12-30-2025, 02:43 PM
Zhenya slowed her pace as Rachel spoke, not to hurry her but to listen. When she turned, she gestured gently for Rachel to follow, leading her away from the open echo of the foyer and into a narrower corridor that curved along the inner wall of the castle. Their footsteps softened here, absorbed by thick runners laid over cold stone, the air quieter, more contained.
Tall windows appeared at intervals, their glass lightly frosted, letting in pale winter light that caught dust motes and unfinished wood alike. Zhenya walked with unhurried certainty, one gloved hand occasionally brushing the wall as though she knew the building by touch already.
“That all sounds exactly as it should,” she said calmly, glancing back at Rachel with a small, approving smile. “Women like your sister and I learned through urgency. You are learning later, and with care. Neither path is lesser.”
They turned once more, this time down a shorter passage where the temperature seemed to lift just slightly. Zhenya stopped before a heavy wooden door set apart from the others, its surface newly oiled but unadorned. She rested her palm against the stone beside it, giving Rachel a moment to settle.
“You are not wrong. Practise is part of it, but so too is patience. With this power,” she said, her voice low and assured, “control is the illusion everyone reaches for first. Women who try to grasp it struggle the longest. You are already learning the harder lesson – how to yield without disappearing.” She turned fully then, meeting Rachel’s eyes. “Air and water come easily because they move. They answer when you listen. Spirit comes because you have learned how to endure without breaking.” There was no softness of pity in her tone – only certainty. “Fire and earth require confidence. Not force – conviction. They respond better when you believe you are allowed to shape what is solid and dangerous.” A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “And weaving more than one at once? That taxes even experienced women. Your mind must be still enough to hold multiple flows without thinking about holding them. That will come with time. Depth first. Complexity later.”
Only then did Zhenya push the door open and step aside.
The room beyond was quiet and waiting. Thick rugs warmed the stone floor, a wide bed frame stood ready for linens, and a modest fireplace sat dark but promising. A writing desk had been placed near the tall window, which overlooked the snow-draped grounds and distant treeline. The space felt contained in the best way – sheltered and deliberate.
“This will be yours,” Zhenya said simply. “You may change anything you wish. Or nothing at all.”
She let Rachel enter first, watching not as an owner but as someone welcoming another woman into something sacred.
“And when you are ready,” she added, voice steady and reassuring, “we will practice together. I will not tell you what the power should feel like. The threads feel different for all of us. But I will help you continue recognising what is already answering you.”
She paused briefly, then added softly: “You are doing very well, Rachel. Better than you realise.”
Tall windows appeared at intervals, their glass lightly frosted, letting in pale winter light that caught dust motes and unfinished wood alike. Zhenya walked with unhurried certainty, one gloved hand occasionally brushing the wall as though she knew the building by touch already.
“That all sounds exactly as it should,” she said calmly, glancing back at Rachel with a small, approving smile. “Women like your sister and I learned through urgency. You are learning later, and with care. Neither path is lesser.”
They turned once more, this time down a shorter passage where the temperature seemed to lift just slightly. Zhenya stopped before a heavy wooden door set apart from the others, its surface newly oiled but unadorned. She rested her palm against the stone beside it, giving Rachel a moment to settle.
“You are not wrong. Practise is part of it, but so too is patience. With this power,” she said, her voice low and assured, “control is the illusion everyone reaches for first. Women who try to grasp it struggle the longest. You are already learning the harder lesson – how to yield without disappearing.” She turned fully then, meeting Rachel’s eyes. “Air and water come easily because they move. They answer when you listen. Spirit comes because you have learned how to endure without breaking.” There was no softness of pity in her tone – only certainty. “Fire and earth require confidence. Not force – conviction. They respond better when you believe you are allowed to shape what is solid and dangerous.” A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “And weaving more than one at once? That taxes even experienced women. Your mind must be still enough to hold multiple flows without thinking about holding them. That will come with time. Depth first. Complexity later.”
Only then did Zhenya push the door open and step aside.
The room beyond was quiet and waiting. Thick rugs warmed the stone floor, a wide bed frame stood ready for linens, and a modest fireplace sat dark but promising. A writing desk had been placed near the tall window, which overlooked the snow-draped grounds and distant treeline. The space felt contained in the best way – sheltered and deliberate.
“This will be yours,” Zhenya said simply. “You may change anything you wish. Or nothing at all.”
She let Rachel enter first, watching not as an owner but as someone welcoming another woman into something sacred.
“And when you are ready,” she added, voice steady and reassuring, “we will practice together. I will not tell you what the power should feel like. The threads feel different for all of us. But I will help you continue recognising what is already answering you.”
She paused briefly, then added softly: “You are doing very well, Rachel. Better than you realise.”
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