The scent of cypress and expensive grief clung to Vena Raskova’s threadbare coat, a stark contrast to the biting Zimovgrad wind she’d just escaped. She pressed herself against the cold marble of the Volkov family crypt, the flickering gaslight inside casting long, dancing shadows of the mourners. Her stomach gnawed at itself, a familiar companion these days. She wasn’t here for the deceased, whoever they were. She was here for warmth, for the chance, perhaps, of a forgotten bread roll from the post-ceremony refreshments, a luxury she hadn't tasted in weeks. Fid, her small ermine, a white blur against the dark lining of her sleeve, twitched his nose. His whiskers brushed her wrist, a silent question. *Food?* “Soon, little thief,” she murmured, her voice rough from disuse and hunger. She kept her head down, her cap pulled low, blending with the handful of servants and lower-ranking guests huddled near the entrance. The air was thick with the hushed murmur of condolences, the rustle of silk, and the heavy, melancholic strains of a string quartet. She risked a glance up, her eyes, sharp and quick, scanning for an exit, for a table laden with promised sustenance. Her gaze caught on a large, ornate easel near the main sarcophagus, draped in black velvet. On it rested a portrait, illuminated by a single, focused beam of light from an overhead lantern. It was clearly the deceased, a memorial piece. Air hitched dry in Vena’s throat. The woman in the painting—pale skin, dark hair elegantly swept back, eyes the precise shade of storm-grey that shifted with the light, a small, stubborn curve to her lips—was her. Not *like* her. It *was* her. A perfected, polished version, dressed in rich, deep emerald velvet, adorned with pearls and silver, but undeniably, impossibly, her own face staring back from the canvas. Her mind reeled. This was not a passing resemblance, not a trick of the light. It was a mirror image, a ghost. A hollow numbness settled behind her ribs, cold despite the braziers warming the vault. Across the solemn space, a man in a black ceremonial coat, his posture rigid with a grief so profound it seemed to pull at the very air around him, stood before the sarcophagus. His dark hair was disheveled, lips pressed into a bloodless line, his gaze fixed on the marble slab. He held a silver incense burner, its chains tinkling softly as he swayed. He was Lord Damir Ivankov, she recognized him from the society pages she sometimes glimpsed through shop windows—a man of immense wealth and power, now brought low by sorrow. As if sensing her impossible stare, his head lifted slowly. His eyes, a startling pale blue against his drawn face, swept across the gathering. They were dull with loss, unfocused, until they landed on Vena. For a fraction of a second, his expression remained blank, then a flicker—of confusion, then disbelief, then a terrible, desperate hope—ignited in their depths. The silver incense burner slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly against the marble floor, the sharp sound echoing through the hushed chamber. The sweet, spiced smoke billowed around his feet. Every head turned. Vena froze, her pulse hammering against her ribs. When her eyes met Damir’s again, she saw not recognition of an intruder, but something far more terrifying: recognition of the woman in the portrait. His gaze was frantic, burning, pinning her in place. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she had to flee. This was not a simple matter of being caught stealing food. This was something far, far worse. She ducked her head, pushing past a startled maid, and bolted for the arched double doors. The cold wind outside was a welcome shock, a reminder of the real world, the one where she was Vena Raskova, nobody, not a ghost or a doppelgänger. She heard a sharp, indignant squeak from Fid, who clung to her inside her coat, jostled by her sudden movement. “Hold still, you,” she hissed under her breath, not daring to slow her pace. The cobblestones were slick with a thin layer of frost, and the gaslights along the path leading from the mausoleum cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to chase her. “Anja!” The voice, deep and raw, sliced through the cold air. It was Damir Ivankov. He wasn’t merely calling out; he was pursuing her. Vena’s legs pumped harder. He couldn’t be calling *her*. He couldn’t. “Anja, wait!” His footsteps, surprisingly swift for a man so burdened by grief, pounded behind her. She knew the layout of the cemetery, its winding paths and ancient crypts, better than any Ivankov could. She’d hidden here before, sheltered from the rain, sharing her meager rations with Fid. She veered sharply, intending to lose him among the taller headstones. But he was closer than she thought. A hand, strong and surprisingly gentle, closed around her arm, halting her flight. The sudden stop threw her off balance, and she stumbled, spinning to face him. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, but his grip was firm. His pale eyes raked over her face, searching, demanding, believing. He didn’t look at her threadbare coat, her worn boots, the smudges of charcoal beneath her nails. He saw only the face of the deceased. “Anja,” he whispered, the name a ragged plea. His voice shook, thick with unshed tears. “How… how are you here? They said… they said you were gone.” His free hand reached out, trembling, as if to touch her cheek, then hesitated, hovering in the frigid air between them. “This isn’t… this isn’t a trick of my grief, is it? You’re real.” Vena found her voice, a harsh whisper. “I don’t know who you think I am, Lord Ivankov. My name is Vena.” He shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving her face. “No. You can’t be. You are… you are Anja. My Anja. Alive.” He took a step closer, his eyes pleading. “The Marksovs… they must have done this. They tried to hurt you, didn’t they? To get the estate. But you survived. You escaped.” His voice grew stronger, a sharp, steady edge slicing through his confusion. “They will pay. I swear it.” Vena’s mind raced. Petr and Iryna. They had ruined her, stolen her future. This man, Damir Ivankov, believed she was his dead fiancée. And he despised her stepfamily. “They ruined everything,” he continued, his grip tightening on her arm, though not painfully. “They stole you from me. But now… now you’re back. You’re alive. And we can make them suffer.” He looked into her eyes, no longer just grief-stricken, but sharp, calculating, a predator sizing up its prey. “Help me, Anja. Help me make them pay for what they did. Help me reclaim what they stole. And I will give you everything you’ve ever wanted.” The words hung in the cold, still air. Everything she’d ever wanted. A life free from poverty, a chance to dismantle her stepfamily's standing, to make them taste the bitterness they’d forced upon her. The impossible choice shimmered before her, terrifying and utterly alluring. From the folds of her coat, Fid’s small, intelligent head poked out, his beady black eyes blinking up at Damir Ivankov, then at Vena, a silent, furry witness.

A Funeral of Crows