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Olenna woke with his name on her lips, just as she did every morning. It lingered like the last bite of a sugar-sweet pastry on her tongue. She could never decide if the taste was a welcomed one. It was a particularly vivid dream. Rooted in memory and fueled by wistful sentimentality. The memories ebbed and flowed like the tides, slipping away with the last tendrils of sleep until all that remained of her dreams was the emerald green of his eyes and the knowledge that something was woefully absent from the waking world.
Perhaps her grief had been coaxed by the reappearance of her elder brother? Where Nikolai traveled, so did the past. The one she'd rather leave buried beneath an unembellished crucifix and crocuses that bloomed brighter each spring that passed. His grave was well kept, the moss that crept up the sides scrubbed away by Olenna's hands and adorned with small gifts from his family. Would Nikolai return to that little corner of farmland now that he was back in Ravka? She hadn't been there in almost two months.
Avoidance had become as much a part of Olenna's days as stepping into her chemise and lacing her stays. Olenna was always a master at slipping away when she wanted to, but the difference was that now she was hiding from Nikolai, not with him. There was a list as large as Vasily's ego of reasons why it was easier to avoid her older brother. But there was only so much she could do inside the cage of the Grand Palace before they collided.
Olenna's neck stretched high, her chin tilted slightly to the left. A few paces away, Queen Tatiana peered over the shoulder of a painter long since lost in his work. A crease had formed between her brows as she scrutinized the likeness of Olenna's portrait. The lines of Tatiana's worries were deep and engrained, with no tailor's touch to smooth them over.
"You will fix her hair, won't you?" Tatiana pointed to a spot on the canvas that Olenna couldn't see. A ruby ring glinted beneath the nose of the poor painter. "Lighten the roots to match. I want her to look her best."
"Of course, Moi Tsaritsa." The painter mumbled, yet made no move to change his course.
Tatiana looked over the canvas to her daughter. "Don't fret, Olenna, Dear. We will find a new tailor to fix you up before they ever see you in the flesh." The assurance was undoubtedly for her benefit, not Olenna's. Olenna fought the natural urge to curl her shoulders inward as she took a deep breath and exhaled through parted lips. Frustration pooled in her chest, but it could never be allowed to boil over. Just sit still, and it will be over soon. She repeated the words in her head as a mantra.
