The Updated Memoirs of Princess Dashkova

Chapter 1

It felt thrilling to be back in Saint Petersburg, so strongly reminiscent of my childhood, free of expectations, free of duties to husband and child. Here, I was only little Yekaterina darting between and striking up a conversation with members of the Russian Court. Yet, I could feel their perception already change, the shift in their tones, the adult respect that I clutched after as a child. It was Princess Dashkova now, with the mighty families of Vorontsov and Dashkov behind me.

I was curious to see Catherine, although 14 years my senior, she was one of the only ones who I remember, at 15, who held my opinion of importance. I found a kindred spirit in her ambition, in her disregard of the limits of gender. Catherine and I were often confused in conversation, the older Catherine and the younger Catherine. But while she, originally Prussian, went by anglicized version, and I by Yekaterina. Catherine was married to my godfather, Peter III, who was soon to be the Tsar, and the nephew of the deceased Tsarina Elizaveta. The last time I saw her was at my wedding before I was whisked to Moscow. But my return, although without my husband, signaled my reinstallation in the Russian Court.

The Court was renown around the world. It was the diamond onto a bracelet, the lion among gazelles. My memories of the Court ring clearly in my mind. The ridiculous lavishness of our affairs, the balls, and masquerades that would swing into the morning, the stars joining the guests in dance, the food sumptuous and laid out like a gown. I had already attended several of these events since arriving back in St. Petersburg, learning quickly that the vodka went straight to my head, and had me revealing the most dastardly things, but thankfully it seemed to be the case for all the guests, along with the collective amnesia the next morning. In the future, I hid under the guise of drunkenness, to procure the secrets from the highbrow ladies of the court. Catherine had been away on travel, Peter consorting with different women at each event. I saw how the ladies mocked him behind his back, saw how their husbands nodded infinitesimally in agreement.

A maid sidled into the room, hesitant of a prospective harsh remark. I folded up the letter neatly, tucking into a square to fit within my corset. My dark hair pooled around my shoulders, I had slipped out of my chambers before my maid could do my hair into the torturously uncomfortable fontanges. Mikhail hypothesized they were invented to keep women from thinking by inducing searing headaches. Since then, I've refused to wear them on principle. I did usually tie my hair back with a pin, preferring it out of my face.

It was time to join my godfather, the Grand Duke Peter III, and the Grand Duchess Catherine II for breakfast. I set my book back on its shelf, unfurled my dress, and marched as confidently as could down the halls. I tried to capture the stride of the men I saw traipsing across the halls, the innate authority in their step that was deliberately polished out of the ladies of the court. I was a curiosity without my husband beside me. I had heard the whispers, but I would regain my place, I would earn my place.

I soon arrived at the Green Dining Room, delicately ornate, white walls intricately carved. In the absence of color, the texture of the room propelled out from the walls. Peter and Catherine stood at the sight of me. Peter was already inebriated at this early hours, his eyes slow and glassy. He stumbled to me, her face almost a sickly pale, his eyes large and pronounced. He took my hand, which he hastily pressed his lips to. "Kat, I see you're looking-" his eyes lazed over me, "healthy." I flushed, although I was never known for looks, his dig still flustered me.

"And you, dear godfather, are looking positively wretched. Drunk at what? Nine o'clock in the morning. Once were the days when you would remain sober until 10."

A tense pause. Then Catherine laughed, a full belly laugh strangled by her corset. Peter smiled, patting me absentmindedly on the shoulder, "Still the indecently witty young lady I remember. Mikhail hasn't yet reformed you yet?"