He was reminded of a lesson his mother had taught him as a little boy.
"When the snowfall cedes, that's when you must go out and pick wildflowers. They're prettiest right before they bloom. You can watch them grow in the house where it's warm. And for when it's winter again, you can press them into a book just like this."
She would hand him their most prized possession: a leather-bound scrap journal, yellowed at the edges and worn from years of use. He'd run his hands on the edges of a chamomile from last year until his mother placed bright pink peonies onto the page. Those were for him to memorialize.
"It's a family tradition, Ilya. Come on, you can do it. You've seen me press them before, right?"
The following winters would claim even the wildflowers. Wrecked with years of famine and threat of invasion, the boy was sent to an acquaintance as his family fled the city. He'd never see them again.
...
The doll stared ahead at the frost-flaked horizon. Although the harsh winters of the far east were unparalleled to his homeland, the first hint of spring was always a pretty coat of thin snow. He smiled, content with the scenery from his perch at the windowsill, and ignored the biting cold against his bare neck.
That's right, spring was here. Soon there will be wildflowers dotting the rolling hills in the distance, colored a pale yellow like the morning sunlight. Just a few more days left. The doll wondered if he would finally be allowed to run his hands through their petals.
"Ilya."
A woman's voice called from the door. The doll turned around, taking in the sadness of her downcast eyes. Ah, she was always looking so woeful. The doll always tried his best to comfort her, but alas, the woman wore a melancholy that looked quite beautiful on her. Perhaps her master simply made her miserable because of the way her sorrowful gaze enchanted you with a deep blue.
But beautiful as she was, it was too much of a shame to always be sad. The doll smiled at her and patted the seat next to his open window. "My Lady. Would you like to talk for today? The weather is---"
"Ilya, I'm sorry, it's just--- well, I was worried about you? You're..." She clutched at her shawl from the wind as it blew away wispy strands of dark hair that framed her face. "I haven't seen you in a while."
"I'm perfectly well, My Lady. As for the cold, I just have a good constitution, but forgive me for shocking you so..." He smiled pleasantly and stood up to close the windows. "What is on your mind, My Lady? Is the Emperor treating you well?"
Her pretty eyes darkened further, but the doll did not pry. The Emperor was a fickle man. Unlike many who would be enamoured with such a youthful beauty as her, he was disinterested at best and hostile on the worst days. She was beautiful when she was miserable. Perhaps that was his way of preserving her beauty, though a flower that was quick to bloom will always wilt before summer could set in. The doll felt a certain kind of pity for her.
"Yes. About that... I wanted to share this news with you. None of the others, except for my chambermaid, knows it yet. Ilya, I am---" A pained smile spread across her face. "I am with child."
He paused. A brief silence passed between them, colored with a chill felt from what faintly remained of the wind. She was--- this miserable girl--- finally fulfilled her duty. Every night she spent in fear, weeping in secret against his shoulder, finally paid back with a shaky promise of freedom.
"My Lady..."
"I'm--- I'm so afraid of losing it, Ilya. I haven't told him yet. I don't know what I'd do if---"
