Bare birch branches with their ice-glass-sleeves began to thaw, raining down drops of imminent spring on those walking far below. In the countryside, farmers plowed their fields to sow their seeds while cattlemen counted newborn calves and shepherds set sheep to pasture—labors which were unvarying from one year to the next.

And, while lambing season was crucial to shepherds and breeding a flock was demanding work, to any knowing ma-ma in Ravka, a work more delicate than animal husbandry was the work of molding husbands from bachelors.

Inside the manor houses, where the preparations for spring were likewise underway, even the most wearisome chores were performed with a zeal wholly renewed from springs prior.

Gowns were sown and altered, trousseaus endowed with new garments and songs rehearsed on the pianoforte as sisters learned dance steps in a line, moving with alacrity and seizing up with bursts of felicitous laughter.

This work is crucial, one mama chided, meeting the eyes of her budding debutants, Silly girls are not attractive to men of fortune and this year will provide opportunities too good to let go to waste.

Now, were you to ask any young lady—of both good breeding and respectable society—what it is that set this year’s social season apart from any other, they may (after a momentary bout of giggles) explain to you that this year would see the overlap of four very auspicious circumstances which were sure to yield a legion of engagements by Mikhaelmas.

The first of which was the welcome news that several battalions of the Tsar’s Royal Navy had been granted an extended shore leave, which meant the coming months promised swarms of fine, blue-uniformed gentlemen taking up residence in Os Alta in greater quantities than in the last five years combined.

Their siege of the isles along The Bone Road had been a success—of course, this was due in large part to the fact that several of the isles themselves were widely uninhabitable or otherwise curiously unoccupied and therefore conquered without much resistance. Having achieved the installation of imperial rule over a few modest, vacant, jungles and several thousand miles of scorched beach without wasting a single bullet, most battalions were relieved and sent home.

In addition to the navy men, many of the Tsar’s Regiments, too, were to return from their scattered posts along the Fjerdan border. The years-long war with their neighbor to the north had at last been settled by way of political marriage between the heir apparent to Ravka, Prince Vasily Lantsov the IV, and the youngest daughter of the Fjerdan king, Princess Ylva Opjer. The day after the Royal Wedding, the tentative cease-fire set in place during their engagement transitioned into a peaceful demilitarization of outposts on both sides of the border; the men were returning home in droves.

As a result, Ravka was in a state of unprecedented jubilance and its citizens poured into the capitol to exercise their stout patriotism with the benefit of extravagant balls, opulent parties and private dinners which were sure to produce plenty of inspiration for the society papers. Os Alta in the social season was the place to be.

The third circumstance which any eligible lady may reference, was the rather sensational rumor that the younger prince, Nikolai Lantsov I, was set to make appearances at several events throughout the season, armed with a confident eye to appraise each new young woman he met.

Being that his elder brother was deftly yoked, should Prince Nikolai happen to fall in love at first sight (an outcome of which many fantasized), he would now be free to propose marriage on the spot. It was no state secret that—though he may be a spare to the throne—the younger prince was not spared for admirers, which was a duty unto itself and one which he managed nobly. With his beauty, charm (and full access to the Crown Jewels) the prince was sure to turn as many heads as he was hearts, even if he should only spend an hour among them in the entire season.

However, while tantalizing to dwell upon, a rumor was still hardly enough to ensnare the focus of any sensible young ladies in the market for a suitable—realistic—marriage prospect. For these fair few, they could rest their hopes on facts, and facts alone.

And so, more arousing than the prospect of uniformed men flooding dance halls like marching ants or the thin promise of a royal love affair, was the announcement that Ilya Aleksander Morozova III, formerly the Marquess of Balakirev—formerly-formerly the Earl of Balakirev—had at last ascended to his new position as the Duke of Balakirev.

Ilya the First (may he rest in peace) had long-since outlived his son, Ilya the Second, and had finally, peacefully, succumbed to death during the autumn season. He left behind a stoic widow, a terribly handsome grandson, and an obscene amount of wealth to accompany the grand estate and title.

Though he was, upon the death of his grandfather, technically, The Duke, a short clause had made its way into the ‘Last Will and Testament of Ilya Aleksander Morozova I’ which stipulated that, in order to fully ascend to his title and receive full control of the estate, his heir, Ilya Aleksander Morozova III, was to be wed.

This, for any sensible young lady, was far more tangible a ledge on which to set their hopes. For, who could bother trifling with the wispy, fickle nature of fate and affection, when the binding bridle of the law was at work?

