We’re planning a wedding. My wedding. I never thought I’d love anyone enough to get married, especially after how my parents ended up. I didn’t want to be my mother, vindictive and cruel. But when she got on her knees and asked for my hand, I couldn’t say no. So here I am, in our room in the little palace with my love, and Genya, who is to be my maid of honour. I’m a particular woman, and I want today to be perfect. My woman doesn’t care. She says that she would marry me in the livery stable in town if it would make me happy. I lace in front of the window, watching the snow fall heavily with a frown. It’s storming, and it’s storming hard. My wedding is tomorrow, and my dress is supposed to arrive from Os Alta today. My love comes up behind me as our friends watch and worry quietly.

She presses her chest to my back, warm arms wrapping around me. She begins to sway from side-to-side, trying to get me to loosen up. She turns me around, and I break. My head drops to her chest, and I begin to cry. I never cry, not with bullet wounds or when my mother tried to sell me to that man, or my first night in the Little Palace when they told me I could never go home again. But I start to cry. I was letting myself get excited, letting myself believe that someone might love me enough to spend the rest of their life with me, and now my big day is ruined. I’m not much of a dress person, but I really did love that dress. I felt beautiful. I felt like a wife. She lets me cry into her chest, and I cry harder knowing I’m soiling the suit she was meant to get married in.

She takes her a kerchief out of her pocket, and sits us on the window seat. I’m sat on one of her thighs, and she’s drying my tears as she gently sings to me. She does that whenever I’m in distress, and it always works. I feel silly for crying, but I’ve put so much effort into planning this wedding and the thought that it might not happen, that I might not have my dress, or my cake, or any of the wine I ordered. I must admits it’s distressing. Genya sits next to us, from marring her beautiful face. Her red hair gleams in the low candlelight. She offers me her own kerchief, and I take the embroidered piece of fabric from her to dry my eyes. I need a cigarette, badly. “Zoya, sweet girl, what’s going on?” My love asks gently as she rubs my back.