Chapter Text
Ilya sighs and lowers his embroidery. He's been working on the same petal pattern for hours now and he just can't get it quite right. His fingers are sore and his eyes ache from focusing on the gilded details for such a long time. Perhaps he needs a break. But his father is still working, knelt down on the linoleum floor of the workshop, pins held in his mouth as he hems the leg of Mr. Paxton's trousers, and if he can encourage his weary bones to persevere through the discomfort, then Ilya has no excuse.
He stretches his fingers before he picks up his needle again. He wants to hold the fabric up to his face to get a better look, but the soft velvet is too heavy and it's not good posture, anyway. Mama had taught him to take care of his hands, shoulders, and eyes by maintaining proper posture, and though she's not here anymore, Ilya can still heed her command. He closes his eyes for a long moment to let them refresh, and as he does, he feels the fabric in his hands pull taught.
“Taking a nap, lentyay?” It's Alexei, tugging at the top of the dress Ilya is embroidering just to irritate him. “Why don't you help Papa?”
“I am helping Papa,” Ilya returns shortly, “and I am not lazy.”
“Be nice to your brother,” Grigori warns Ilya. “He is working hard.”
“So am I.”
“Sewing pretty dresses isn't hard work,” Alexei says. “There are more important skills to have than stitching flowers onto clothes that will just get dirty, anyway.”
“This is for a woman from Victoria,” Ilya says. “She's traveling to the palace to see the prince and she wanted her dress to look nicer.”
“Until you're sewing for the prince, it's not important,” Alexei huffs. “You can do ladies’ work on your own time. Come help me bring the flour back. I can't lift with my bad back.”
Ilya sighs. Alexei had injured his back about a year ago and has been milking it ever since. Ilya isn't altogether convinced that he's still suffering; it only seems to flare up when Alexei has to do something he doesn't want to do.
“Okay,” he concedes, setting his embroidery aside. He'll have to stay up late tonight to finish it, but that's better than hauling flour after dark.
Ilya follows Alexei outside of the workshop to the road. It's bustling with evening activities: blacksmiths and salesmen are arriving home from work, wives and mothers are preparing supper, and the children, home from school at last, are playing spirited games of hopscotch and marbles in the streets. Couvér is one of the most austere provinces in Eldoria, and without the luxuries that other provinces are afforded, its people lead relatively simple lives. Ilya doesn't complain because it's all he's known; he wasn’t raised with the lavish indulgences that other people live with, and he doesn't resent that. But he knows plenty of people that do, including his own father and brother.
He follows Alexei down the road toward the mill. The one thing Ilya does wish they had is a horse since it would be so helpful for these trips that are so arduous by foot, but neither Grigori nor Alexei can ride and horses are too expensive to only be used on occasion, so it isn't practical. Ilya will have to carry the fifty pounds of flour over his shoulder instead.
At least the weather is nice. The evening is cool and the sky is clear and shining golden with the light of the setting sun. Ilya takes a deep breath of the crisp, clean air. He loves Eldoria and he loves Couvér. It's such a beautiful place, north enough that they feel the difference in the seasons, and the smell of late spring floats beautifully through the air on the tail of the evening breeze.
The walk isn't very long. The mill is just down the hill from Grigori’s shop, nestled between the candlemaker and the edge of the forest. Ilya can see the miller's son, Carter Vaughn, lingering outside with his brother, Porter, and their father, Dane. As they grow closer, it looks like Dane and Porter are keeping Carter balanced as they walk him toward their wagon.
“Hey there,” Dane calls over his shoulder when he sees Ilya and Alexei. “Give me one moment and I'll be right with you boys.”
“Do you need any help?” Ilya comes to support Carter from the back as he stumbles over the uneven path. It seems to be his foot; his boot is off, forgotten a few yards back, and he winces every time he presses weight on his left side. “What happened?”
“Oh, Carter tripped and twisted up his ankle again,” Dane says. “Probably a little fracture, too. I keep telling him to be careful lifting heavy loads, but he doesn't listen.”
