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Aleksander is five years old. Alina is three months old.
Aleksander looks down at the cradle and scrunches his nose in distaste.
“She’s so little,” he complains to his mother, “she can’t do anything at all.”
No riding or games or fencing or lessons. Saints, she cannot even talk yet.
“Don’t be foolish, Sasha,” his mother sighs, “Princess Alina will grow in good time. And I’m sure the two of you will enjoy your summer visits.”
Aleksander just frowns. It’s bad enough that mother has arranged his betrothal without even giving him a say – he’s five years old, after all, and he knows there are other princesses closer to his age, like Princess Luda, who are far more interesting than a baby who only seems to sleep and cry – but even worse that she and King Anton are forcing he and Alina to spend every summer (all the way from June to September!) together as soon as Alina turns six.
He knows not to make a scene, though, not in public and at the princess’ christening.
Instead, he dangles the golden locket – his present to her – above the cradle so that she can see it.
Of course, she’s so young that she won’t have a clue what it is, but she seems to be enraptured by the glittering object and the happy smile she gives him is as bright as the sun emblazoned onto the locket.
He can’t help but smile in return.
Aleksander is eleven years old. Alina is six years old.
“I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck with her all summer,” he complains to Ivan and Fedyor, “I bet all she does is needlework – no jousting or hunting or archery.”
“Try not to prejudge,” Fedyor suggests, trying to be the voice of reason.
“She’s a princess,” Aleksander reminds him, “they’re all delicate and soft. No fun at all.”
The girl he’s faced with a few hours later, standing with his mother to greet their visitors, is just what he feared.
Glossy black hair held back with a jewelled headband. Golden silk dress with frills and fancy embroidery. He can see soft kid slippers when she shifts in place – no sign of practical boots.
His mother nudges him forward and her father does the same for Princess Alina.
Well-practiced in courtly manners, Aleksander takes her hand, a little offended when her mouth puckers in distaste, and kisses her hand as quickly as possible.
“Yuck,” he mutters as he pulls away.
It’s one of the things he dislikes most, having to kiss a lady’s hand. Why they can’t just shake hands is beyond him.
Alina sticks her tongue out at him, too quickly for their parents to notice, and kicks his shin hard before she turns back to her father.
His eyes water and he longs to demand retribution, but it would be absolutely humiliating to admit that a little girl five years younger than he is managed to hurt him.
Aleksander looks at his mother, who nods significantly at the princess, and he sighs – no chance of running away.
He pastes a smile on his face and turns to his unwelcome guest, “so happy you could come.”
Her responding smile is equally false, “so happy to be here.”
This is not his idea of a fun summer. Although, at least it seems like Alina is as unhappy about it as he is.
Maybe, if he’s really lucky, one of them will catch chickenpox and they won’t have to spend any time together.
---
It turns out that, however much Alina might look like a delicate little girl, she is anything but.
“Don’t poke at it,” Aleksander shouts as Ivan prods at the livid bruise on his arm.
His friend only shrugs.
“She surprised me, that’s all,” Aleksander mutters, “I didn’t expect her to be any good with the practice swords.”
Aleksander is far better, having had a lot of training, but he has to admit Alina is impressive for a beginner. Sneaky too, which is how she managed to hurt him.
“I would have landed a hit on her,” he continues on, “loads of them, probably, but it’s not really fair to do that to a girl.”
“I think she can take care of herself,” Fedyor points out with a grin, “she was pretty quick when she tripped you earlier.”
“Well, I’ll let her have this small victory today,” he concedes, quite magnanimously, he thinks, “I just hope she isn’t a crybaby when I beat her at archery tomorrow.”
“You’re rubbish at archery, Sasha,” Ivan reminds him.
It’s true. He’s quick with a sword, excellent at fencing and surprisingly good at boxing, but he never manages to hit the bullseye in archery.
“Well, she’s only six, Ivan,” he says, “she’ll be lucky if her arrow even makes it to the target.”
---
The next day, Aleksander watches in horror as Alina, while not hitting a bullseye, still manages a better archery performance than he does.
“Papa likes archery,” she tells him as she dances around telling everyone who passes that she beat Aleksander.