As for Aleksander, he suspected the marriage clause was added at the direction of his grandmother, who perpetually complained her grandson was derelict in his marital duties, whilst simultaneously criticizing, disparaging and frightening every eligible lady in the county.

Aleksander could hardly mind her behavior, however, and found it a convenient excuse to put off the inevitable: the courting and wedding of a lady whose refinement came synonymous with a spiritless existence and whose maintenance would prove to be as arduous as it was tedious.

On the other hand, seeking out a suitable candidate for marriage was still preferable to sitting down the table from his stone-carved grandmother night after night—and so, the Duke-In-Waiting of Balakirev made his quiet entrance back into his city residence on the High Street, and prepared to face the onslaught of accomplished young ladies vying to become his duchess.

The news of a ‘duke-in-need-of-a-wife’ spread through Ravka faster than if the tsar himself had sent a bulletin with every messenger on racing horses, to every corner of the country, shouting it in the squares.

Promises and forewarnings of eligible ladies trickled back to Aleksander through the mouths of those who lined up to make his introduction ahead of the season. Over the course of two months, he entertained puffed-up fathers, brothers, guardians—and the occasional jilted lover—calling on him in his Os Alta residence. All attempted to intrigue him with intel about their female relations, or otherwise dissuade him from involvement with any found to be undesirable.

One such gentleman and father, came to call first thing in the morning the day after Aleksander’s re-entrance into the city—teasing the raptures of his daughter over a cup of tea:

“She’s the most agreeable girl, Petra. Doesn’t fuss or dither, and is sometimes so quiet as to make you forget she is there. Oh, but she does her work as a good woman should and entirely without complaint. Certainly she’s the most docile woman you’ve ever met and is sure to make any man a most sensible wife.”

Whilst, a few days later, another advised on his own debutant daughter:

“It must be acknowledged that Nadia is shy with men, but there’s not a woman in all of Ravka with a bad thing to say about her—she is loved and accepted as a sister to many, endearing them with her charms and friendship. Always she leaves with an open invitation to return—we’ve friends in every county from here to the West!”

And still another boasted:

“I assure you, she is quite up to the tasks required of a duchess—and her beauty is unmatched. Prince Vasily himself had an eye on my Ruby last season—she was the envy of all. And then, of course, that Fjerdan Princess arranged to get her hands on him and he had to break it off.”

Shortly after Ruby’s father was seen out, his version of events was contradicted by the duke’s helpful companions—two prominent members of society in Os Alta, who had agreed to join him for the duration of the season and guide him with intel of their own—

"Ruby was indeed the topic of conversation in many households, but not due to the supposed attention of any prince," Fedyor said, reclining on the chaise with his sketchbook. "She agreed to marriage proposals from two different men on the same night and both gentlemen—believing the other to be making untoward advances on their betrothed—made arrangements to duel the next morning."

"They might have been escorted to a jail cell the next day if either of them had shown up with armed pistols," Ivan said from behind his book. "Each claimed to have ‘forgotten’ to bring a supply of gunpowder and agreed to call it a draw. They ended the season engaged to the Dorokov sisters, as I recall.”

“You do miss a lot when you are not in the city, Sasha," Fedyor sighed.

And yet, for weeks the parade went on—

“In addition to being fluent in three different languages, my youngest, Marie, has a keen eye for numbers, an obedient disposition and plays the most lively rendition of Rondo Alla Turca you’ve ever heard! She is undoubtedly the most accomplished girl of the season and will make a beautiful addition to any household.”

Nothing any one of these gentlemen had to say managed to provoke a reaction from the Duke beyond a blithe smile and a polite nod of his head.

In fact, the options ahead of him appeared entirely dull and largely homogenous.

That is, until the informal dinner party (a celebration and lament of his bachelorhood) the week before festivities were to begin, when the mention of one young lady slipped past the careful sieve in his mind—

“You remember her, Morozova, don’t you?” His cousin asked through a mouth-full of venison.

“Remember who?”

The gentlemen around the table snickered.

“Forgive him,” Ivan answered, “for weeks the Duke has endured the country’s finest group of ebulliently-insipid gentlemen, all peddling their female relations to him like beggars shaking their coin jars in the streets. It is unsurprising he’s lost all taste for the subject.”

Aleksander grimaced, “Were it not for this clause in my inheritance, I might have successfully avoided the entrapment of marriage for at least another decade.”

“Worry not, cousin,” Lieutenant Oretsev said, heartily, “I’m certain once you and your new wife have settled in Balakirev and you’ve given her an heir, you can come back to the city to carry on with your dalliances as God intended.” Another scattered snicker rippled across the dining room; the Duke and his companions did not share in the humor.