“I wasn't lifting,” Carter defends himself. “Just walking the horses.”
“Speaking of,” Dane says, “go get them, Porter. Ilya will help me get him to the wagon.”
“You know, this ain't all that bad,” Porter says as he passes Carter's weight off to Ilya. “You'll get excused from the draft real easy.”
“The draft?” Ilya asks.
“Some new royal initiative,” Carter grunts. Ilya helps him step forward and up into the wagon, where he rests back against the wood. “It's because of the Calgarian forces out west. Any well and able gentleman between eighteen and thirty will be made to join the military for national security reasons.”
“Nationwide?”
“I guess not. Just Couvér, Lambert, and Violé. Funny how it's only the poor provinces getting picked on.”
“That ain't true,” Dane scoffs at his son. “They're eyeing Victoria next.”
“Whatever,” Carter says. “Within the next couple of days, there will be people here from the palace coming to collect all the strapping young lads they can carry. I guess I won't be one of them.”
Ilya frowns. He can't go into the military. Who would help Papa with the shop? Alexei won't do it; he deems sewing to be “women's work”, that and everything else Ilya does. He won't straighten up or cook or take care of Grigori. And Grigori can mostly get around by himself, but what if, God forbid, something happened to Ilya? What happens when he needs help that Alexei won't give him?
“What excuses someone from the draft?” he asks curiously. Dane gives him a knowing glance.
“Well, in theory, an injury could take you out if it's real bad,” he says, “and men in school don't have to go. But I wouldn't go banging yourself up or dishing out your life savings. You'd get in big trouble if they found you deliberately trying to get out of it.”
Ilya racks his brain for a solution. He can't be drafted. Papa needs him to be here. With Alexei’s back injury taking him out of the draft, Grigori won't be totally alone, but his older son isn't much help at all. And, selfishly, Ilya doesn't want to join the military. He's clumsy. He's scared of combat. He doesn't want to put himself in danger, not even for his kingdom. Maybe that makes him an awful person, but that's what it all boils down to, really. He's scared.
He has to find a way out. Something that won't injure him long-term or deplete his family's savings. Ilya can't go to school since it's both too expensive and too far away to attend and he can't injure himself too badly since he still needs to take care of things around the house, so he needs to think of another solution. Quickly.
Porter returns with the two horses and saddles them up to the wagon while Dane goes to fetch Ilya and Alexei’s flour. Ilya knows he should follow, but he feels frozen to the spot. Carter is watching him from the bed of the wagon like he knows what Ilya is thinking, and ordinarily, it would be unnerving, but Ilya is already too uncomfortable to mind.
“It's scary,” Carter says. “We only got our notice today. Porter isn't worried, but I am. I don't want to be in the military.”
“Neither do I,” Ilya admits. “I'm not brave enough.”
“I'm not ready to lose anyone,” Carter says. “Even if I'm not drafted, Porter will be. So will Troy. And Marly. And you. I'm not ready to lose my friends.”
Ilya's stomach tightens. “Neither am I.”
“Hey!” Alexei's voice cuts through the conversation. “Let's go, boltun! I don't have all day!”
Ilya huffs in irritation and bids goodbye to Carter before he makes his way over to Alexei and Dane. They have two bags of flour, each about twenty-five pounds, but Ilya knows Alexei will complain about his back if he's asked to carry one, so the burden is entirely his. He takes one from Dane and slings it over his shoulder before he tucks the other under his arm as comfortably as he can.
“You be careful with that,” Dane warns. “I'd offer to help you carry that back to your papa, but I've got to get the boy to the doctor.”
“That's alright,” Ilya says. “I hope he's okay.”
“He will be. He's a tough kid.” Dane waves as Ilya and Alexei start back toward the road. “Have a good night!”
“You too,” Ilya calls back.
He and Alexei are both quiet for a minute or two as they tread slowly up the hill, but then Alexei speaks, and Ilya wishes he hadn't.