He steps forward, for a moment wanting nothing more than to wring her neck, but Ivan’s cooler head prevails and he holds Aleksander back.
Aleksander turns to the princess, “Alina, do you want to try wrestling?”
Fedyor shakes his head frantically, but Aleksander ignores him, “it’ll be fun, I promise … unless you’re too scared, you are very little after all.”
Those are the magic words to dispel any doubt from her mind, “I can do it,” she tells him defiantly.”
Fedyor just sighs.
Half an hour later, their parents pass by as the two of them are rolling around in the mud, each trying to get the upper hand.
Aleksander has the advantage in height and weight, but Alina is surprisingly scrappy for a pampered little princess, and she has very bony elbows.
“The children seem to get along quite nicely,” he hears King Anton say to his mother.
“Indeed,” his mother responds.
Aleksander wins the wrestling match, but he has to admit it doesn’t feel like much of a victory when he’s nursing all his cuts and bruises that evening.
---
The rest of the summer passes in much the same way.
She is a menace, a devil child pretending to be a delightful princess.
It really is a relief when she and her father return to their own home kingdom.
And if Aleksander spends months tirelessly practicing his archery and sparring with Ivan and Fedyor, well that’s just because a future king should know how to fight properly and not because he doesn’t want to get shown up by a tiny girl.
Aleksander is fourteen years old. Alina is nine years old.
Chaos.
That is the word that comes to mind during the months of Alina’s visit.
She’s everywhere, following him around persistently with what seems like a goal to annoy him as much as possible.
Doesn’t she realise that he’s a teenager and it is therefore extremely embarrassing for him to spend all his time with a girl who still needs to use two padded cushions to reach the table when they eat in the formal dining room.
Yes, they are betrothed, but that’s a problem for their parents, who should have thought of finding them future spouses closer in age – a girl his own age would still have been annoying, but at least she would have been able to write a ransom note for his favourite sword without misspelling half the words (although he has to give Alina some credit for managing to sneak the sword out of the armoury without being caught).
It baffles him how his mother – astute and clever – watches he and Alina together and comes to the conclusion that this will work, that it isn’t a disaster in the making.
He supposes it’s proof that even his mother’s isn’t right all the time.
---
Good riddance, Aleksander thinks in September as Alina rides off with her father towards the docks, finally, some peace and quiet.
But it seems too quiet as he reads in the library (no incessant questions and “but I just want to know why, Sasha”) and then goes for a ride (no infernal chattering, just Ivan’s stoic silence) and eats dinner (no attempt to fling peas at his head, and no tiny hands to sneak half of Ivan’s dessert onto Aleksander’s plate).
He doesn’t miss her.
He doesn’t.
Aleksander is seventeen years old. Alina is twelve years old.
His mother frowns as she spots the drawing of Alina – it’s not a great resemblance, he admits, more of a stick-figure with long dark hair and a golden dress, but he’s not an artist like Alina is – on the wall and the little arrows sticking out of it.
“Is that the respect you’re showing your future queen?”
“I was just practicing my archery,” he tries.
Her frown turns into a glare.
“It’s just a bit of fun,” he grumbles.
“Your aim is still terrible,” she points out, “now come downstairs, they’ll be here any moment.”
---
“We just can’t lose her,” Aleksander complains to Ivan and Fedyor, letting out a growl of frustration as Alina pops up next to them.
He’d thought for sure they could escape, but it seems she’s come to know the castle’s secret passageways just as well as he does (he suspects his mother might be helping her).
“Hi Sasha, what are we doing today?” she asks.
“We,” he gestures to himself, Ivan and Fedyor, are going out to the treehouse. But it’s boys only, so you can’t come.”
Truthfully, the treehouse is too small for them – they’re pretty much adults now, not boys of ten or eleven, and the treehouse isn’t exactly the sturdiest of constructions anymore. However, Alina isn’t very good at climbing trees, so it’s about the only place they can go where they won’t be bothered by her.
“You can’t do that!” she protests.
“Can so,” he retorts.
She chases after them – because of course she does – but her shorter legs can’t compete with their tall, athletic frames and they’re up in the treehouse, the ladder pulled up, before she catches up.