“I’ll bet you could recommend a few ladies to get him started, eh Lieutenant?” Added the Lieutenant's guest, Corporal Danil Dubrov.

“Your cousin was speaking of Alina Starkov,” Ivan said, eyes on his plate, “you know her, of course, as Fedyor’s student. He says she is to marry after this season.”

“Ahh,” Fedyor said, “is this what she was hinting at a few months ago? You remember, Ivan? The ‘dreaded event’ approaching her?”

Aleksander had paused as his mind churned slowly. “Alina Starkov—of Keramzin?”

His cousin chuckled, bordering on teasing, “Yes, that’s the one. As I was saying, her mother is fed up with it, apparently—”

“Not a surprise, is it? Three years of society balls and dinners and nothing to show for it—what’s wrong with her?” Dubrov asked, shoving another bite in his mouth and then grinned at Mal across the table— “Oh wait, I get it. She’s been waiting for you, hasn’t she? And now you’re come home. Mikhael—the Lieutenant has a sweetheart at home, did you know?”

“Never would have guessed it with the way he carried on with some of those Fjerdan fillies—”

“That’s enough now, that’s enough,” Mal said, raising his voice over them both and draining his wine.

Ivan raised an imperious brow and turned back to the Duke, “According to your cousin, the Baroness Starkov has stipulated to Miss Starkov—after three seasons of nonsense and hokum, no less—that this be the final season for her daughter. Apparently, now she is a woman of twenty, she is to take the matter seriously, lest she end up a spinster.”

Aleksander understood well why Ivan should take care in imparting the knowledge; afterall, it was he and Fedyor who had unwittingly connected the pair so many years ago.

Sir Fedyor Kaminsky (best known for his magnanimous philanthropy, outrageously-lavish parties, and his occupation as a consummate, if eccentric, painter) had, for years, been cultivating the artistic talents of his highly-favored protégé, Miss Alina Starkov—and her own burgeoning genius was nothing to scoff at.

It was quite interesting to learn that she would at last be forced to end the social season with more than a fresh batch of artwork and a string of spurned suitors.

A marriage proposal.

He could count on one hand the number of times he had laid eyes on the girl.
It would cost him only one digit to count the number of conversations they’d had.

And yet, as he went to bed that evening, he could not help recounting the first time he rested eyes on her; then, a wild girl of thirteen, exiting the birchwoods of Keramzin with his young cousin, looking more creature than child.

The girl was too young to be of much interest at the time, but he never forgot the image of her, skirts smeared with mud nearly to her waist, hair dark and loose, knotted with twigs and leaves—feral—but curiously luminous, even in the late hour of the day.

What is your name, child? He had asked.

The girl scowled. Tell me yours first.

He hadn’t answered, holding her narrow-eyed gaze with the strangest surge of amusement.

The mystery did not hold and that evening, Aleksander learned her name over dinner in his cousin’s home—along with other details. The youngest of five and the only daughter of Baron Starkov, she was also notorious in the little county of Keramzin for her wild nature and apparent resistance to societal expectations.

She has taken a shine to our Malyen, hasn’t she? Lord Oretsev had commented, looking toward his wife.
It certainly seems that way. Let us hope adolescence beats her into a submissive shape, otherwise even a sizable dowry will not be enough to contend with her willful disposition.

Following that visit, Aleksander might never have thought of her again, had it not been for his summer holiday at Kaminsky’s Keramzin estate some three years after.

It was impossible to miss the dark-haired young woman who populated the grounds at intervals, covered in smears of paint and raptly working for hours before tossing her brush to the side and calling on Fedyor to come inspect her work.

Aleksander had studied her intently from afar, intrigued and certain he recognized her artistry from some of the work he’d seen in Fedyor’s studio in the city. Ivan plainly noted his interest, but made no offer to introduce them. She is prone to a rather… bellicose state when disturbed and I dare not allow any in her path when she descends.

Fortunately, as an eligible Marquess, it had been in his obligation to entertain a certain number of supper requests from both his relations, the Oretsevs, and from families of Keramzin with eligible young ladies who could pay tribute to his thoughts and whims over a seven-course meal.

Alina Starkov had, by that time, grown into Miss Alina Starkov, a girl of sixteen—now formally out to society and utterly furious about it. But, there she was, Kaminsky’s student, Malyen’s childhood playmate, and the unwitting focus of Aleksander’s curiosity.

Having just finished the season in Os Alta without a proposal, she came home to find the Marquess of Balakirev at her dining table, her father clapping him on one shoulder and her mother salivating on the other.

