I’ve remembered a dream where we were together

      The pen creaks pitifully under my hand. I’m diligently writing out note after note, copying them onto a clean sheet of paper. My eyes hurt from the strain — if I make a mistake, I’ll have to start over. I chuckle, catching myself looking like a student trembling at the possibility of a mistake. Although I would not call penmanship or any other subject difficult, I also had no talents or predispositions. Moderately intelligent, I was neat and diligent enough to achieve the expected results. Unlike Yvon, talented in many ways, I was quite ordinary. But at the same time, she was madly inconsistent — Yvon was taking on any new business with passion, but soon abandoning it. Her only hobby, to which Yvon was truly devoted, was horse riding. She abandoned drawing after a month, the violin — after two. She was not stupid or uneducated, rather carefree. The Duke did not insist — having taught her the most basic sciences, he gave in and left Yvon to choose for herself. Politics, etiquette, dancing — she was undoubtedly more interested in all of this than in mathematics, but as soon as she left the classroom, she again became a carefree child. As for my education, by tacit agreement between me and the Duke, I approached it more responsibly. I diligently studied the basics of mathematics, philosophy, physics and other sciences, trying to take as much as I can from the teacher. But, to all this, I was rather indifferent. Having mastered everything that the teacher could give me, I discovered the only talent that later grew into a passion — playing the piano. Complex scales came easy to me — diligence and discipline gave amazing results.       I put down the blunt pen and lean back in my chair. My eyes hurt from the strain and I’m massaging my eyelids, pressing until rainbow splashes appeared. The thought flashes through my head that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to get glasses.       The door opens with a creak. I don’t even move to see who’s come in — only one person in the estate allows himself to visit without warning. The maids always knock hesitantly and ask permission, allowing to be identified by voice. The butler knocks sparingly, exactly three times, briefly introduces himself and waits for the command to enter. Even the Duke doesn’t break in — he knocks on the door several times for the sake of decency and, without waiting for an answer, opens the door. And only Yvon, childishly naive, immediately enters. I thought about getting a lock, but decided that, on the whole, her unexpected visits do not bother me much.       Yvon coughs, attracting attention, and I forced to sit up straight again. Yesterday, in order to finish my business, I went to bed late and did not get enough sleep. The head is indecently heavy and is trying to tear itself away from my neck, fall, and roll somewhere under the closet in an attempt to sleep a little bit more. But I hold on — I put my hands on the table, prop it up, and look at Yvon from under my closed eyelids. She is standing by the door — hands behind her back, head slightly tilted to the side — and looks at me questioningly with her big eyes. I look back and it seems to me that I am lying on the grass and looking at the cloudless autumn sky. The golden leaves rustle, the rare birds chirp, and I’m falling, falling into this endless blue and dissolving in its calm…       “Aren’t you glad to see me?” Yvon asks indifferently and turns away. I shudder from her voice cutting through the silence. She went to one of the cabinets and running her fingers along the spines of the books. I’m watching her gliding figure for a couple of seconds, and then shaking my head.       “Just tired.”       “Have you spent half the night sitting with a book again?” Yvon asks. Her voice expresses neither resentment nor sympathy. Yvon stands with her back to me and I can’t catch what she’s thinking about.       “With the notes,” she snorts and, without looking up from studying the books, moves towards me along the shelves, “you want something?”       “No,” Yvon shrugs, “I just got bored. I thought maybe you’d have something to read…”       “I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you. Your taste in literature is completely different from mine,” Yvon reads a lot, but mostly only light novels — classical literature doesn’t interest her. In difference, I prefer serious books, which are closer to textbooks than to art, “you’d better look in the library. There’s probably something suitable there.”       Yvon sighs.       “I read everything there that interested me even the slightest,” Yvon informs me in a bored voice and pulls out the first book she comes across. She is meticulously examining the pine-colored leather cover, weighing the book in her hand, and nods with satisfaction. A second later, Yvon appears near the opposite side of the table and falls into the chair nearby — the only piece of furniture that did not fit into the main interior. Golden-pink, dotted with patterns and carvings, it resonated with the simple black wood furniture. One morning, I unexpectedly found this chair in my office. Yvon, who appeared after breakfast, admitted that it was her doing and asked to leave it so that she could read or just watch while I was busy. I did not object, but for reasons of convenience and compatibility, I got myself a simple sofa, which fit into the room much better. But by the time it was ready and put in its new place, the chair had already taken root and remained the only corner in my own dark kingdom that was beyond my control.       