A cacophony of groans and the stench of burnt brass were my first greetings back to consciousness. My head throbbed with the rhythm of a thousand miniature clock gears attempting to reassemble themselves inside my skull. I blinked, the world swimming into focus as a blurry canvas of white walls and the sterile gleam of polished brass instruments. An infirmary, then. Not the afterlife, which was a mild disappointment. A grand funeral with elaborate eulogies about my misunderstood genius would have been far more satisfying than this beige purgatory. “Well, look who decided to rejoin the land of the living,” a dry voice drawled from beside me. Nikolai. My eyes swiveled, finding him perched on a stool, looking entirely too refreshed for someone who had just survived a collapsing clock tower. His usually impeccable dueling jacket was singed at the cuffs, but his posture remained infuriatingly upright. “We were starting to think you’d decided to stage a dramatic escape through the ether, leaving us to clean up your mess.” I tried to sit up, a mistake that sent bile scalding the back of my throat. “Unlike some people,” I managed, my voice a raspy whisper, “I prefer to finish what I start. Even if ‘finishing’ involves being knocked unconscious by a vengeful clock.” “Oh, you finished it, alright,” Nikolai said, a strange, almost gentle note in his tone. He tapped a folded newspaper lying on the bedside table. The headline, emblazoned in bold, declared: ‘Lissette Belarova, Architect of Deceit, Exposed! Grand Clock Tower Scandal Rocks Olenstadt!’ My gaze drifted to the paper. A blurry sketch of Lissette, looking far less angelic than usual, stared back. Below it, a damning account of her diary’s contents, her twisted schemes laid bare for the entire city. My lips twitched. It seemed my stepsister’s carefully constructed façade had finally crumbled. Good. “The curse…” I began, my voice still weak. “Is it…?” Nikolai nodded. “Gone. The whole city is talking about the ‘Clock Tower Cataclysm’ and how the Belarova heiress was caught attempting unspeakably foul rituals. You, on the other hand, are being hailed as… well, as the ‘Iron Witch who saved the city from a rogue clockwork abomination.’ It’s a bit of a stretch, but given the circumstances, I suppose it’s an improvement from ‘saboteur of promising young engineers’.” “And the other part?” I pressed, a knot forming in my stomach. The erasure. The ultimate indignity. Nikolai’s smile faltered. He looked away, fiddling with a loose button on his jacket. “That’s… a bit trickier. People recognize you. They recall your family name. There is… a general impression of you being difficult, sharp-tongued, prone to… ‘incidents’ involving minor property damage. But specific achievements, triumphs, anything that might be construed as ‘good’… it’s entirely hazy. Like trying to recall a dream after waking.” He cleared his throat. “For instance, I vaguely recall a flashy display of spirit-infused pyrotechnics during our duel. A dazzling, harmless spectacle that disarmed me quite elegantly. But the details, the reason… they’re just not there. It’s like a blank space where a memory should be.” The air left my chest in a dry rasp. So it was true. My accomplishments, my struggles, the very essence of my better self, wiped clean. All that remained was the caricature of the ‘Iron Witch.’ The pitiless world had won, even in my victory. “Still,” Nikolai continued, his voice regaining some of its usual swagger, “I know enough to see that Lissette’s accusations against you were absolute rubbish. I’ve made sure to loudly and publicly articulate that point to anyone who would listen. And those who wouldn’t. My family’s reputation demanded it, of course. Can’t have a Rostova being associated with such a scandalous affair without setting the record straight.” He puffed out his chest, completely missing the small, uncharacteristic warmth that bloomed in mine. Before I could formulate a suitably sarcastic retort, the infirmary door creaked open. Sergei. He stepped in, his movements unhurried, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. The bandage on his arm was gone, replaced by healthy, unblemished skin. The absence of the gear, the lack of that cursed tether, made him seem lighter, somehow. Freer. Nikolai, perhaps sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere, rose from his stool. “I shall leave you two to your… recovery. There are still several dispatches to write to the Guild about the structural integrity of the main bell, which, I might add, is now in several hundred pieces scattered across the plaza. A minor inconvenience, I assure you.” He offered a curt nod and exited, leaving us in a silence that was far more potent than his bluster. Sergei approached the bed, pulling up Nikolai’s vacated stool. His gaze was intense, unreadable. For a moment, I braced myself for an apology, a lecture, or perhaps a clinical assessment of my vital signs. My pride, ever vigilant, stiffened. He didn't say anything immediately. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his practical, unadorned vest. He pulled out a small, unassuming object and placed it on the bedside table. It was a toadstool. A perfectly ordinary, non-sentient, brown-capped cap, plucked clean from its stem. My brow furrowed. “Are you… offering me a snack?” His lips quirked upwards, a slow, genuine smile that softened the sharp lines of his face. “I remember a certain incident in the Conservatory. A rather boisterous patch of fungi, if I recall correctly. Very opinionated. And surprisingly adept at synchronized choreography.” My throat locked. The Slanderous Horticulture Incident. The very first time he’d seen me truly vulnerable, truly cursed. It was a memory that should have been eradicated, erased from history as an 'accomplishment' that demonstrated the absurdity of my situation. But he retained it. Every ridiculous, humiliating detail. “It wasn’t an accomplishment,” he continued, his voice a low murmur, “it was… a shared moment. A ridiculous, chaotic, vivid moment that had nothing to do with whether you succeeded or failed at anything grand.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The curse erases achievements, Tatiyana. It can’t touch a shared laugh, a moment of bewilderment, or the quiet understanding between two people.” He picked up the toadstool, turning it gently between his fingers. “My project, the one you ‘sabotaged’ years ago? It was a calculated failure, you were right. It taught me more than any success ever could. It forced me to rethink, to innovate beyond the conventional. Now, with a clear slate, with everything laid bare…” He met my gaze, a spark of resolve in his eyes. “I want to build something new. Something the curse can’t touch. A new history, with you, Tatiyana. Not a record of achievements, but a collection of shared, imperfect, absurd moments. Starting with perfectly normal, non-singing fungi.” He held out the toadstool to me. For the first time in months, a laugh bubbled up from deep within me, pure and unburdened by sarcasm or bitterness. It wasn’t the elegant, refined laugh of a noblewoman, but a genuine, slightly unhinged cackle that felt entirely, wonderfully mine. I reached out, taking the cap, and for a fleeting instant, the sterile infirmary, the whispers of the city, and the crushing burden of my past faded away. All that remained was the quiet promise of a future, held in the palm of my hand, smelling faintly of damp earth and the surprising scent of hope. What a perfectly normal, ridiculously un-Koschev way to begin again. “Does it come with dipping sauce?” I asked, a grin splitting my face. Sergei chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “I’m an engineer, not a chef, Tatiyana. But I can certainly design an automated dipping mechanism, if you’d like.”

My Funeral Was Surprisingly Well-Attended