Regina Saxony

“That is a rather extravagant gown, miss.”

Regina turns around, seeing a darker complected male with a rather staunch, pronounced nose. His hair is extremely thick while his stature was shorter and stouter than the typical Russian. She thought of him to be of some kind of Armenian or Georgian descent at the first glance. In a modest jacket, the man was very pointed, very stark with this thin veil of austerity as his lips remained dangerously poised in a subtle frown. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you,” Regina swirls her wine in delicate, conversational rotations.

“We do not have to be introduced for me to comment on your attire, miss,” The man steely retorts.

“Well, I’m Regina Volkova, daughter of Alexsei Zhestakov and Emelia Saxony,” Regina warmly introduces herself despite the man’s stubborn rudeness.

A small grin erupts on his face after she said her father’s name. Apparently every revolutionary knew her father. “Yes, I remember Alexis. He went by Alexis, you know. I take it you’re Ilya’s wife?” The man perks an eyebrow in piqued interest.

They board the boat quickly, Regina next to him as she nods in a strange meek manner with a blush shining on her cheeks. “Yes, I’m the Mrs. Volkova.”

The boat sways, something that Regina had expected to be more severe. The water below them ripples in a peaceful tide. It’s a gorgeous night with all of those stars beaming down on them all in an elegance that wasn’t present in dress. “From what I hear, Mrs. Volkova, you are quite the character,” He nearly whispers in her ear he’s so close.

It’s not an intimidating closeness, the confrontation has a more, cautioned, undertone. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip, Mister...”

“Mister Stalin.” He fills in her sentence.

Stalin.

Of all of the guests she could stand to speak with, it was him. The light lunch they ate in Mr. Ivchenko’s Dacha seemed to slowly rise in her throat. “And from wh-what I hear, Mr. Stalin,” she gulps in an understanding nervousness, “…You have a questionable character about yourself as well.”

He smiles, it’s not friendly, it borders on a sly indifference, “And you shouldn’t listen to gossip, Mrs. Volkova.”

The conversation urging on stagnation and awkwardness, Regina puts on a kind smile, “If you can, please talk to my dearest Ilya, he’s a big supporter of yours.”

“I’ve spoken with Mr. Volkov for months now, did you not know?” Mr. Stalin’s eyes twinkle in this cat and mouse type of conversation limbo. Right when Regina thinks her wit have won her the place of the mouse, Stalin paws at her and catches her off-guard.

“I don’t meddle in the political affairs of my husband,” Regina juts her chin defiantly as she places a gentle hand on the cool banister. A shiver runs down her forearm.

Stalin notices. “Do you want my jacket, ma’am?”

“I’ll be fine, thank you,” she replies in a curt, sophisticated dapper.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

“What?” Regina questions, twisting the simple silver ring around her finger aimlessly. She stops as soon as she realizes it looks weak—that it shows her outrageous anxiety.

“Meddling in the political affairs of your husband?” He suggests, staring at the radiance of the water against the rich starlight. He gazes to the fine lace of the skirt and bodice next, taking in the night along with her disgusting eloquence, failing to admire the aesthetics of such an impractical frock.
Regina swallows once more, having the taste for a heavy alcohol and a strong chocolate to drown out her senses. Something savory so that she could say she had a decent night and it not be a lie. “I guess I’m not the first one to tell you that your mother, Emelia, has left the country?”

Regina shakes her head. She’d known when her mother had left. She didn’t tell anyone either. Stalin nears in on her ear once again, too close for what Ilya would deem appropriate, but he wasn’t here to judge or prevent it from stopping. So instead of letting Stalin near in on her, she takes a step back. “Mr. Stalin, I can assure you no one is listening to our conversation, and quite frankly, I wouldn’t care if they were.”

“A bold statement.”

“Continue.” Regina huffs.

“You might want to join her, Mrs. Volkova,” Stalin makes the steely suggestion that leaves Regina without words.

Shaking her head, she closes her eyes for a minute trying to formulate some kind of witty answer.
“Do you think my ties to the Bolsheviks are questionable? Do you dare accuse my Ilya of…”

“This is about you. Ilya is as dedicated as they come, Mrs. Volkova.”

“And I’m even more dedicated to Ilya.”

Stalin chuckles, staring at his feet before he returns to that steely rhetoric and conversation that leaves Regina reeling for resources, “The new world we are molding, Mrs. Volkova, does not make room for the frivolous joys in life…”

“So I hear,” Regina taps her nails against the railing, the metallic clinks a soundtrack to the hyper focused, seriousness air.

Stalin’s thick eyebrows knit together, his smile infectious. “Well, Mrs. Volkova, I’m sure you’ve heard that the new world doesn’t provide for artists.”

“This is a true shame.” Regina notes, staring to the tablecloth being soaked by the gratuitous wine and other, various alcohols. Half of the party was flocking towards the table with a shimmer in their eyes, the bitter scent of what was so rare and so, so delightful drawing them in to coddle them with blurry vision and poor decisions. Ilya was one of them. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Stalin?”

“Just one?” He chortles. Regina fake a smile as they end the tension coated altercation.