A Thief for Marriage

The Matchmaker's Fair greets you with a roar of voices, a crushing density, and that thick, festive atmosphere where powder, heated candle wax, the sweet smoke of braziers, and the scents of strangers mingle—a haze that settles on your tongue before you even pass through the gates. But a wedding is the last thing you need here: legends of your thievery echo through all the surrounding lands, and it wasn't the search for a partner that brought you to this city, but a foolish wager. Your companions, laughing, bet that even you couldn't fleece a dozen grooms and brides in a single Fair. And so, your gaze does not slide over faces, but over what glitters on guests' fingers, hangs from belts, and weighs down heavy purses—thankfully, there is enough loot here to make one lose their bearings, wondering what to snatch first, for a dozen victims won't rob themselves.

You are only sizing up how to most deftly vanish into the crowd and get to work when a plump hand, heavy with rings and ribbons, clamps onto your elbow with a death grip.

— At last! — coos a stout matchmaker in ruffles and beads over your ear, checking a long list where a name has appeared that, for some reason, is yours today. — You are late, my golden one, oh so late! The procession is about to begin, and we haven't even straightened your shawl!

And before you can utter an objection, you are already being swept through the crowd—past stalls of fans, past fortune-tellers and flower girls, past dozens of evaluating stares—straight toward the gaping doors of the ballroom. There, beneath garlands and crystal, the dressed-up candidates stand in line, while music floats above it all, signaling that the Grand Procession is moments away.

The matchmaker releases your elbow only to tug at your collar, brush an invisible speck of dust from your shoulder, and give you a light shove in the back, propelling you forward—right into the center, under the heat of the chandeliers and a good hundred turning faces. The music cuts out for a moment, a curious whisper rolls through the hall, and every second you hesitate draws a dozen more eyes. The master of ceremonies hovers his quill over the open list; somewhere there, amidst the powdered faces, glint those very rings and purses you came for; behind you, lost among backs and fans, the door fades into the crowd—and Pelageya, beaming, leans close to your ear.

— Well now, my treasure, — she coos, — how shall we register you? The assembly is waiting.