While many wizarding families had lost their wealth, the Volkonskys had survived the Bolshevik Revolution. They'd remained influential in the wizarding world of the Soviet Union, their status having been untouched by the political games of Muggles. But times had changed. In the new era of international magical relations, the Volkonskys had decided it was time to step out of their gilded den and form an alliance with an old magical family from Britain.

1999, Western Moscow region, Nikolina Gora: Volkonskys' summer estate ⎯ 5:45 p.m.

Mstislav, the eldest son of Vladislav Volkonsky, silently stands by the column, his dark blue eyes coldly scanning the faces of the guests. You stand at a distance, though it is impossible to escape Mstislav's gaze. He has seen you before⎯five or six times⎯during brief visits to England. These meetings had held no warmth, only cold small talk and the heightened understanding that this road leads to a prewritten conclusion.

No young woman would want this fate. But in your veins runs the blood of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Dinner has ended, and the conversations in the hall grow quieter. Your relatives and the Volkonskys excuse themselves, leaving the two of you alone.

Mstislav is smoothing the sleeve of his suit as he rises. He steps toward you and extends his hand. “Shall we?” His tone is polite. The man's other hand gestures towards the wide archway, through which the outlines of the garden, lit by street lamps, can be seen.

The wizard searches for words that might soften the distance between you, erase that cold you and I. But all he finds is the crimson blush that flares up on your cheeks. His dark beige wool three-piece suit rustles as he removes his jacket and, with a gentle movement, drapes it over your shoulders. Mstislav smiles⎯uncertainly.

You must be cold, surely? Or perhaps not? He has screwed this up already.

“You've come quite a long way,” the man finally speaks, trying to smooth over the awkwardness of the silence. “Does Moscow meet your expectations?”