“Excited for the draft?”
“No,” Ilya huffs.
“Why not? You could do something good for your kingdom. And it would teach you how to be a man.”
“I know how to be a man,” Ilya snaps.
“You could have fooled me. With all that cooking and cleaning and sewing you do, you may as well be wearing a skirt and some stockings.” Alexei laughs at his own joke, but Ilya does not. “The military would be good for you.”
“Who would take care of Papa?” Ilya asks him.
“Me, of course. I can't be drafted because of my back.”
“But will you cook for him? Will you clean? Who will help him in the shop? Who will carry heavy things and do handiwork you can't do?”
“I will learn,” Alexei says. “It can't be hard if you do it.”
Ilya wants to retort, but he keeps his mouth shut. His brother is such a jerk sometimes. He probably hasn't noticed that Ilya is scared, but if he has, he doesn't seem to care.
Alexei has always taken after their father, a rough, righteous man with more interest in business and personal affairs than his family. Grigori had married Ilya's mama when she was very young; she had been in love with him and Grigori thought marrying a woman of higher status would elevate himself, but Irina’s father had disapproved, so the two of them found themselves settled into a simple life in Couvér.
While Alexei is like Papa, Ilya fancies himself to be more like Mama. He looks like her with his golden curls and his moles – angel marks, as Mama had called them. She loved both of her children equally, but she and Ilya just had this unmistakable bond. He was her baby, she was his mama, and they were inseparable.
Ilya misses her. Even as sad as she was, she had done so well, taking care of her family, teaching them things they needed to know, and making sure they were happy. But Ilya misses her so badly, and he still needs her, even ten years after she had left him. He'll always need her.
Mama would know what to do about the draft. She would know how to comfort Ilya and make him feel brave. Even if he had to go, Ilya would feel better if Mama were waiting for him.
But she isn't, so he has to figure out what to do. Papa needs Ilya, and though he would never, ever admit it, so does Alexei.
Ilya adjusts the bag of flour slung over his shoulder and pauses to catch his breath. The walk from the mill to the tailor is uphill and it takes effort even when Ilya isn't carrying fifty pounds. Alexei doesn't seem to be having any trouble, walking leisurely a few feet ahead of Ilya, but Ilya resists the urge to ask his brother for help. All Alexei will do is complain.
Ilya is dripping with sweat by the time he reaches the tailor. Papa hasn't closed the shop yet, probably just finishing up a few final things, but Ilya needs to get supper started and draw himself a bath before it gets too late. He drops one of the bags at the base of the stairs and takes the flour up one bag at a time, his muscles relaxing in relief once they're settled in the pantry where they belong.
Ilya pulls his shirt off and wipes the sweat from his brow before he steps into the bedroom to fetch a clean shirt. He lights the lanterns in the kitchen and begins to prepare supper, a simple vegetable soup that he knows how to make like the back of his hand. Ordinarily, Ilya would try to throw in some meat, but he hadn't had the time to stop by the butcher this week, so vegetables alone will have to do.
He hums to himself as he chops up the potatoes, carrots, and parsnips and shells the peas. He can hear Alexei and Papa's footsteps on the stairs a few minutes later. Alexei is holding an envelope that he tosses onto the countertop as he makes his way through the kitchen to the bedroom.
“For you,” he tells Ilya. “About the draft.”
Ilya's stomach sinks. He finishes chopping up the carrots and sets the knife down slowly before he reaches for the envelope. It's heavy, off-white paper sealed with a green wax seal stamped with the royal crest. He breaks the seal and unfolds the page inside, where loopy handwriting reads:
In light of increasing security threats to our borders and the ongoing need to safeguard the peace of this Kingdom of Eldoria, the Crown has authorized the immediate expansion of Eldorian military forces. Effective immediately, a mandatory draft is enacted across all provinces.