“This really isn’t fair,” she pouts up at them.
“We really couldn’t care,” Aleksander huffs, ignoring Ivan and Fedyor rolling their eyes at his childishness (Alina brings out the worst in him, he wants to say).
And then she gets that look on her face.
It’s one Aleksander is intimately familiar with, one that promises nothing but trouble.
“No!” he cries out as she kicks at the supportive beam, “Alina, no!”
It’s too late, though. The damage is done.
---
“This is your fault,” Ivan tells him shortly as they try to sit still as their various injuries are cleaned and bandaged.
“It’s Alina’s fault,” he corrects.
“Don’t act like you’re stupid, Sasha,” Ivan says, “you could have just let her play with us. You’ve known her long enough to realise how much she hates being excluded.”
“Why are you defending her, Ivan? She’s the reason I’ve sprained my wrist and you’ve broken your foot and Fedyor’s got a concussion.”
“She didn’t quite think about the consequences,” Ivan admits, “and goodness knows she deserves a telling off because we could have all been even more seriously injured, but you must realise she only did it because she’s hurt. She likes spending time with you, Sasha.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What she likes is to make my life a misery.”
“Are you sure, Sasha? Or are you only seeing what you want to?”
When he thinks about it later, he realises that maybe Ivan has a point.
Alina bugs them incessantly but, on the rare occasions they include her, she’s normally a lot of fun, if an absolutely obnoxious winner.
Later, after he’s used the garderobe, he passes by Alina’s room and hears her whimpering softly in pain. The door is slightly ajar and he can see that she’s in a restless sleep, tossing and turning, her arm in a sling, clinging onto a raggedy old doll that he recognises as the gift he’d sent (at his mother’s insistence) for her fifth birthday.
Guilt surges through him.
I’ll apologise in the morning, he tells himself.
But by the time he wakes up the next day, it’s almost noon and Alina, her father and their retinue have already departed.
Aleksander is twenty years old. Alina is fifteen years old.
“Get down from there,” his mother calls up to him imperiously, “you are behaving like a child.”
Aleksander, up in the high branches of his favourite tree and refusing to come down, inclines his head towards the nearby scene of King Anton trying to persuade Alina to get out of their carriage and failing miserably, “I’m not the child here, mother.”
“You’re as bad as each other,” she snaps back at him, “and if you aren’t in the courtyard in five minutes to greet our guests then you will regret it.”
Aleksander rolls his eyes (when he’s sure his mother cannot see him) but he climbs down anyway. He’s not scared of his mother, but she won’t hesitate to whack him with her cane if he doesn’t do as he’s told.
By the time he reaches the courtyard, Alina still hasn’t made an appearance.
Fedyor appears at his side, “prepare yourself for an incoming storm.”
He turns quizzically to his friend and is just about to ask what on earth Fedyor is talking about when he hears familiar shrieking.
Ivan stomps into the courtyard, deeper frown lines than usual, holding a she-devil masquerading as a young woman.
“Put me down, Ivan!” Alina shouts, trying to kick him but unable to get the right angle, “you can’t do this to me.”
“I can and I will, princess,” Ivan tells her matter-of-factly, “your father ordered it, in fact.”
“How could you, papa?” she turns her anger onto King Anton, who looks like what he really wants right now is a quiet room where he can lie down in peace.
Aleksander sniggers and Alina turns to him, indignant and beating her fists against Ivan’s back, “stop laughing!”
He’s sure he’ll pay for it later, but Aleksander can’t help it, the image in front of him too hilarious.
(the frog in his bed – which he finds late that night – is an old trick, one she hasn’t used in over five years, but he’s reluctantly impressed that she managed to sneak past all of the guards to execute her little prank).
---
“No.”
“Come on Sasha,” she begs, “pleaseeeeeeee.”
“I said no, Alina. Dress-up is for children.”
“But it’s a festival! You’re supposed to dress up. You’re such a spoilsport, Sasha, it’s supposed to be fun.”
“I’ve got important work to do.”
