just keep working. The best way to silence Mikhail is to be better than he expects you to be."
I nodded, pressing the knife down hard into the bread. Manya was right. I didn't need his pity—I needed his respect.