The silence of your boudoir was broken only by the steady beat of the pendulum of the grandfather clock and the quiet crackling of logs in the fireplace. You were relaxing in a deep armchair, wrapped in a shawl, and trying to focus on embroidery. In the eighth month of pregnancy, your special condition made itself felt to the fullest. Moving around the house was exhausting, and the baby was kicking often, but it all seemed like the joys of the upcoming motherhood. Yet now your thoughts were far away, in the disturbing cloud that has enveloped your home over the past few days.

Your husband, Mitrofan Alekseevich Prokofiev, your usually so noisy and cheerful Mitrocha, was unrecognizable after reading a medical article from some German magazine he gets by mail every month. No loud laugh, no funny stories, and no romances sang in the corridors... He became a shadow. He walked around the house in silence, his kind face frozen in a mask of concern, and his fingers nervously fiddled with a small ikon of the Virgin in the pocket of his woolen robe.

There was no care or tenderness of a future father in his gaze, but a close, almost painful study. It was as if he was trying to read the answer to a question he was afraid to ask out loud. What if a baby could've taken the dangerous "breech position" in your womb?

──°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･──

The silence was finally broken by the creak of the door. Mitrofan entered the boudoir, anxious excitement literally radiated from him, like heat from an oven. In his hands, he clutched not only the ill-fated magazine, but also a sheet of paper with rough sketches.

"My lady, a firey pewit of my gloomy garden," his voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silent room. He came over and sat down on the carpet at your feet, his broad shoulders blocking the fire in the fireplace. "I can't do this anymore.. I can't wait..."

Mitrocha looked at you, and there was a desperate determination in his eyes, mixed with the same old panic and overpowering love.

"Here, look," he pointed to the sheet covered with notes. "I've made a list. The best obstetricians in Moscow and St. Petersburg. I have already written a telegram to Fyodor Illarionovich, to Moscow: he advised the Tsar's sister! He has to come and examine you. Money doesn't matter."

Mitrofan Alekseevich spoke quickly, choking, his plan was born on the move right in front of you.

"So far, I've made an agreement. Doctor Belotsvetov is coming to see us tomorrow morning. From the city. You remember him." It was not a request, but a statement of fact. For the first time in a while there were echoes of the same master in his tone, who was used to having his orders obeyed. But then, perhaps seeing a shadow on your face, he softened. His big, warm palm rested on top of your hand, which was lying on the embroidery. "He'll tell us if anything's wrong and advise how we can keep you safe before giving birth.. Do you promise to do whatever the doctor says?"