It’s technically true. His mother has involved him much more in the running of the kingdom since he turned eighteen. Still, he knows there is no work that can’t wait a day. It’s an excuse and they both know it.
Alina flounces off and Fedyor sighs, “you could have taken her, Sasha, it’s not like you won’t sneak down later.”
It’s different, though, to go incognito with Ivan and Fedyor, much better than a public trip with Alina where the kingdom will coo and fawn and little girls will ask to see him kiss Alina’s hand.
He’s not going with her and that’s final.
An hour later, when he hears the giggle, Aleksander can’t believe it is Alina.
She doesn’t giggle, after all. She laughs, full-bellied and loud, uncaring of who is watching or how unladylike she might sound.
And yet, here she is, giggling and twirling a piece of her hair as she bats her eyelashes at one of the new guards, an irritating and obnoxious one – what is his name … Marcus … Michael … no, Malyen – who is looking down at Alina with a leer that Aleksander doesn’t like at all.
Aleksander frowns. Does she realise how dangerous this is? All it takes is for one cocky, upstart guard to get over-ambitious enough to compromise Alina and her reputation will be in tatters, their betrothal null and void.
Not that Aleksander wants to marry Alina, not at all. But that doesn’t mean a little show-off like this Malyen should dare to flirt with his betrothed, a lady of royal blood.
He storms over to them, “Alina,” he says curtly, “we’re late for the festival.”
She looks up in pleased surprise, “I thought you didn’t want –”
“Plans change,” he mutters, grabbing hold of her hand and pulling her away.
“That was rude,” she frowns in disapproval, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Mal. And where’s your costume anyway?”
“We’re not going to the festival, Alina.”
She scowls, “then why –?”
“Stay away from Malyen and the other guards,” he growls, “you’re too young to be fraternising with them.”
“I’m fifteen, not a baby,” she stomps her foot, adorably angry, and, really, that just proves his point that she’s not grown up.
(he ignores the distracting curves shown off by her costume – some ancient Greek goddess, it really is too skimpy, he thinks).
“You’re a little brat,” he steers her towards her room, wondering if he can get away with locking her in until dinner – she’s got plenty of books, after all, and her easel and paints.
Alina’s face screws up then and, to his horror, it looks like she’s about to cry.
Damn. He doesn’t want to upset her, not really. He’s just annoyed that his future wife (although, again, he is as against this marriage as Alina is) has been flirting with an idiot like Malyen Oretsev.
“No … wait … Alinochka … alright, fine, we’ll go the festival.”
She brightens suspiciously quickly and he has the distinct feeling that he has been played.
Still, Aleksander finds he doesn’t really mind, even when she forces him to dress as a Greek god to match her costume, with a ridiculous toga and spiky laurel wreath. Ivan and Fedyor laugh hysterically at him, but it is fine, really, because Alina’s smile is like the sun and her enthusiasm is oddly infectious.
And if anyone notices that he has a lot of fun at the festival, he can always say he’s only playing along for Alina’s sake.
---
The circumstances are dire.
Alina has won the last five card games in a row and it’s just embarrassing now.
Fedyor, the traitor, is congratulating the little brat. Ivan, meanwhile, is trying (not very hard, Aleksander thinks) to keep a smirk off his face.
This is his game now, though, he’s sure of it. It won’t matter that he lost all of those other games because this is the one that counts.
He lays out his cards with a smug flourish, “four sevens and a ten.”
But her mouth doesn’t stretch into the frown he expects. Instead, it curves into a sly little smile as she shows her own cards.
Four aces and a two. Damn.
“I think I’ve won again,” she says, affecting naïve sweetness.
“Every time,” he mutters exasperatedly under his breath, “this stupid game is terrible.”
“I think it’s rather fun, actually,” Alina chirps, “can we play again, Sasha?”
He narrows his eyes at her, a fiery burst of determination in his belly, “prepare to lose, Alinochka.”
Ivan swears under his breath. Fedyor coughs to cover his smile.
(Aleksander loses three more times before he gives up).
Aleksander is twenty-one years old. Alina is sixteen years old.
He’s not technically supposed to be in his mother’s office.
