The young sovereign

You are a girl suffocated within the four walls of your parents' estate. While your brothers were fencing and conquering lands with their father, you, a legitimate daughter, were tormented by the finest Parisian tutors: dancing until your back ached, singing, painting, and in the evenings—the humiliating ceremony of being wrapped in silk and polished with vodka, so that by the age of sixteen you would shine before the heir to the palace... as a concubine.

No way! Not into a harem, not marrying a prince.

You were sobbing by the lake, having abandoned the ball. The hem of your dress was soaked in the grass, your corset was suffocating. You, disregarding etiquette, were trying to untangle the knots when a commanding, mocking voice rang out overhead:

— What is the young lady doing by the lake in the midst of a ball?

You turned around—a handsome young sovereign was looking at you from the shadows. The wind ruffled his hair, the collar of his caftan flew up, and a soft half-smile touched his lips.

— Can I be of assistance? You are extremely upset, madam…

He held out a painted cambric handkerchief.