Every male citizen between the ages of eighteen and thirty years who is deemed physically well and able is required to register for military service. Eligible individuals must report to their local city hall no later than seven days from the date of this notice.
The Crown recognizes that certain obligations and hardships take precedence over military service. An individual may apply for a formal exemption only if they meet one of the following criteria:
- Any individual with a documented physical injury, chronic illness, or disability that prevents them from completing basic training or performing military duties.
- Any student currently enrolled full-time and in good standing at an accredited university.
- Any individual who is the primary, indispensable caregiver for a dependent person (such as an elderly parent, minor child, or disabled relative) who relies entirely on them for survival and support.
All claims for exemption must be verified by official documentation and approved by a regional military board.
Compliance with this decree is mandatory. Any eligible individual who fails to register, attempts to evade service, or falsifies documentation to obtain an exemption will face immediate arrest.
By order of the Crown,
His Majesty David I
Ilya feels slightly ill as he scans the notice again. He doesn't meet any of the exemption criteria. As unhelpful as Alexei is, he does provide care to their father, which means Grigori can't file for dependency under Ilya, not that he would anyway. And Ilya isn't injured or a student, so unfortunately, he very much qualifies for service.
Papa stops beside him to read the letter over his shoulder. Ilya hands it to him and resumes cooking supper. His mind feels like it's moving at a million miles an hour. Again, he wishes Mama were here with him to comfort his fear, because he's not sure he can do it by himself.
“You must register for service,” Papa says once he's done reading. “You have a month until the deadline, but you should get it done sooner rather than later.”
“I'll get it done,” Ilya says shortly. He doesn't want to think about it right now. But Papa doesn't seem to notice that the topic is making Ilya uncomfortable.
“This will be good for you,” he says as he makes his way to the table, pulling out his wooden chair and taking a seat. “You will learn structure and discipline, and you will finally be doing something honorable.”
Ilya bites his tongue to hold back his retort. More honorable than taking care of my family? he wants to ask, but he knows Alexei and Papa don't like to think of Ilya as a provider. Maybe it's because he's the youngest son or because he reminds them so much of Mama, but regardless, they prefer to look at it like they're taking care of themselves.
“I don't want to talk about it,” Ilya says. Papa narrows his eyes.
“Don't be sour, Ilya. This is a good thing.”
“I'm not excited about it,” Ilya insists, “and I don't want to think about it right now.”
“About what?” Alexei chooses just then to emerge from the bedroom. “The draft?”
“I'd like to discuss something else,” Ilya says firmly, but no one seems to be listening to him.
“Oh, you'll like it,” Alexei teases. “Plenty of beds for you to make and shoes to shine.”
“It will be good experience in the real world,” Grigori says. “You have been too sheltered here. You know nothing about how the world works. This will be good exposure.”
“I know enough,” Ilya replies tersely. He really resents how naïve and simple his family makes him out to be. He's just as smart as they are, and he's arguably harder working. “I just don't want to think about having to leave my responsibilities behind to lay my life on the line for a war we shouldn't be having.”
“You know nothing,” Alexei snaps. “Calgary is a real threat to us. Imagine what trouble we'd be in if every capable young man were making excuses to get out of service.”
“I'm not making excuses,” Ilya says hotly. “I don't think I should be made to abandon my family when they need me more than a country whose politics I disagree with.”
“We don't need you,” Alexei yells. “We've never needed you! We can all live without you, Ilya!”
Ilya's chest tightens and his eyes sting with tears. He knows that's not true; his family has always needed him, but to hear Alexei sound so sure of himself and to see Papa make no effort to dissuade the thought from Ilya's mind… it hurts him. Ilya needs to be needed, and if the two people closest to him don't need him, then who does?
Alexei scoffs in irritation. “Plaksa,” he swipes at Ilya. “You're acting like a little girl. Real men don't cry, Ilya, especially men in the military. You have to at least pretend that you're strong.”
