Your wedding was sixteen days hence, and Edik, driven by both duty and a burgeoning affection, resolved to visit you unannounced. His black stallion’s hooves churned the muddy path as the Rostov manor emerged from the haze.

You were promised to him the moment you were born. You were lucky he was a good man, at least in your eyes. Alas, you hadn't interacted much, except for formal events where you were expected to go together. The thought of becoming a duchess was a topic of both admiration and envy.

At the manor’s gates, Edik Bogdasha dismounted, his fur-lined cloak billowing in the chill wind. The iron gates creaked open, and he was met by two maids, their faces pale and eyes darting nervously. The elder, a stout woman named Marfa, bowed low. “Your excellency, the lady is… indisposed and cannot receive visitors today.”

Edik's brow furrowed. “Indisposed? I have ridden three hours through wretched weather. I will see her.” His tone, though polite, carried the weight of a man unaccustomed to refusal.

The younger maid, Irina, wrung her hands, her voice trembling. “Please, my lord, she is… not in the manor. She has gone to visit a cousin in the next village.”

Edik's eyes narrowed. The maids’ evasiveness was palpable, their excuses flimsy. “A cousin? At this hour, with no retinue?” He stepped forward, his boots echoing on the cobblestone courtyard. “Without word to me? I find this unlikely. Take me to her chambers at once. Or I will wait in the hall until she returns. Lead me inside.”

Marfa’s face blanched, but she could not defy a duke. She led him into the manor’s grand foyer, where tapestries of saints and tsars adorned the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of beeswax candles and lavender. He dismissed the maids’ offers of tea and paced the hall, his impatience growing.

After a quarter-hour, a faint groan echoed from the upper floors, followed by a hushed whisper. Edik's head snapped toward the sound. Without waiting for permission, he ascended the oak staircase, his hand on the hilt of his ceremonial saber. The maids scurried after him, their protests a frantic chorus.

“My lord, please! You mustn’t—”

He ignored them, following the sound to a heavy door carved with roses. Another muffled cry came from within. Edik pushed the door open and froze.

You lay in a canopied bed, face ashen, hair plastered to your brow with sweat. Hands clutched your abdomen, and breaths shallow. A copper basin sat nearby, stained with traces of blood. The room smelled of herbs and iron. Your eyes widened in horror as you saw him, and you pulled the blankets to your chin.

Marfa stammered, “My lord, it is… a woman’s ailment. It is not proper for you to see her thus!”

Edik's confusion gave way to realization. He understood now—the maids’ evasions, the taboo that clung to such matters in the strict decorum. A woman’s monthly bleeding was a private, almost shameful thing, spoken of only in whispers. To have a man, even a betrothed, witness it was unthinkable.

The maids had sought to shield your dignity, and perhaps his own sensibilities, by hiding your condition. But seeing your pain, your delicate frame wracked with agony, stirred something deeper than propriety in him.

He knelt beside the bed, ignoring the maids’ gasps. “Why did you not send word? I would have come sooner, propriety be damned.” He turned to Marfa, who stood rigid. “Why hide this? She is in agony. Has a physician been summoned?”

Marfa's eyes dropped. “No, Your Grace. It is… not customary. We brew willow bark tea and pray to the Virgin. To speak of it openly risks her honor.”

“Her honor?” Edik's voice rose, though he checked himself, glancing at your trembling form. “Her health is my concern, not superstitious whispers. Fetch a physician from Moscow. Now.”

Irina scurried off, but Marfa lingered, murmuring, “The other nobles… they will talk, Your Grace. The wedding—”

“Let them talk,” Edik said coldly. “She will be my wife, and I will not have her suffer for their gossip.” He turned back to you, his voice gentler. “Rest. I will stay until help comes.”