The girl scowled at him throughout the meal—a beautiful expression of hers with which he was already acquainted—and though irresistibly amused by her hostility, he did not attempt to engage her in conversation directly.

How is your mother, sir? The Baroness Starkov had asked, I believe she accompanied you on your last visit to the county?

Yes, it was something of a… farewell tour for our relations, he said, gingerly. Well timed, too, as she is unwell at the moment.

Awfully unkind of you to leave her on her deathbed while you make social visits in the country, isn’t it your grace? Alina had asked. Evidently, her ‘bellicose state’ was chronic as opposed to conditional.

Alina, her mother hissed, but Aleksander had chuckled. He couldn’t help it.

My mother hates nothing more than to have people at her bedside—especially her son. She said if I sat around her limp body weeping when there were more sensible things to be done, I ought to become the invalid in her place.

Alina pinched her brow and he had the distinct impression her interest had been piqued, but then her face shuddered and the scowl dropped back in place.

That evening, shrouded in a cloud of cigar smoke with the Baron, Aleksander prepared himself for the topic of a betrothal—an unavoidable conversation with any father hoping to set a wealthy match for his daughter.

However, much like all his interactions with the Starkov family, it did not take the direction he expected.

Pardon me if I am mistaken, sir, the Baron began, on the topic of Alina—I know she has made her debut to society, but… I think it is early yet for marriage—even to someone as worthy as you, your grace.

Aleksander had smiled; charmed, relieved and slightly disappointed in one breath.

Early, indeed. Though, please permit me to say, your daughter is growing up quite beautifully. She possesses a lively spirit which I hope will remain well-preserved.

The Baron relaxed with an amused chuckle, As do I, your grace.

The two gentlemen carried on amiably into the late evening; however, before the night could get away from him completely, the young Marquess found himself bringing it up again, I do not mean to be presumptuous, but I would like to ask—when the season comes for your daughter to entertain marriage prospects more seriously—I should like to be informed.

It was curiosity more than anything which prompted him to make the request. How could a girl, the likes of which he had never before met, grow into a refined woman ready for marriage without being dangerously altered?

The Baron frowned momentarily, but nodded, Very well, your grace.

Aleksander laid awake in bed, remembering his conversation with the Baron four years previous. If his cousin was to be believed, the season had come at last and he would soon be able to see for himself the woman she had grown into.

The following morning, a few scant days before the opening ball of the season—and in keeping with the agreement from years previous—he received a long note from Baron Starkov.

Among apologies for the lateness of the letter, condolences on the death of the late Duke Balakirev, well-wishes for his grandmother and for his continued health, the Baron had ended the letter with a final comment:

“I’d forgotten how much I detest society,” Ivan said next to him, grimacing as couples clapped on the dance floor, forming circles and sashaying merrily in their wheels.

“Come Vanya, it is the first ball of the season! Do you not like to see the young ones fall in love with each other?” Fedyor asked.

“Dosh Fedya,” Ivan tutted, his voice low enough only the three men could hear. “You know well how these end. The women on these occasions are fated to fall for the worst of rakes. Of course, the mamas fall for the titles or fortunes, but the men…” he grunted, lingering on a group of gentlemen in front of them, “they only ever fall further in love with themselves.”

“And, of course, whatever delights they may discover between a set of strong thighs at the gentleman’s club after,” Aleksander added.

Fedyor elbowed him, chuckling.

The Duke was loath to move. Upon his arrival, he had dodged as many introductions as he could and was now successfully hidden in the corner with his companions, waiting for his true interest to arrive.

“Ah!” Fedyor exclaimed as a crowd parted, “there’s my lapushka. I cannot remember, Sasha—have you met her before? The Saints know you own enough of her paintings.”

“He has met her,” Ivan said with his watchful eye on the Duke.

Continuing to ignore them, he waited for the crowd to part until, at last, he saw her.

Alina Starkov, glorious at twenty with her glimmering smile, a modest tiara set against dark locks (undoubtedly placed there by her mother) and her brilliant, curious eyes. Only—

Who did she stare up at with such openness and passion? Who provoked such laughter and lightness in her countenance? It was an expression which he had never once witnessed on her before.

Craning his head the slightest bit, Aleksander caught sight of his answer and suddenly every word from his dinner party the week before flooded his mind in unerring detail.
Alina’s hand wrapped around a red-clad arm.
His cousin, Lord Lieutenant Malyen Oretsev.

“As I said,” Ivan sighed, “the women always fall for the rakes. Society is horribly predictable.”