Ilya says nothing, stirring the soup slowly and watching the vegetables bob around the edges of the pot. There's no use in replying when he's only going to fuel the argument. Alexei won't be the one to diffuse the situation, so unless Ilya wants to shout all evening, he needs to take the high road and keep his mouth closed.
He serves them each a bowl of soup, silently accepts Alexei's criticism of a vegetarian supper, and eats his own portion quietly. Alexei and Papa converse about business while Ilya straightens up the kitchen and washes the dishes, and then it's time for Ilya to draw Papa a bath and get ready for bed. He contemplates bringing the draft notice outside with the compost, but Ilya finally decides against it; he tucks it back into its envelope and nestles it in the drawer of important documents in Papa's night table.
Ilya washes his face, cleans his teeth, and gets into bed after checking that all of the windows are closed and locked. It may be nearly summer, but nights are still cool and no one needs to be getting sick right now. He smooths his quilt out over the bed before he makes himself comfortable. Across the room, Alexei is changing his clothes and Papa is taking his medicine before he gets into his own bed.
Ilya is very tired, but he probably won't be able to sleep very well. He feels anxious and it's hard to think of anything but the draft notice when he's left alone with his thoughts. Ilya knows he would feel guilty about evading the draft if he were injured, but at least he wouldn't be so scared. He just doesn't know what the right thing to do is.
Ilya reaches up to touch the chain around his neck, feeling around until he finds the cross charm. It was Mama's necklace, and no one had wanted it after she died, so Ilya took it. He's been wearing it for ten years and it still helps him feel grounded. He sighs softly as Alexei blows out the lantern and draws the curtains, leaving the room in darkness, and Ilya closes his eyes and settles into his pillow. Hopefully, a miracle will come in the morning and he won't have to be afraid anymore.
~
The next few days pass uneventfully. Ilya tries to forget about the notice by focusing on his work, but even as he works at the trickiest of stitches, he's still painfully aware that the letter is sitting just upstairs in his own bedroom. And it's hard to forget about when it's all anyone else can talk about; Alexei is always goading Ilya, Papa is urging him to pack his bag and register sooner rather than later, and customers of the shop discuss their friends, neighbors, or sons disappearing into the draft like it's the afternoon’s weather.
Even though Ilya has been putting it off, he still has to register by the end of the week, and that deadline draws closer with every minute that ticks by. He tries to prepare himself as he sits and sews, but he only ends up making himself more anxious. He's scared, and the only way to make it stop is to face this head-on, but Ilya isn't sure he can do that.
The final day to register arrives on Saturday, a beautiful spring morning. Ilya wakes feeling an impending sense of dread. His little bag sits half-packed at the foot of his bed and serves as a reminder that he won't be returning home tonight. A few young men in town that Ilya is friendly with have gone to register and simply haven't come back, and Ilya doesn't want to do that, but the alternative is prison and he doesn't want that, either. He has no choice: he has to suck it up and face the music.
That doesn't mean he can't take his time, though. Ilya takes a bath, gets dressed, and makes his bed neatly before he goes to prepare breakfast for Papa and Alexei. He drags out the meal as long as he can, then washes the dishes and straightens up the kitchen. Papa had said he couldn't finish his work in the shop until his bag was packed, so Ilya is forced to grab the essentials – his medicine, his hairbrush, his shaving kit, a few clean sets of clothes, and his photograph of Mama that usually sits on his night table.
He's not sure what else he would bring with him. Ilya has no idea what to expect, so it's hard to think of what he may need. He swaps out his house slippers for his work boots, blows out the lantern in the bedroom, and makes his way downstairs to the shop.
He's finished with the gown he had been embroidering, so all Ilya has to do is package it up and deliver it back to the young lady in Victoria. There's some sort of royal decree for women in the richer provinces, but Ilya doesn't know very much about it, just that it apparently requires a lady's best dress.
It's a very nice dress, made of a light blue velvet and trimmed with gold that matches the floral embroidery Ilya had stitched onto the skirt. The sleeves are long and flare out at the ends and the lace underskirt brushes the wooden floor. Ilya runs his fingers over the soft material hanging on the rack.
