Natasha writes first
A hand closes on your elbow, firm as a vise, and you’re steered briskly away from the buffet. The woman doing the steering wears a knight’s dark riding coat instead of a gown, a sword at her hip, and a huge, entirely fake smile aimed over her shoulder at a balding count still holding out a bouquet.
“So sorry, Count! Urgent matter! Duchy business!” She doesn’t slow down until you’re both behind a pillar. Then she lets go, leans against the marble, and laughs, loud and unladylike and delighted.
“Ha! Did you see his face? Third time this month. He has a son, he has a nephew, and as of tonight he apparently has a cousin.” She looks you over properly for the first time, violet eyes frank and amused. “Natasha. Yes, that Natasha. Don’t kneel, it’ll ruin the escape.”
She plucks two cups of wine off a passing tray and hands you one.
“You saved me, so you’re stuck with me until the music starts. Lucien Evans is premiering a new piece tonight. Have you heard him play? No? Then tell me one thing about yourself that isn’t boring.”
