Page 18 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

Illarion leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, letting his mind wander through the afternoon’s images: Dove walking along the shore edge, all unconscious grace, a swan princess perhaps with her platinum hair and elegant length of neck? The personification of spring and innocence? That picture conjured up a rather provocative series of subsequent images: of Dove walking the shore clad in a gossamer gown that left nothing to the male imagination; high, firm breasts with rose-tipped nipples pressed hard against the thin fabric, her bare feet scything through the long, fresh spring grass; of Spring removing her gown, her body unveiled to hidden eyes, her hands reaching up to take down her hair. Dove as Spring was the perfect juxtaposition of new innocence and womanly knowledge. She’d shown him both sides today.

The images he’d conjured from that inspiration were certainly powerful if the beginnings of his arousal were anything to go on, but Illarion was not satisfied. Any poet could depict a young virgin in the freshness of spring. Spring was the season of birth and newness, the season of the virgin and the woman. But spring wasn’t entirely the right season for a woman like Dove, with her snowy looks. Physically, winter was her time and yet it was a far more difficult task to cast Dove’s innocence against a season that was often symbolic of death and dormancy.

Ah. Dormancy. That was the key. His poet’s brain fired. Today, winter had awakened. He recalled how the sun and a bit of temper had brought a flush to Dove’s porcelain cheeks. He focused on the flush. He’d liked the colour in her cheeks, proof that his cool ice queen from the night before was still there, but that she also possessed a warm core. Fire. Ice. An ice princess awakening… That conjured a stronger image and he hastily scribbled a single word, a Russian word. Snegurochka. The Snow Maiden of Russian folk tales, a girl of great beauty who, according to some of the stories, had melted in the spring when she’d ventured from Father Frost’s forests in pursuit of love.

He was writing furiously now, the allegory pouring from him. He wrote of Snegurochka trapped in spring, a season not of her making, of winter’s princess far from home, surrounded by Primavera’s blushing roses, her paleness a marked contrast. His mind was a blur of thought and image.

When he finished, his glass of samogan was untouched, the lanterns were lit. A tray of cold meats sat at his elbow, waiting for him. The servants must have brought it. He had not noticed. He’d been too caught up in all that had been revealed today. He had not thought to see so much. In truth, he’d gone today for selfish reasons, to see if she could inspire him again as she’d inspired him last night on the dance floor, to see if he could capture what had slipped away from him last night. He’d got more than he’d bargained for; he’d glimpsed a woman who was figuring out the game, figuring out that she was trapped or nearly so and something in him had started to wake. His own winter, ending. Proof of that awakening was scrawled across pages.

Footsteps clipped on the flagstones, a pair of them, not boots but shoes. Ruslan and Stepan were dressed for going out, for dancing and ballrooms and Primavera’s roses. ‘You’re not drunk yet, I’ll take that as a good sign.’ Stepan noted the glass of samogan with a subtle lift of his brow, his gaze drifting disapprovingly to the hastily crafted topknot.

‘The Huns wore their hair like this,’ Illarion answered the silent reproach. There were others, too: the Samurai, the Mongols.

‘Oh, to be a Hun. My greatest wish.’ Stepan’s tone was dry with sarcasm.

‘At least you’re still dressed,’ Ruslan interjected, always the diplomat, always positive. Illarion had long felt that he, Stepan and Nikolay might have killed each other years ago if it hadn’t been for Ruslan’s cool diplomacy keeping them in check. Ruslan slapped him on the back. ‘I see today’s visit was profitable.’ He snatched up a paper before Illarion could protect it. ‘“Snegurochka?” I like it.’ To his credit, Ruslan read silently, dark eyes darting over the lines. ‘It’s lovely, Illarion. It could be one of your best. It has that Russian sense of fatalism, that one cannot escape destiny, and the nature allegory is sublime.’ Ruslan set the paper down. ‘Is it about us, Illarion? I think it is. I think Snegurochka represents the four of us, the four princes exiled from home.’

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