Wintermourne (6/6)
Benediction
Weeks later, as frost still clung to the birch trees along the old roads of Volkov, a small entourage arrived at the gates of the Volkov ancestral estate. Their carriages bore the imperial crest. Their banners were tied with black silk. They moved at a plodding, somber pace.
Guards opened the gates without a word as the procession moved within the courtyard.
Pall bearers lifted Mikhail's casket, moving in a slow march.
Inside the great hall, the fire burned, as it had since October.
The Baron and Baroness sat side by side in gilded chairs. They had known for days—weeks. The telegram had come swiftly after the Moika incident. They stood when two members of the Tsarina's household stepped forward and solemnly bowed.
"Their Majesties send their deepest regrets at the loss of your son, Mihail Andreyevich Volkov, who served the crown with honor and died in defense of the realm. His sacrifice will not be forgotten."
They held it together until the great doors opened, and they saw the flag-draped casket—oak and iron, simple but beautifully made. It was then that the weight of their loss struck them.
No one begrudged them their silent tears.
The Baron nodded his thanks to the queen's messengers, and then he and his wife stepped forward to lay their hands on their only son's casket.
"My son," the Baron said.
"My precious boy," the Baroness cried.
They wept without spectacle and were joined by all.
After a time, the Baron turned to his wife, his voice barely audible above the crackling hearth.
“We have no heir,” he said. “And we are too old for another.”
She nodded her head and despite her effort to remain composed, a small whimper left her lips. It was the first time the people heard her cry aloud.
There was a pause.
Then from the crowd, a soft voice answered.
“Begging your pardon, my lord. My lady.”
Nadya stepped forward, dressed in black and cloaked in winter grey, a newborn in her arms. A knitted blue hat rested on the child’s head like a crown of frost.
She bowed—just slightly. Not the bow of a servant, but the bow of a noblewoman, offering solemn respect. Then she lifted her gaze and met their eyes, unafraid.
She smiled kindly, though sadness still lingered there.
“I am your son’s widow,” she said. “And you do have an heir.”
And gently, she placed the child into the arms of the Baroness of Volkov.
“His name,” she said, “is Mikhail Andreyevich Volkov. Second of his name.”
The Baroness, whose hands had been trembling for weeks—thinking they might never still—suddenly found strength, steady and sure, as she cradled the most precious gift she had ever known.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
I have tears in my eyes. This story was so sad and beautiful