“Hurry up, lentyay,” Alexei calls as he comes in from the back room. “It'll take a few hours to get to Victoria, and then you've got to get to town hall before sunset.”
“I have plenty of time.” Ilya picks up a delivery box and lays it out on the stool beside him, unfolding a few layers of soft tissue paper into the bottom to cushion the gown before he takes it down and folds it neatly. It's a little bit bulky, especially once he fetches the petticoat he'd trimmed with lace and folds that up, too, but it fits in the box and that's all that matters. He puts the lid on and ties it closed with a ribbon.
“Good to go?” Grigori asks from his workbench. Ilya nods. “Alright. You should leave now. It will take you some time to deliver.”
“Yes,” Ilya murmurs. He knows he should leave, but he's expecting… more. Some kind of goodbye or I'll miss you or something comforting or encouraging. He gets none of it; Alexei disappears outside to feed the chickens and Papa continues measuring the seams of his pattern. “I will go now.”
“Alright,” Papa says, and that's that. No good luck. No safe travels. Ilya's stomach twists sadly as he picks up his little bag and the box with the gown and makes his way outside to the road.
~
The walk to Victoria is very long. Ilya brings a handful of coins to buy himself some lunch along the way, which was a smart thing to do since it takes him nearly five hours to reach the edge of the province. Luckily, the young lady doesn't live too far away, so Ilya doesn't have much farther to go before he must turn around and head back to Couvér.
He can't help but think this would've been faster with a horse. Maybe he'll get a horse in the military. He can care for it, name it something handsome. It could be his friend. That would be nice.
The streets of Victoria are bustling with people. They're all dressed in nice clothes – long, light dresses and clean trousers, boots laced up to the knees and hair done up spectacularly. There's a shop selling wigs on the corner and Ilya sees a young woman fitting a huge blonde wig over her ginger hair. Everything is fancier, cleaner, and more luxurious than his life back in Couvér. Ilya is fascinated.
The crowds squall with animation just as Ilya prepares to cross the street, and he pauses at the beat of hooves pounding over the dirt. A duo of horses comes trotting around the corner, dragging a huge gilded carriage that looks like something right out of the palace. It's clean and white, embellished with golden details, and it looks empty through the windows on the sides. Ilya watches with interest as the carriage grinds to a halt and the footman leading the horses hops down to the ground with a soft thump.
“Hear ye, hear ye,” he calls loudly, and the din of the crowd quiets to a murmur. “As you were warned in the decrees you have received, all young women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three will be taken to the palace of His Majesty, King David the First, in an effort to find a bride for the prince. All eligible ladies shall prepare their nicest clothes and be ready as carriages arrive.”
An excited murmur passes through the crowd and Ilya frowns, clutching the box to his chest. If only he were a woman. He could go to the palace, spend a few days pretending to vie for the prince’s hand, and be dismissed back home to his family, where he would have fulfilled his duty and could continue to care for Papa and Alexei. That would be perfect, but unfortunately, Ilya is not a woman, so he can't do that.
But what if he could? Ilya gets a thought in his mind as he runs his fingers along the side of the box in his arms. Alexei has always joked that he looks feminine, and in a dress and a wig and a crowd, Ilya may be able to blend in enough to spend a few days gone before they send him back home. It's an absolutely crazy thought, but his stomach flutters with a kind of excitement at the idea.
He wouldn't have to go into the military, that's for sure. That's all Ilya is thinking about. He's not thinking about what an objectively bad idea this is or how bad the consequences would be if he got caught. He's not thinking about logistics or details. He's just thinking about the possibility of returning home to his family safely and soon.
Before he can decide not to do it, he's turning around and running back down the street toward the wig shop. There's a woman at the counter inside who looks up when he enters, a slight frown crossing her face.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, please,” Ilya replies. “I'm a tailor from Couvér and I'm bringing a gown I mended to a woman on this street. She sent word asking me to pick up a wig for her on my way.”
