Anya’s mind still replayed Leo’s face, etched with a fear he tried to mask with anger. His hands had trembled, just slightly, as he’d dismissed her findings. Clara, a silent sentinel, had watched them both, her expression unreadable, a quiet intensity that chilled Anya more than Leo’s outburst. Such a dismissal felt hollow. Something vital, something dangerous, pulsed beneath his bluster. Her grandmother’s diary, then the photograph, now Leo’s fractured composure – the pieces formed a pattern too insistent to ignore. Deciding to pursue this thread, she’d placed a call to Mr. Davies, the family solicitor. A simple inquiry about some minor estate paperwork served as her pretext. He was an old guard, a man whose family had handled theirs for generations, a repository of unspoken histories. Tomorrow morning, he’d agreed. A meeting in his quiet, wood-paneled office, smelling of old paper and dust. She would seek answers where the truth might hide in plain sight. Morning arrived, draped in a thin, persistent drizzle. Anya adjusted her coat, the chill seeping through. His office, on a cobbled street, felt like a journey back in time, removed from the city’s restless pulse. Mr. Davies rose as she entered, a stooped figure with kind, watery eyes behind thick spectacles. His handshake was frail, yet firm, a relic of decorum. “Miss Anya. Always a pleasure. Do sit.” “Thank you, Mr. Davies.” Settling into a worn leather armchair, she feigned a polite smile. Sunlight struggled through the tall window, illuminating motes dancing in the air. He offered tea, a delicate floral blend. Anya accepted, the warmth a small comfort against her rising tension. They discussed the fictitious paperwork, an easy preamble to her true purpose. “Mr. Davies,” she began, carefully. “I’ve been going through some old family effects. My grandmother, Anastasia… her life always fascinated me. So much history in our lineage.” Nodding slowly, he sipped his tea. “Indeed. A remarkable woman, your grandmother. A force of nature, in her youth.” A faint, nostalgic smile touched his lips. “She certainly was.” Anya leaned forward, voice dropping slightly. “I found an old diary, actually. It speaks of many things, but also of certain friends, certain connections from her younger days. From before the Great War, even.” He set his cup down, a soft clink. “Ah, yes. A different world then. Many acquaintances come and go, I suppose.” His gaze drifted towards a shelf of weighty legal tomes. “One name kept appearing,” she continued, watching him closely. “The Dubrovin family. Do you recall them? Seems they were quite prominent in Anastasia’s youth, then vanished.” His posture stiffened. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift. His eyes, though still kindly, seemed to lose some of their warmth, replacing it with a guarded glint. “The Dubrovin family…” he repeated, the name tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. “Yes. According to my research, they were ruined around 1922. A sudden, rather dramatic fall from grace. It seemed to have affected Anastasia quite deeply, from what I read.” Her voice remained light, conversational, belying the sharp edge of her inquiry. Clearing his throat, Mr. Davies picked up a pen, twirling it between his fingers. His gaze darted away, towards the window, then back to his desk. “Ruined… many families faced hardship after the war, Miss Anya. Fortunes shifted. It was a turbulent time.” “Of course,” she agreed, but pressed on. “But the diary suggests a more specific, personal connection. Almost as if Anastasia was somehow involved, or at least intimately aware of the circumstances. Did our firm handle any affairs for the Dubrovins?” His knuckles whitened around the pen. “Our firm… we dealt with many clients, Miss Anya. A great many. Over a century of service.” His voice had tightened, lost its easy cadence. He avoided her gaze. “Specifically the Dubrovins, Mr. Davies?” She kept her tone even, but an unspoken challenge hung in the air. The smell of old paper felt suddenly oppressive. Shaking his head, he exhaled slowly. “I cannot say, Miss Anya. Client confidentiality, you understand. Even after all these years. Records from that far back are… less accessible, too. Quite fragmented, I’d imagine.” “But you remember the name,” she insisted softly. “You recognized ‘Dubrovin’ immediately. You knew of their ruin.” She watched a muscle tic in his jaw. The tea had grown cold in her cup. “A historical fact,” he offered, too quickly. “A well-known tragedy of the era. Many prominent families suffered. There’s no particular significance to Anastasia’s knowledge of it, I’m sure.” He forced a small, unconvincing smile. “The diary implies more than mere knowledge,” Anya countered, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “It implies a deep, personal entanglement. Almost a guilt, perhaps.” His face paled, the kind eyes suddenly sharp with alarm. He set the pen down with a clatter. “Miss Anya, I really must advise caution when delving into these old family narratives. Diaries, you know, can often be… overwrought. Embellished. Recollections can be imperfect.” His discomfort was palpable, radiating from him like heat. He shifted in his seat, his gaze finally meeting hers, but it held a desperate, pleading quality. He wanted her to stop. “Sometimes,” she replied, holding his gaze, “they reveal truths others would rather keep hidden.” A flicker of something, fear or regret, crossed his face, too swift to grasp fully, yet undeniably there. “Now,” he announced, his voice suddenly louder, almost brusque, “about that other matter. The trust. We need to finalize the quarterly accounts. I have the papers right here. It’s a rather complex set of figures.” He pushed a stack of folders across his desk, the movement deliberate, a wall erected between them. Her questions hung in the stale air, unanswered, yet a clarity settled within Anya. His evasiveness, the sudden rigidity, the almost desperate change of subject—it was all the confirmation she needed. There was a truth, concealed and carefully guarded, and Mr. Davies knew it. The flicker of unease in his eyes, brief as it was, sealed her conviction. She had only just begun to uncover it. Her grandmother’s legacy was not just wealth, but a tangled web of secrets. This meeting, far from discouraging her, had only sharpened her resolve. She knew she was on the right path, a path fraught with danger, leading directly into the heart of a long-buried past. The estate papers lay before her, but her mind was elsewhere, already plotting the next step, a cold certainty hardening her resolve. She would find the truth, no matter the cost. His attempts to deflect only fueled her determination, confirming that the threads she pulled were indeed connected to something profound and hidden. His hurried explanation about the accounts washed over her, unheard. She simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment, her eyes fixed on the folders. They were a shield, and she knew it. The answer wasn't in the papers, but in the man's agitated silence, in the way he avoided her gaze. This secret was not a forgotten detail, but a live wire, still capable of delivering a shock. She felt it, humming just beneath the surface, waiting. This wasn't just a family history anymore. It was a live investigation. And Mr. Davies, in his nervous discomfort, had just become her first reluctant witness. The faint scent of stale parchment in his office now seemed to carry the faint, forgotten whisper of a deeper, darker narrative. She rose, feeling a new weight settle on her shoulders. The weight of responsibility, of a truth that needed unearthing. Her grandmother’s voice, from the diary, now seemed to echo, urging her forward. The search would continue, relentless and unforgiving, until every shadow was brought into the light. She would not stop until she understood. “Right,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Let’s go through those accounts then.” Her gaze held his for a fraction longer, a silent promise. He looked away first.

Chapter 11: The Solicitor's Evasion