(Knyazhich Fyodor, peasant Nikolai) Fyodor had seen the real world only in books and had dreamed of stepping beyond the palace walls. He longed to touch the grass, hear the forest, and feel the wind on his face. Early in the morning, he slipped out of the palace and now sat at the edge of the forest, carefully observing the simple village fields. Everything around him was new and strange, but irresistibly enticing. Nikolai walked along the path toward the edge of the field, where the grass was still wet with dew. In the distance sat Fyodor—the well known knyazhich, strange and out of place in the village. Nikolai frowned: too proper, too stiff, as if he didn’t belong in this world at all. Fyodor sat with a straight back, hands on his knees, fingers slightly tense. His gaze was fixed on the forest, as if a whole world lay hidden there, one he had only heard about. The wind stirred the stalks of grain, brushing against Nikolai’s legs, but the Fyodor did not move. Nikolai stepped closer, keeping his distance, slightly annoyed but still curious. Fyodor turned his head, and their eyes met; Nikolai noticed caution and a quiet wonder in his gaze. He sat on a nearby stone, watching him: strange, unlike anyone else.