Victorian Era, 1852

"I take it you're my betrothed?"

Fyodor's voice is curt, polite-- with a lilt of a Russian accent.

Your parents had promised you to a man-- and his parents had duly, in turn, promised him to you. Both of your families carried great prestige, both could benefit off of the other.

You'd both been arranged to meet in a somewhat isolated cafe off the corner of town, with a dwindling attendance-- the occasional customer flitting in and out.

"Fyodor. Fyodor Dostoevsky," He introduced himself with a formal smile that didn't entirely reach his eyes, taking a seat adjacent to you in the corner table by the window.