Completed February of 2024.
ON A train to Noroviy, in the midst of a winter most mild, a man sat silently and stared out the frosted window.
He was an individual of a striking nature, both in appearance and attire: the two other inhabitants of his train car certainly thought so. With curling blond hair, beguilingly innocent blue eyes, and thin cheekbones, he gave the impression of a shepherd, or perhaps a starving actor. These were, of course, simply the opinions of his companions, and they were all strangers to one another. He wore the uniform of a local official, which was not unordinary, but around his shoulders he had wrapped a woollen shawl, woven from fine red and orange yarn that was unusual for the region and most certainly unseemly on a gentleman. This patchwork puzzle of a noble was Evgeniy Nikolayevich Kotov, first and only son of the recently deceased District Governor Nikolay Petrovich Kotov whose death incited a general uproar within the Kotov District of Noroviy. Just in time for the winter solstice, his son was returning to right the disarrayed affairs of his family estate.
Evgeniy—Zhenya, if you knew him well or had some sort of bold audacity—was mildly interested in the scenery that the train rushed past, as he had been away from Tsvera for over two years and had not seen proper Northern snow even once in that time. The journey to Noroviy passed through hills and forests, all smothered in untouched white snow that reflected blinding and pure sunlight. It was, however, rather frequently that his eyes flickered to the other two individuals in the train car, curiosity writing a question plainly across his affable features.
The man and the woman feigned ignorance at this repeated scrutiny, both seeming content to pass the entirety of the ride in silence. It was an hour yet to Noroviy.
The two men, in an act of chivalry that was much less moving than they believed it to be, had ceded one of the two benches to the woman, a high-class lady of subtly expensive tastes. This left Evgeniy at one end of the opposite bench, staring out the window, and the second gentleman at the other end of that same bench, where he leaned against the wall of the train in a most dignified manner.
Between the death of his father and the unfamiliarity with Tsvera that he had developed, Evgeniy was in a state of disquietude even as he took in the wintery scenery and, growing increasingly more fretful, worried at the hem of his outlandish shawl with his hands. He decided that a conversation with his peers was absolutely necessary, if only to get his bearings before alighting from the train and into the chaos of the capital.
“Pardon me, pardon my interruption,” Evgeniy began. The both of his companions looked toward him silently, seeming startled by the sudden noise. “My name is Kotov, from Noroviy. I was very much hoping to make your acquaintances, so that we might be familiar with one another before the train pulls in. I haven’t been to Tsvera in some time, you see.”
“My, Kotov!” the noble lady exclaimed. “The news of your District Governor is terribly sad. Condolences are in order. I am Sofya Zakharovna Devineva.”
“Evgeniy Nikolayevich.”