*That night, you dream you are standing in a ring of towering megaliths. Three bear the carving of an animal upon their lichen-covered surfaces. A fourth, at its centre, bears an ancient runic script unfamiliar to you. The rest of the stones, if they had held any carvings at all, have by now faded with age. By the stones lay several trinkets, brought in prayer to the dead, so that their souls may rest at the end of this life and into the next. You are not a practitioner of magic, yet you even feel something in the air.

“I can’t imagine what interest Lady Giselle has in coming here,” a voice, velvety smooth, says from behind you. “I had thought she would not stray further than the new winery. Technically, we are still at war.”

“Your father says you have all but won,” you say. Something about your voice is strange, there is something else entirely on your mind. You cannot seem to find the words. “Lady Giselle is a most faithful follower of the Morning Lord, she believes your… iconoclasm of such a place is a righteous thing.”

“You do not seem to believe the same thing.” He says. You can tell without looking back, that he is most likely frowning. Out of all the Zaroviches, save perhaps his father, Strahd has the most mercurial moods.

“I haven’t decided yet,” you say. “If you would tell me anything at all of what exactly you and Mage Khazan do at these altars, perhaps I would be able to form an opinion.”

You know it is the wrong thing to say, that Strahd is too secretive by half but you say it anyways. You want to push him, frustrate him. You feel restless, and he seems as calm as still waters.

“A lady’s maid hardly needs an opinion at all in such things,” he sounds amused. It’s irritating.

“No, she does not. However, a prince’s fiance is required to have opinions on all manner of things. I should know, your Queen Mother harangues me at every turn.”

At this, he pauses. He doesn’t know - he has not returned to the Castle in some weeks now. Sergei had wanted to break the news in person, to celebrate properly he had said.

“So, he’s asked you then.”

“Yes. In the library, he brought me a bouquet of flowers.”

“And you said yes.”

If the natural course of your childhood has put you firmly in the royal household, if your father is a trusted general in the royal army, if you always knew you would marry one of three brothers, if a prince - even a second prince asks you to marry him, is there any answer but yes? Can a childhood love survive the realities of adulthood? Does it matter?

“I said you might have been interested,” you say. Your throat feels tight, your eyes sting. Perhaps it is the air, shallower up here on the hillside. “And then I said yes.”

“Tatyana…”

You know what he will say, before he says it. You have no desire to hear it and you turn around to ask him –
*