“Oh, of course.” The woman smiles. “Any particular color?”
“Erm, maybe blonde? She didn't specify,” Ilya lies, but the woman is already pulling down a curly blonde wig for him.
“How's this one? I'm sure you don't have very much money on you since you're from Couvér, but this one is fairly affordable and still looks nice.”
Ilya ignores the passive aggressive comment about money and nods. “That's perfect, thank you.”
His stomach rumbles with hunger as he hands over his lunch money, but once the wig is in his hands, Ilya feels much more confident. He leaves the shop and ducks down a narrow alley behind the building, making sure he's out of view from the street before he drops the box and unties the ribbon.
Ilya sheds his shirt and pulls the dress on over his head. It's a little bit tight, clearly not made for a man, but miraculously, the buttons all fasten and the lacing at the front doesn't burst. It's not exactly comfortable and the skirt is a little bit short, showing the tips of his work boots beneath the lace hem. Ilya doesn't have time to think about that, though; he smooths out the skirt as long as it will go and fits the wig over his head. Having long hair brushing his neck and shoulders is something he's not used to, but Ilya forces himself to ignore the unfamiliar sensation as he stuffs his shirt back into his bag.
Luckily, his travel bag is relatively plain, a light brown leather that isn't necessarily damning to his disguise. Ilya wishes he had a mirror so he could check how convincing he is, but he doesn't have the time. He leaves the box for the gown behind and rushes back out to the street to join the crowd.
Walking in a gown is much different than walking in trousers. Ilya uses his free hand to lift his skirt to make it easier to move. He's expecting it to be difficult to get through the crowd of people, but he's swallowed up almost right away.
The first carriage fills up and starts away down the road. Ilya can hear another one coming to take its place. Women around him are excitedly chattering to their friends and embracing their families goodbye, and Ilya hopes it's not suspicious that he doesn't know anybody around him. He tightens his grip around the handle of his bag and reaches up to straighten his wig, brushing a few beads of sweat from his forehead as he does.
“This carriage can fit six,” the footman calls as he steps down to open the door. The people around Ilya are trying to shove to the front of the crowd, and in all the turmoil, Ilya gets dragged along with them. He's pushed and bumped and he goes stumbling toward the carriage with a yelp. It suddenly dawns on him as he straightens up that this is a terrible idea; he could be fined or imprisoned for doing something like this, and Ilya doesn't have the money or the bandwidth to deal with something like that. He should turn around and hurry back to Couvér, but just as he regains his balance, Ilya feels someone take his hand and looks up to see the footman.
“I'll help you up, my lady,” he says politely, and Ilya's stomach flips. Is he really that convincing? “Allow me to take your bag.”
“Oh, I'm not-” Ilya's words are of no use to him since the footman guides him up the steps and into the shade of the carriage. He hands Ilya his bag and turns toward the next young woman. Ilya glances at the three other women already sitting inside and tucks his skirt beneath his legs as he sits down next to one of the windows.
The footman helps two more women inside before he closes the door to the carriage and makes his way around to the front. Ilya looks around nervously. He may have fooled one person, but will he fool actual women? What if one of them catches him immediately? It would be so embarrassing to be arrested in front of all these people, Ilya thinks hopelessly, and he's missed his chance to slip out unnoticed. He's really gone and done it this time.
One of the women sighs as the carriage lurches forward and begins to move.
“Well, we're off,” she says definitively. “Good luck, everybody.”
“May the best woman win,” another says.
“I almost feel that we should introduce ourselves,” remarks a third. “My name is Mary-Kate Winstead.”
“I'm Ella Greene,” chirps the girl sitting beside Ilya. “What about you?”
“Oh, I…” Ilya clears his throat, lowering his tongue in an attempt to lighten his voice slightly. “My name is Lily,” he says, hoping the feminine lilt of his voice sounds convincing. “Lily Rozanova.”