Regina Saxony

“This is a rather grand dinner,” Regina notes, staring ravenously at the food, piping hot on porcelain platters before them. Breads, soups, pastas, rich wines and cognac littered the engraved oak in a sickening, but tasty, extravagance.

“Well, we’re celebrating your marriage,” Regina’s step father noted.

“…Without your groom, dear Ilya.” Her mother condescendingly notes, fanning herself with ostrich feathers.

Regina grits her teeth. “He isn’t one for these sorts of things.”

Emelia tautly smiles, adjusting her attention to empty chair that sat next to Regina before swiveling her strikingly upturned nose to her second husband. Her second husband was entirely different from her first, from what Regina had heard. Andrei Oskanov had fine, blonde hair and squinty eyes reminiscent of the oriental spice traders in the mansion quarter of St. Petersburg—an old, withered man with tanned skin and thinning black hair. Oskanov was pale and portly, fuller in the face and around the waistline. In comparison, her father had thick, black hair that curled in tufts, tanned skin, and a muscular type, a body of a boy that had worked hours upon hours on a farm. His skin was pitted and full of scars from what her sources tell her, each scar having a story, a purpose, something that proved who he was and what he had come from. Alexsei was the foil of Oksanov. Regina was pleased by that.

Emelia and Andrei had two daughters and a son with each other, they all sat across from Regina, with their blonde hair all pin straight and worn in stylish, grandiose fashion. Yelizaveta, Anya, and the lone boy with his head staring down into the hollow abyss of the china, Andrusha, all sat properly with a tailored air. Regina had been jealous of her sister, Anya, a beautiful young thing with a monopoly on their mother’s affections. But as Anya sits at the table, plump cheeks artificially blushing, a tight frown etched upon her lips, pushing a cucumber slice around a plate, Regina pities the girl.

“Have you and Ilya, uh, moved out of the apartment?” Emelia queries.

Regina shakes her head, “No. I’m working at a naval base now and we’re still living together in the apartment,” She proudly states, spooning out more soup into a bowl that was entirely too small.

“Oh, Regina, you’ll get fat, dear sister,” Anya slurs, sipping gratuitously on the cognac and slurping soup.

Regina shakes her hand, her mouth simply watering at the excess of food. Ilya really needed to be here. “Food like this from where I am from is hard to come by,” Regina assures, shoving a spoonful of the delightfully starchy, warm pasta drenched in the broth.

Anya laughs, this terrible, high-class laugh that brings distaste rather than nostalgia to Regina, “Well, whose fault is that?” Her rhetoric is condescending.

“Regina is helping the soldiers, Anya,” Andrusha quips. He’s a dashing young man at a measly eight, bright, rosy cheeks and green eyes that shine like emeralds. His hair is a dashing red in reminiscent of Emelia.

“Hush, Regina is twenty years old, she is her own person,” Oskanov silences his children, a blush
permeating the apples of his cheeks.

Emelia ceases to slice her chicken into the thin chunks. “Regina had ample opportunities, she is a rather dashing young woman.”

“Thank you, mother,” Regina pauses before stabbing a slice of pork and gnawing it to mush.

“What was your wedding dress like?” Twelve year old Anya continues to drown in the wine, or cognac, Regina doesn’t care to ask nor can she differentiate.

Regina blushes, swallowing the perfectly seasoned food. It’s been forever since she had consumed such elaborate cuisine. “It was the dress I’m wearing now,” Regina chuckles, brushing the sleeves of the simple sheeny fabric. The dress was looser on her than it was that night due to the struggles of life, but it made her feel beautiful nonetheless.

Anya’s face contorts into confusion. “Did you wear a Kokoshnik?” Regina shakes her head in reply. Anya drops her fork, frowning deeply before she releases a childish, patronizing laugh. Yelizaveta only sulks in her stoic, four year old depression as she stares at the soup before her.

“Well, it sounds rather, peasant-like to me,” Anya comments.

“Anya,” Oskanov scolds.

Emelia laughs, downing her flute of champagne, “Oh, darling, Anya is right. We just have a taste for the finer things in life.”

“God does not want us to boast in our wealth, Emelia,” he places his napkin on top of the unfinished plate.

“Do not reprimand my daughter,” Emelia purses her lips.

“She is my daughter and you are my wife. Your daughter is sitting two seats away,” Oskanov points to Regina before raising his voice to an uncomfortable volume that makes the crystal ring at a high pitch in reverberation, “This is my household and I will have it under my reins. You will apologize to Regina.”

“I’m sorry, Regina,” Anya bows her head in insincerity.

After mere minutes pass, Emelia dismisses the children in response to a strong scowl emitting from Oskanov. It’s silent as Regina listens to the soft piano humming in the background as the only thing in the large, open home. The space is as empty as the people that reside in it, cold in all of the gaudy colors thrown onto the plaster. “Regina, we have an offer for you,” Oskanov folds his hands on the table, the servant having removed his dishes earlier.

“Yes sir,” Regina replies.

Emelia delicately fills her glass to the brim with bubbling champagne before clearing her throat, “In the sight of recent events,” She sips before continuing, “We thought it would be in the best interest for our family to leave the country.”

“And you and Ilya are a part of our family,” Oskanov adds, keeping a strong hold on Regina’s eyes whilst Emelia is staring at the portrait of their family, all striking blonde, fair skinned, and ginger.

There’s a reflection of pure glee in her eyes that accompany the flames that dance in her irises.
Regina gulp, the world becoming hyper focused, hard to decipher with the millions of stimuli swirling around in motions she couldn’t understand. “Ilya will not leave the rodina.”

“You can leave the rodina, you know,” Emelia turns her sharp, aging fixtures back to Regina, taunting her. It is an option, the option she’s been looking for. A chance to leave before things turned to an equality crazy mush of gray and conformity. “You can leave the rodina and live in comfort, luxury even,” Emelia suggests.

She flirted with the idea of leaving it all, trying to imagine a life without Ilya. Away from Ilya, for she knew she wouldn’t be without him, he’d always be with her in the thoughts. “I… I…” She stutters, trying to compose herself while trying to convince herself not to.

“Come back when you are ready, child. Go think about things and come back in a couple of days,” He urges, promoting a healthy method to making a decision.

Regina rushes to collect herself and her jacket, offended but intrigues. Thanking her parents for the evening, she slips into the cold.