Aleksander might be the heir to the throne, but his mother is Queen Regnant and, as she likes to remind him while waving her cane around threateningly, she’s got no intention of stepping down any time soon.
However, she’s been irritated (more than usual, at least) this afternoon and he just wants to check if any of the day’s post or dispatches are concerning. Alina and her father are due in two weeks and he wonders if maybe their visit has been delayed or cancelled altogether (the thought makes him feel rather sick, even though he knows he should be happy).
The letter is out in the open, so it’s really fine that it reads it without asking.
A note from King Anton, worrying that their plan to have Alina and Aleksander spend summers together might be backfiring. He lists a dozen complaints Alina has made about Aleksander in only a day – at this, Aleksander snorts and is sure he could think of far more irritating little things about the little princess in only five minutes.
He finds a half-finished letter of his mother’s too – the phrase “urge her” underlined three times.
Aleksander only shakes his head. Alina is a stubborn creature, not likely to be moved by such tactics even when utilised by her beloved father. And she doesn’t seem to be scared of anything, not even his formidable mother.
Perhaps Aleksander should be hurt by how much King Anton’s letter suggests Alina dislikes him. However, when he glances through some of her complaints he just smiles – he just laughed when I put the frog in his bed, he didn’t even do his funny frowny face … he called his horse Volcra when he should clearly be called Shadow … he won’t let me borrow his cologne when it’s better than the smelly perfume Lady Tatiana Lantsova sent me … his hair is too shiny … I can’t draw his nose right when I sketch … there’s no one at home who is as stupidly good at horse riding as he is.
Alina really isn’t so bad, he supposes.
Aleksander is twenty-two years old. Alina is seventeen years old.
“Race you!”
Alina doesn’t wait for his response before she sets off, hands thrown wide as she raises her face to the sun.
She’ll give him a coronary one day, the way she rides. It’s not like he’s any better, really, and it’s true that she is almost as competent on a horse as he is, but he does worry about her.
Right now, though, he is focused on catching up. He’s won every race they’ve ever had and she’ll be impossibly insufferable if she beats him this time.
Riding has always been exhilarating and freeing for him, a chance to escape the regimented life in the palace and feel the wind in his hair.
Alina feels the same, he knows. Her father can be somewhat overprotective, so she enjoys the opportunity to escape his watchful eyes when they go out to ride.
When they were younger, they had been accompanied by a dozen soldiers, Ivan, Fedyor and two of Alina’s ladies. Now they tend to go almost alone, giving his friends and her ladies a chance to relax, only a few soldiers at a distance in case they have need of them.
Aleksander wins this race, although it is a close thing.
Alina looks frustrated, but he only ruffles her hair affectionately, “closer than usual. Maybe you’ll beat me one day, Alinochka.”
“Next time,” her face is screwed up in determination.
She says that after each race, but, who knows, maybe she’ll be right this time.
---
He arrives bright and early in his study one morning, knowing there are a pile of petitions to read.
It’s a duty his mother has recently given him. She still makes all final decisions, but she likes for him to go through every petition and make his own notes for her to consider. They don’t always agree, but it’s been a useful and interesting exercise for him.
Still, it is a little lonely sometimes, working on his own in his study.
This morning, though, there is a difference in routine.
There is someone sat in an armchair in the corner of the room reading a book.
“Alina?”
She jumps up at the sound of her name, “oh, Sasha, hello.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Well … I just thought …” she points to a covered tray he hadn’t previously noted, “I asked them to bring you some breakfast. Fedyor … he said you sometimes forget to eat in the morning when you’re working. And I … well … I wanted to see if I could help. It seems like the sort of thing I should do, and papa always says he doesn’t like to bother me with this sort of thing, even though I told him I’d be happy to help, and I –”
He holds up a hand to halt her slightly hysterical babbling, “relax, Alina. Thank you for breakfast. And I … I’d be grateful for your assistance.”
It’s never occurred to him that she might want to familiarise herself with the kind of petitions people send. He’s always assumed she’s happy with her art and riding and archery, but maybe it was silly of him to think that – she’s such a strong and clever little thing after all, despite the fact that her father sometimes seems to consider her a delicate flower in need of coddling, and when (if, if) they marry and their kingdoms are united, she’ll be the primary ruler of her home kingdom once her father dies.