Yvon opened the book, put one elbow on the table and propped her head up with fist. The book, lying on her lap, was below the table level and I couldn’t see what she is reading. I returned to the notes, but interest was gnawing at me from within. Five minutes later, I throw down the pen and sighed helplessly.       “What book are you reading?” I’m asking, unable to bear it, and going over in my mind all the more or less suitable options collected in my personal library.       Yvon frowned, running her eyes over the lines, and I’m wait for her to finish the paragraph. Finally, she brings up the head — her eyebrows are raised in a silent question, — blinks several times, and here my words, hanging in the ringing silence, reached her mind. She closed the book, glanced at the cover and turned back to me.       “Critique of Pure Reason”. Written by…” she looks at the cover again, but I finished for her.              “…Immanuel Kant.”       “Exactly,” Yvon nods in agreement and comes back. I can’t help but smile, watching her concentrated face. Yvon reminds me of a kitten trying to push off the table a saucepan several times larger than itself.       “And how is it? Is it interesting?” I’m asking. She glanced at me and nodded slowly. I can’t resist and letting out a short laugh. Yvon slams the book shut and looks at me disapprovingly. I’m helplessly, as if apologizing, raising my hands, but my half-smile betrays me.       “You and my father always underestimate me,” she’s saying coldly and, offended, crosses her arms over the chest, “if I prefer to read novels, it doesn’t mean that I’m not capable of serious literature!”       “I consider you one of the smartest people I’ve ever met,” I interject, but Yvon isn’t listening anymore. She jumped up from her seat and started pacing the room, angrily clenching her fists.       I’m watch her, not daring to speak again. Finally, she freeze and turned to me.       “Do you have any idea how difficult this is for me!” she flies up to the table and slams her palms against me, “I may not be involved in the housekeeping and complex calculations associated with the estate, but I am cleaning up your reputation! You and the Duke have dumped all responsibility for your actions on me! When was the last time any of you appeared in high society?! You hid, each in your own worthless world, and left me to answer questions and ridicule! “Lady Ortiz, I haven’t seen the Duke for a long time! Is everything alright with your father?” Yes, everything is fine, he sits in his office, locked away from everyone and crawls out only for dinner, and even then, if he wakes up. And he dumped all the work on the secretary and my fiancé. And I have absolutely no idea what are those important things which he is doing! “Lady Yvon, how is Alastair? It’s been a while since he’s been to a ball…” Oh, he has more important things to do than accompany his bride! He is busy with the estate, copying notes from morning till night, playing the piano, endlessly walking around the estate and its environs, and reading literature that is too smart for me! Sometimes we don’t see each other for days, he is so busy!…”       Yvon falls silent for a moment, catching her breath. Her already unruly curls were scattered in white waves, an angry blush flared up on her cheeks, and lightning flashed in her eyes. I swallowed.       “Yvon, listen…” I began, but she slammed her palm on the table one more time.       “No, Alastair, you listen! Yvon this, Yvon that… Do you think I enjoy spending hours in stuffy halls with my body tied up, answering sharp questions and caustic jokes?! I certainly enjoy balls, but in recent months I have been making up excuses to miss most of them. Why are all the girls accompanied by their fiancés, or at least by their father, and only I am floating around the halls like a lonely iceberg?! Every time I ask you to come with me, you make a sad face and say something like “Yvon, you know I have no business there, I will only get in the way…” And the Duke is always “too busy to have mindless fun”. I am not asking because I want you to maintain the last of your connections. I am asking because I want you to be there when I do this. You do not have to speak, but even silently you will help me with your presence. But you are too limited by your own comfort and lack of desire to leave the estate to think about such simple things. I am tired. I, too, may want to spend my days walking with Apollo or lying on the sofa in the library. But I gather my strength and selflessly go out to defend the family. Because neither you nor the Duke can even imagine how low our reputation has fallen.”       She shakes her head and looks into my very soul.       “I love you and I just want you to be near. And you, apparently, find it burdensome,” Yvon smiles sharply.       A prickly lump forms in my throat. Somewhere in the area of ​​​​the stomach, a nagging feeling of guilt is flaring up. She’s waiting for me to response something, but I am silent, unable to find the words. She spreads her hands in disappointment and lowers her eyes to the floor.       “You should have said at least something, otherwise I feel stupid.”       “Yvon…” I stretch out my hand to her face, but the brush freezes limply in the air, “please, look at me, Yvon.”       She looks up at me indifferently. There is not a drop of trust or understanding in the blue pools — only alienation mixed with contempt.       “We both know that I am not capable of sentimentality,” Yvon snorts, as if she knew what I would say, “I do not know how to speak beautifully and for a long time, sometimes I do not understand what you want from me, I am mistaken. But I want you, my lady, to know that in those rare moments when the muse appears to show favor, she is incredibly similar to you.”