The Most Important Day of our young Heroine arrives

Meanwhile, the day was drawing to a close, and the roofs of St. Petersburg were already drowning in a gray haze, as if the city was preparing to plunge into a deep sleep. Over the Fontanka, kerosene lanterns flared up one after another, reflecting in the blackening water of the river with trembling, golden reflections. The cold May air, saturated with the smells of dampness and spring foliage, became thicker, foreshadowing the coming night.

On Kirochnaya Street, in the spacious York house, preparations for the next day were in full swing. The kitchen, spacious and warm, filled with the aromas of vanilla, yeast and something meaty, seemed the center of the universe. Pelageya, the cook, a stout woman with red, calloused hands, muttered something angry as she kneaded dough for pies. She grumbled, and this grumbling was a constant background, like the creaking of an unoiled cart.

"What a folly, what a novelty!" she muttered through her teeth, slapping the dough. "A mountain of a feast, and what's more, a massacre! He ordered, they say, so many treats as if for the governor himself! 'An American folly', as she put it, this idea with a holiday. The young lady is nine years old, and there's as much noise as at a royal coronation!"

Her eyes, full of righteous indignation, sometimes glanced sideways at the door, behind which Lisa Roselli, the new governess, was pacing the house. Pelageya couldn't stand this 'new broom'. 'She walks like she's swallowed a pole,' she thought, 'and always tries to stick her nose where it's not wanted. But before, under Josephine, everything was homely, human!'

Lisa Roselli, as if feeling a silent reproach, walked through the rooms with an icy, almost military severity. Her steps were light, almost noiseless, but her presence was felt throughout the house. She kept an eye on everyone, as if she were commanding a garrison, and each of her glances seemed to carry an unspoken command.

Gene York sat in his office, shuffling papers, but his thoughts were far from the law. He was waiting for Karen, who he knew was somewhere in the house. He wanted to talk to her, even just to be near her.

Finally, she walked in. Karen, thin and pale, like a porcelain doll that had lost its luster. Her eyes were empty, staring into nothing. Since Josephine's death, she had seemed to retreat into herself, locked in her own grief.

"Karen," Gene said quietly, rising to meet her. "Are you okay? I wanted to..."

Karen just shook her head without looking up.

"I... I don't know, Gene. Everything is so... Everything is so empty."

"I understand, dear," Gene came closer, but did not dare touch her. His love for her was deep, but after losing Josephine he felt helpless, as if an invisible wall had grown between them. "But Lisa... She helps a lot with Deedle. You see how strict she is, but fair. Deedle... She has become a little more collected."

Karen nodded indifferently.

"Let him. Let him do it. I... I don't care."

Her indifference hurt Gene, but he understood that Karen's grief was too deep. Lisa Roselli was a godsend for him - strict, punctual, admiring his business acumen and ability to build life in an American way, in his own special way. He saw her as a support, a person capable of bringing order where he himself was powerless.

In the corner of the kitchen, on a low stool, Delia was sitting curled up. She was drawing something on a scrap of paper, oblivious to everything else in the world. Xander, her constant companion, was crouched nearby. Without saying a word, he was quietly putting chalk under her, saying with a silent gesture: 'Here, Deedle, keep drawing. Don't get distracted.' Their friendship was a refuge from the adult world, their secret corner where rules and conventions did not apply.

"What are you drawing there, Deedle?" Xander asked quietly, bending over her drawing. "Again your pegasus or dragons?"

Delia snorted quietly, without looking up from her paper.

"Not pegasus. And not dragons. I draw... I draw freedom. And how to hide it from one bore."

Xander chuckled knowingly. He knew who they were talking about.

Lisa Roselli, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway, saw this idyllic scene. Her eyebrows drew together slightly and a slight frown of disapproval appeared on her face.

"Miss," Lisa's voice was even, without a single note of warmth, but commanding, "tomorrow will be full of guests. Many important people, and also... And also ordinary people, whom your father invited."

Delia started, as if she had been pulled out of a dream, and raised her head. Her gaze, previously fixed on a fantasy world, became prickly. Xander, sensing the tension, tensed up next to her.

"You must behave with dignity," the governess continued, not raising her voice, but each word seemed to be minted in the air. "As befits a lady. No childish pranks, no drawings in front of guests. And you, Alexander," she glanced at Xander, "must be with the young lady and watch her behavior. Do you understand?"

Xander clenched his teeth. He hated it when this 'governess' told him what to do. Delia only snorted quietly in response, almost inaudibly, like an offended kitten. A mischievous sparkle flashed in her gaze at Xander, and he, catching her gaze, understood without words - it was not pies that she was expecting tomorrow. And not gifts, and not congratulations. No. She was waiting for that very moment when, perhaps, she would be able to slip away from Lisa's care. To slip away, to become herself again, and not 'Miss Delia', brought up according to strict rules. Tomorrow, in her opinion, was not a holiday, but just another strict ceremony, from which she so wanted to escape.

Pelageya, hearing the governess's voice, grumbled even louder as she kneaded the dough. 'What a snake in the grass', she thought about Lisa. 'And what did our master see in her? Josephine, although a stranger, was still one of our own, dear. And this one... Ugh!'