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It’s a most disconcerting thing really. Mila tapped the envelope against her lips, that action fanning away her red tresses from her face, serving as a replacement for a real fan. She was a Lady, yes. The kind that was accompanied by her attendants. In this hot summer one would carry an umbrella above her, so her naturally pale skin wouldn’t burn. Another would hold a plate in their hands, serving her a refreshing drink or piece of fruit. One or two others would hold onto her veil and embroidered hem of her gown.
Yet, she stood there under the scorching sun, no umbrella, no refreshments and no beautiful gown. Instead, Mila’s forehead was glistening like melting caramel candy, her attire consisting of a jacket and leggings was only adorned by a simple white collar and a cincture around her waist. The two things she was most proud of and didn’t hesitate to spend money on, were her finest leather boots and a gorgeous court sword.
Wind was always in her hair, horse under her thighs and her time was burned away like fire on hunting, duels and countless escapades. Many of those she spend in the company of the Crown Prince Victor. Oh, yes. Her dear cousin Victor. What a traitor, little fickle rascal! He supported her lifestyle so adamantly, was like a brother to her and what did he do now? He played this dirty trick on her! How audacious! Oh, how could she even trust him? For all those years she adored him, how could he have betrayed her like this? She wasn’t sure if she ever could forgive him!
He fell in love.
Well. Of course she would forgive him.
Mila wasn’t one to hold a grudge for too long. Sarah used to always say that Mila isn’t even capable of anger. Such emotions were beyond her. There was life and it was there to enjoy it. Not a single second was supposed to be squandered by second thoughts.
All was fantastic, splendid, the world was but a little pebble and she couldn’t wait to discover it whole. But this, this letter in her hands, it changed everything. It was very real in her fingers, finely pressed, smelling of bleached pulp.
“Victor, Victor, Victor...” She sighed.
Victor, the Crown Prince or not, eloped. With the japanese ambassador, just a month after his arrival no less. And just like that, Mila had it in the writing - all arranged. Sir Feltsman had no time to walk out the stroke, he had to rush faster than the horses that galloped to their mansion. The court council was preparing a doctor’s statement, that Victor was infertile or mentally unfit. Really any quick reason that they could find and scratch hastily on the parchment. She could only fathom how much paperwork they would have to prepare.
She was the next in the line of succession and the only logical solution for the troublesome situation. Mila was going to become a Queen. But a Queen could not reign without a King. In three days Mila was supposed to be wed.
Victor’s letter was a little pardon for Mila. In his selfishness he did the last considerate thing for her. Victor arranged with Sir Feltsman for a suitable candidate for her to wed. His letter explained everything to her, urged her to have courage and listen to her heart. Victor spoke of a man, she could trust. The future husband to be was supposedly the best match for her and would ensure that Mila would not have to give up her freedom yet. It all sounded so cryptic and didn’t give her anything concrete to hold onto. But what did she really expect - Victor did all things following his own mind and others just followed worried, yet always were stunned in surprise that Victor prepared for them. Mila decided to give him the benefit of doubt once more.
“I shall hunt down your sorry ass if you locked a chain around my neck, Victor!” The tempo of the patting envelope sped up along with her thoughts.
She argued with Lady Lilia ‘til the other broke her hand fan in sheer frustration. Mila fought her right to retreat into the garden without guards and meekly attendants and forgoed the lavish dress up ceremonial. If Mila was to meet the suitor, she would do it on her own conditions. She would go as herself. Same garments she has on and would speak her true mind as always.
“Mila, Mila! He’s here! Quick, come on!” The varler Yuri stormed into the garden and tugged her elbow, trying to drag her with his whole body out towards the balcony. “Hurry, hurry! We might catch a glimpse of him, when the coach arrives!” His velvet green coat shimmered in the warm sunshine, the golden embroidery suiting the honorable occasion.
“Yes, yes. I am going already!” Mila purposely shifted her weight in the opposite direction just to make it harder for the boy to drag her away. “You are dressed better than me? Wow, Lady Lilia didn’t spare any efforts… You look chic!”
Yuri stopped for a second completely dumbfounded, a delicate blush tinting his cheeks like pale seal wax. Mila knew he had a crush on her and didn’t miss a chance to tease him a little. “What?! Oh, shut up-... listen! I spied on the council when they discussed the guy.” He pulled her closer to himself and continued in a hushed whisper. “He’s a total airhead! He spends hours in his chamber - sewing clothes! They call him The Fashionista - I don’t know what that means but it sounds kinda stupid. They also said, he’s not eager to marry and was pressed to this. See? You might have a chance to delay the whole thing!”
“Oh?” Mila formed a circle with her lips and the little cogs in her mind started to move, their whir resonating in her ears in comfortable rhythmic sound. The pieces of the mechanism falling into their place and suddenly making all working again, giving efficiency and sense in her rattled life. “Oooh..!”
A minute later she observed the carriage with the boy clinging to her elbow and listening to his hypothetical rambling. Her mind cogs whirred louder and louder until she caught the sight of the man stepping out of the carriage.
Lord Popovich carried himself with poise but also with visible weight on his shoulders. There was strength in his step but he also worn a mask of reluctancy. Indeed he wasn’t happy to be here and he was obviously worried. The more she looked, the more she hungered to read more of him. Mila didn’t care for fashion but she took great care to take in his attire. Lord Popovich was a strange and fascinating contradiction.
The fabric even from afar was clearly of the best quality. The design of the coat was intricate but so simple on the other hand. Clean cut lines formed his lithe body. And yet… such beauty, such grace. But black? Dark violet? In summer and in this heat? Terribly impractical and sticking out of the box. That melancholy delicate arch of his brows whispered that little something in Mila’s ears.
The man stopped before the stairs to take in the castle and his eyes found hers with a genuine chance. Yuri dropped to his knees but no amount of weight could pull her down to hide beside him. She was so captivated by the connection they shared through exchanged glances, she could only incline her head forward. Lord Popovich nodded lightly in a greeting and seeing a gentle smile conjured on his lips, Mila knew that she was recognised despite her simple attire.
“Welcome, Lord Popovich!”
Sir Feltsman’ thunderous voice broke the moment and the honored visitor turned to the welcoming agglomeration completely in formal character, chest pushed up and distinguished facade.
Mila couldn’t wait for the moment to call fondly with is given name, Georgi. Perhaps with the time it could be Gosha.