Beyond the Silver Threads

By Lara Biyuts

St Petersburg, the Russian Empire. One youth of the name of Vadim gets his uncle’s apartment at his disposal for the time of the winter holidays. Languor of Youth urges him to go out, on the clear night. In the street, he meets his old friend, and later, on the night, he gets his first time. Time the same as the Regency in England. Historical romance. Soft erotic. Paranormal adventure. The fairy, winter nightlong tale was initially published as a part of the novel Silver Thread Spinner, by Lara Biyuts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lara Biyuts
• Release date: Dec 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301070718

Lara Biyuts

Lara Biyuts (aka Lara Biuts) author of 14 books of fiction, writer of the RevueBlanche.blogspot, collage maker for her bookcovers, translator, who signs her translations as Larisa Biyuts. Her novella A Handful of Blossoms is 2012 Rainbow Awards Honorable Mention. Her works are accepted for anthologies: Cat’s Cradle Time Yarns (Time Yarns Anthologies), Authors off the Shelf (Lazy Beagle Entertainment), Of Words and Water 2014 (Words and Water group supporting WaterAid), Hope Springs a Turtle, The Black Rose of Winter, and Greek Fire (Lost Tower Publications). Her old tale and poems are featured on TheHolidayCafe.com (2013). Her poetry is on the monthly eJournal The Criterion (April, 2014). She is a Goodreads librarian.Her novel La Lune Blanche is the first of the series. "The novel is the world where pleasures of life and pleasures of art are just norms." (Turner Maxwell Books)“The author produces a setting which is detailed and believable, and also characters which the reader gets to know well. Also the plot moves along nicely through-out the story.” (April O., facebook.com)“Lara Biyuts’ writing is deep and multi layered.” (Maggie Mack Books, maggiemackbooks.com)“Lara Biyuts comes to us from the great tradition of Nabokov and Conrad, enriching our literature in English with the rich cosmopolitain perspecitve of the East European tradition leading back to Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. Like those great masters she takes us also into the shadow world of sexuality with its hidden psychology, possession and sensual revelations.” (Robert Sheppard, Author of the novel Spiritus Mundi, linkedin.com)“The secret of Lara Biyuts is her tales. The secret of her tales is their charm. The secret of the charm is Lara Biyuts.” (Les Hudson, goodreads.com)Favorite quotes:“Follow me, reader! Who told you that there is no true, faithful, eternal love in this world! May the liar's vile tongue be cut out! Follow me, my reader, and me alone, and I will show you such a love!” (Mikhail Bulgakov)“Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.” (Mikhail Bulgakov)for emails: larisabeeATyahooDOTcom

Book preview

Beyond the Silver Threads

by

Lara Biyuts

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Lara Biyuts on Smashwords

Beyond the Silver Threads

Copyright 2011 by Lara Biyuts

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Beyond the Silver Threads

Un coup de dés jamais n'abolira le hasard.

(Stéphane Mallarmé)

"’Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,

And do such bitter business as the day

Would quake to look on."

(Shakespeare)

I

Quietude. If any of imaginative young men and observant readers or mere stargazers of any age wanted to get lost in thought and musings, this apartment looked like the most proper place in the world. More or less dusty, here and there picturesque, the intricate topography of this seven room apartment could be more or less interesting to a whole range of art lovers of the described epoch. All the rooms had equally bizarre decorations of the sort that made one suppose that the apartment was not a peaceful abode of the esteemed celibate clerk, privy councilor of Russian Empire, but a pied-à-terre of a young scapegrace or a den of a British colonialist. A lot of ornate ottomans and lockers, motley rugs and draperies, varicolored lanterns, antiquated-looking swords, lusterware, trays, and some nice bric-a-brac and rarities whose origin preceded the rise of Christianity by centuries. All the useful domestic utilities, tables, beds, washstands were carefully covered with the folding screens painted all over with golden dragons --such was the fancy of Uncle Anton Korsak, whose apartment was at his nephew’s disposal for a while, and where the nephew of the name of Vadim felt caged and guarded by some obscure thoughts, dreams and visions. How was his Uncle himself? The Uncle was away, abroad, for more booty of the same bizarre sort.

Like some natives of this part of the world, Vadim’s uncle withered in springtime, being subjected to seasonal illnesses and indispositions, and he bloomed in autumn, becoming enlivened, and definitely moving counterclockwise or rather counter-year-wise, being strangely oriented to the year’s solstices; moreover, Uncle would say that the winter cold was healthy for him and that every autumn he felt young again with his desires boiling anew. Thus, while Uncle was traveling abroad, his Nephew lived the dreamlike life in the disorderly and flamboyantly decorated rooms.

The last night’s dreams had not left Vadim’s mind, depressing, in addition to the inquiry letter, this vivid reminder of yesterday’s incident, bright and distinct like someone’s lancet letting blood to his morning hours and making him languid. As the sleep-wearied fifteen-year-old with his disheveled caramel-brown hair read the letter, a little moue of displeasure fleetingly changed the youth’s chubby face with rosy cheeks and cherry lips. A moment more and his eye began wandering round the spacious room that looked both luxuriant and neglected in the scanty light of the northern winter morning. Then, his hand dropped the letter and the heavy mid-Regency paper, golden-coroneted and golden-bordered took a tumble down on the floor like an ill white pigeon. Lying on his back, he looked depressed, with his gray eyes twinkling anxiously, showing some secret alarm. The boring tone of his far cousin Count Felix and the rosy face of his far cousin Annette making eyes at him, next, the spicy talks with his friend Lodie Chartoborsky, seductive and languor-bearing, and then, all of them as well as any images of any curtained pictures, in his mind’s eye, were eclipsed by her smile, the beautiful and sly, whose image remained in the damaged picture in Count Felix’s drawing-room, she who was weirdly alive in Vadim’s restless night dreams, the beautiful witch in white silks, with the eternal loveliness of many faces by the strange and fatal name Manon Lescaut. The beautiful lady in the damaged picture at yesterday’s Twelfthnight soiree had the other name and a type of sofa was named after her, but Vadim preferred to call her Manon Lescaut.

Sir, you ought to get up, the butler Mitrich said, and the old man’s ordinary lean physique and his familiar gruff voice impressed Vadim oddly like a morning phantom who eventually proved to be your home lawyer who came to tell about the lamentable state of your home inheritance. Vadim’s late father, the widowed old man, full privy councillor, left Vadim only his pension, a small house in countryside and six State loan bills --actually, the best the widowed old man did to his only son was the enrollment of Vadim at the Imperial Lyceum which gave Vadim the uniform that let the teenager visit some assemblages and ballet shows, where he could socialize and pal up with students and other people who were much older than him. Now, Vadim got out of his bed