As they go through the papers, she asks a lot of questions.
When he was younger, he might have thought it annoying, but now he just finds her enthusiasm endearing. They’re sensible questions too, well thought out and showing an admirable care for the wellbeing of the people.
And, although he has to explain a lot to her, Alina has plenty of helpful ideas. In the end, the work is done in less time than it would normally take, and with some notes and suggestions that he probably would not have thought of on his own.
When his mother looks over his work later that day, she gives him a pleased little smile and nods in satisfaction, “good,” she says, “very good indeed.”
He doesn’t think she’s just talking about his notes.
Aleksander is twenty-three years old. Alina is eighteen years old.
For almost as long as he can remember, Aleksander has been told that he and Alina will one day wed.
That day is ever so close, now that she is eighteen years old.
His mother’s hints have become almost unbearable as the time for Alina and King Anton’s next visit moves ever closer. He loves her, but she can be so pushy and annoying at times.
He knows what everyone is expecting of him. Even though they are betrothed, it is an arrangement that relies on the agreement of both parties – he has to propose and she has to accept.
He supposes everyone will have to learn to live with disappointment.
Since the moment they met, there has been an unspoken agreement between him and Alina. They do not want this marriage and, in spite of the encouragement of their parents, and the long summers spent together, he’s sure that hasn’t changed.
Besides, even if he was inclined to request her hand in marriage, there is no guarantee that Alina would accept. Surely it is better to avoid such potential embarrassment (heartache) by simply staying quiet?
It’s all a moot point anyway, because he doesn’t want to marry Alina.
Really.
---
Aleksander’s mother chivvies him towards the ballroom, fussing about his clothes and the one little curl of hair that won’t stay in place.
“Mother,” he hisses, “just leave it. I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about, nothing is going to happen.”
“Oh, Sasha,” she sighs, “for such an intelligent boy, you really can be an idiot.”
He chafes at being called a boy – he’s twenty-three years old, after all – and refuses to think about why his mother believes he’s being so stupid.
He huffs as he is practically shoved into the ballroom, but he freezes when he sees her.
Alina, as he has never seen her before.
It isn’t as if she’s never worn a dress. In fact, apart from the few years she went through a phase of wearing breeches, she’s always had pretty dresses (even if the hems have often been covered in mud).
This is something else entirely, though.
The gold dress has short bell sleeves and a wide, cream skirt with shimmering gold thread patterned across it. The over-skirt and train is a darker shade of gold, intricately embroidered and shimmering with hundreds of diamonds.
It is a masterpiece of a dress and, in that moment, he is sure no one could wear it as well as Alina does.
Her dark hair is smooth and shiny, and a delicate gold tiara decorated with diamonds sits on top of her head.
Somehow, without Aleksander realising it, the ugly duckling has turned into a swan.
Gangly limbs to soft curves. Spotty skin now golden and glowing. Tangled hair turned silky, cascading down her back.
Although, when he really thinks about it, she’s always been beautiful.
It just took him far too long to see it.
Why, he wonders, has he fought so long to avoid this marriage?
Why has he never admitted to himself just how special she really is?
Why is he terrified that she will reject him?
“So happy you could come,” he says, voice almost a whisper as he bows, entirely distracted by her closeness.
“So happy to be here,” she murmurs while she curtsies, eyelashes fluttering.
He takes her hand and kisses it without any of his usual complaints, heart beating a little faster as she flushes a pretty shade of pink.
The musicians strike up and it seems only fitting that he should take her in his arms so that they can dance.
Words aren’t necessary. They’ve known each other for so long, after all, and there is a comfort in the familiar movements of the dance as they move around the room, gazes locked.
She fits here, he thinks as he twirls her around, she fits in my arms like she was made for it.
How can there be anyone else? How can another compare to Alina, his Alina? Frustrating, maddening, devilish Alina. Beautiful, perfect, clever, funny Alina.
He never asks the question, not out loud, at least.
But when the music stops, he leans down to slant his lips across hers, their very first kiss, and he knows what her answer is.
Yes.