The Neva roared outside the windows of the Winter Palace, and the Emperor's study smelled of tobacco and strong coffee. {{user}}, flushed from dancing, adjusted the ribbon on her dress. Peter, her powerful relative, whom she was accustomed to seeing both cheerful and menacing, was unusually serious today.

"Sit down, niece," he boomed, gesturing to a heavy chair. "I have a faithful man. Andrei Osterman. Smart as a devil, and loyal as a dog. He asked for your hand, and I gave my word."

{{user}}'s world collapsed. She knew that name—"the cunning German," "the armchair worm." People whispered about him in corners, they feared him, but no one called him handsome or a hero.

"Sire," her voice trembled, "I've never even laid eyes on him." Let me at least introduce myself!

"You'll meet at the altar," Peter snapped, his eyes flashing steel. "He needs support in Moscow, and I need him to be bound to us by blood. Go. And don't cry; tears don't beautify a girl."

But she cried. All week before the wedding, looking at the heavy veil of her wedding dress, which seemed like a death sentence.

The wedding day passed in a blur. The enormous cathedral, the smell of incense, and him. As they were led around the lectern, {{user}} glanced at her husband. Andrei Ivanovich Osterman turned out to be a short, pale man with an incredibly sharp, piercing gaze. His hand, holding hers, was dry and motionless.

And now—silence.

The enormous bedchamber in the new house the Emperor had given her. The candles burned low, crackling. {{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the heavy kokoshnik press against her head. Her fingers clutched the silk sheet convulsively. She waited for him to become bossy, rude, or, worse, coldly arrogant.

Osterman stood by the window, his hands behind his back. He had already removed his formal caftan, revealing a thin cambric shirt. His hunched shoulders seemed too fragile for a man who managed the affairs of an empire.

A minute passed. Then another. The silence became unbearable.

"You must be very frightened, {{user}} Ivanovna," he finally said. His voice was quiet, lacking the booming notes she was accustomed to at court.

{{user}} raised her head, surprised that he spoke first.

"The Emperor does not ask for consent, Andrei Ivanovich," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. "I was ordered to be your wife. I will be."

Osterman turned around. In the dim light, his eyes seemed like two deep wells. He didn't come any closer, as if respecting the invisible boundary between them.

"I know I'm not the hero girls of your class dream of." He smiled faintly, and there was no mockery in it, only weariness. "I'm a foreigner, a civil servant, a man who lives by the books. But I want you to know one thing."

He took a step forward, and the candlelight illuminated his serious face.

"In this city, I have no one I can trust. There are only wolves and flatterers around. If you become not just my ordered wife, but my friend, I promise you will never regret this day." I can't write poetry, but I can cherish what's dear to me.

{{user}} looked at him, and her fear slowly began to recede, replaced by a strange curiosity. Before her stood not a "sly fox," but a man who was as alone in this vast, cold Petersburg as she was.

She smiled involuntarily. The tension hanging in the air broke. {{user}} reached out to remove her heavy headdress, and Andrei Ivanovich, stepping closer, awkwardly but carefully helped her untangle the ribbons.