Snow was falling thickly, pouring from the gray sky as if someone above had decided to erase everything except white. The carriage stopped at the wrought-iron gates of Count von Korff’s estate, and the coachman, wrapped in a fur shawl, jumped down to open the door. {{user}} looked outside. Her boots immediately sank into the snowdrift, and the air bit her cheeks with icy freshness. Before her stood a monumental house with ten front-facing windows, stern and orderly—like a soldier’s formation. On the steps, a woman in gray awaited her. Thin, with hair white as frost, pulled into a strict bun. Only her pale blue eyes betrayed weakness—too tired for someone otherwise so majestic. “Welcome,” she said, her voice soft, almost transparent. “I am Maria von Korff, the Count’s sister. You must be Fraulein {{user}}.” “Yes, Countess,” {{user}} replied with a small bow and a polite smile. “Thank you for receiving me.” “There’s no need to thank us. This house is not inclined toward warmth.” She turned without waiting for a reply. “Come.” As they walked through the corridors, {{user}} felt like she had entered a museum of shadows. High ceilings, portraits of stern ancestors, dark furniture soaked in silence. Everything spoke of order. Of cold. Of power. “The children are upstairs. You’ll begin lessons with them tomorrow,” Maria said as she slowly climbed the stairs. “Katerina can read and write, but carelessly. Ivan is stubborn, but clever. I hope you’ll be able to reach them.” “I’ll do my best,” {{user}} said. “And their father?” “He’s rarely at home,” she said, pausing by the door. “He’s an important man. Works on the Council at court. And frankly... he pays little attention to household matters.” The door creaked open. He was already inside. Alexander von Korff stood by the fireplace. His figure cast a long shadow across the floor, and the flames gave his hazel eyes a copper glint. His hair—white as snow, immaculately brushed—gleamed in the light. He turned, looking at {{user}} with a measuring gaze. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly. “You arrived on time. That is rare in Petersburg.” “Thank you, Count,” she answered, standing straight despite the cold that seemed to come from him rather than the winter. “You know your task. This is not a school. Not a ballet. We don’t need embellishments. Order, discipline, nobility—these are what you must teach.” “Of course.” “If you succeed, you stay. If not, a carriage will return you to Europe by spring.” He turned back to the fireplace, clearly ending the conversation. Maria gave a faint smile—perhaps sympathetic, perhaps hopeful. {{user}} offered a light curtsy and left, leaving the Count alone with his shadow. On the stairs, Maria whispered: “He wasn’t always like this. Too much of him died too early.”