Dimitri waited impatiently at the front counter of the general store. It had been an hour with no return message from Natalia. Sometimes it took a while for delivery, so he’d come prepared with a book of poetry from Mirosa’s library to read while he waited.
But the days grew dark early now, and the shop owner wished to close the store. Dimitri didn’t like leaving before he heard back from Natalia, but there was no hope for it.
Surely her reply would be waiting for him in the morning.
35
It had been five days since Dimitri had heard from Natalia, and he grew increasingly anxious. Had there been a technical problem that meant she no longer received his messages? Was she ill? It worried him because he could think of no other explanation for this prolonged silence.
He briefly considered contacting her father. Oscar Blackstone was an easy man to reach, but the best ally Dimitri had among the Blackstones was Poppy. She was eager to claim a close relationship to a real aristocrat, and he was happy to take advantage of the situation.
He kept his telegram to Poppy brief, simply offering a belated congratulations for Alexander’s first birthday, then asking after Natalia.
She has not responded to my messages, and I have grown concerned for her health. Please send assurances that she is well.
The answer from Poppy came the next day.
Natalia is fine but absorbed in her silly music business. She has announced that she will never become a countess. Make of that what you will, but we all know Natalia has warped priorities.
A cascade of denials ricocheted in his head. Natalia wouldn’t just stop talking to him. Poppy could get things wrong. Worse, she wasn’t entirely trustworthy and might deliberately do something to hurt Natalia. He couldn’t believe Natalia would cut him off so abruptly and sent another telegram to Natalia, demanding an answer.
He heard nothing until an actual letter from Natalia arrived. It was postmarked the day after his telegram when she abruptly stopped returning his messages. The letter was short and to the point.
Dear Dimitri,
I will be seeking another business agent to distribute my recordings in Russia. It brings me great sadness, but I think it is time to end our association. Your friendship has been the deepest and most rewarding of my life. I have become a better person for having known you. I wish you all the best and pray for Mirosa’s continued prosperity. Please remember me fondly, as I shall always treasure my memories of you.
He sat on the old stone wall bordering the waterwheel, her letter held loosely in his hands. It felt odd to see her handwriting. In all their years of correspondence, he had never seen Natalia’s handwriting, but it was neat and refined, just as he would have expected.
A squirrel darted across the loading area. The creek of the rickety wheel and the slosh of water dumping from the buckets was constant. The thump and grind of the millstones continued. All around him the world was proceeding as normal, but during the sixty seconds it took to read this letter, everything had changed.
Mirosa suddenly felt lonelier and more isolated. Sadder.
It took a few minutes for a change in the sound of the waterwheel to penetrate his fog of dejection. The scraping noise near the axle sounded bad. He moved closer for a better look,but a wooden plate covered most of the rotating mechanism. A blacksmith had replaced the metal gears less than ten years ago, so it probably wasn’t a problem with the gears. The scrape sounded like wood against wood. This waterwheel had reliably turned for almost a hundred years, but it was now tired and old.
He sighed. Why was he getting so morose over a mill needing repair? He was rich. He could afford anything. If he wanted, he could tear this old waterwheel down and build a modern one powered by electricity.
The prospect made him cringe. He liked the age and heritage of this mill. The massive oak trees felled to make this cider mill came from right here in the valley. They would have been alive when Peter the Great hunted stag in these forests. Tradition was important, and he would save this old waterwheel no matter what the cost.
That meant he needed to stop its rotation lest more damage be done. He trudged up the steps that had been cut into the hillside to reach the sluice gate and jimmied the wooden board to shut the flume. The wheel would stop rotating as soon as the water in the sluice came to a trickle.
Ilya Komarov was the best carpenter in the valley, and Dimitri summoned him to diagnose the problem with the waterwheel. Perhaps a healthy commission would soften Ilya’s curt demeanor.
It didn’t work. Ilya arrived a few hours later and resented being called away from the fence he had been building. He even demanded payment before looking at the wheel. Dimitri paid, and Ilya took a cursory look.
“The wheel shaft is out of balance,” Ilya said, but Pavel disagreed.
“It sounds like a loose bearing to me. It’s not making proper contact with the iron band on the axle.”
Ilya’s face twisted in scorn. “Of course it’s not making proper contact, because it’s out of balance. You haven’t been maintaining it properly.”
Dimitri didn’t want to listen to these two men squabble likecats in a knapsack. He was inclined to agree with Ilya but wanted to understand how to maintain the waterwheel so this wouldn’t happen again.
“How do we get it properly balanced?” he asked.
“You’re not going to like it,” Ilya warned. “The western sun has been hitting this wheel for decades, causing it to warp. The best thing would be to take it apart, flip it around, maybe remove a few of the boards to help redistribute the water, and hope for the best.”
“That’s it?” Pavel scoffed.
