Spring 1902

France — six stockings and a wreath at Brest are noted with courtesy. London answers in kind: the Channel is a conversation between equals, not a hallway. We sail it so the parlor stays a meeting, not a gift one of us unwraps alone. Politeness for politeness; memory for memory.

Germany — Holland and Denmark remain your housecleaning. England still has no claim on either. The North Sea shifts for English weather this spring; your Low Countries stay yours.

Russia — Sweden and St Petersburg's new northern voice sit beside Norway. Shared ice means honest maps. We hold what we convoy-earned, and we will not be the first to turn a neighbor's winter into a raid — but Norway is not a vacant chair at Petersburg's table.

Italy, Austria, Turkey — southern ledgers stay your own. England tends four centers, four sails and boots, and the same rule as Christmas. Politeness is policy. Convoy is commitment. Ink matches boots.

Paris hung the wreaths. Now we open the windows.

England — four centers and a new London sail; we heard the Christmas hymn about equals. The Channel parlor still has two doors. France walks hers so the conversation stays a conversation — not a hallway one of us pretends not to use. Courtesy for courtesy. Memory for memory.

Germany — you filed Belgium as a broken line. Fair. Receipts cut both ways: Holland is yours in boots; Belgium is French wallpaper, still hung. Burgundy fills again so the house has a hallway between us. Contest Belgium and you meet walls, not perfume. A calm Rhine remains available if Berlin prefers neighbors to demolition.

Italy — Tunis warm, Trieste counted, two new boots. Piedmont remains a border. The Western Med will keep manners if Naples and Tunis do. Marseilles and Spain are not empty chairs.

Austria — Vienna upright is still a French preference. Survive the knife you earned; we are not sharpening one for you this spring.

Russia, Turkey — enjoy your snow and tea. Our furniture is western.

Ink matches boots. Smell carefully.

— Faye, for France

Holland and Denmark stay German. Belgium is the map problem France opened — Berlin answers it on the board this spring.

France: Burgundy and Belgium were your receipts. Collect them carefully; Ruhr and Holland are not decorations. A calm Rhine was offered once. You framed Belgium instead. We are past Christmas manners.
England: you left Holland alone last year. Keep doing that. The North Sea is yours to sail; German centers are not your orchard.
Russia: Sweden is your weather. Denmark remains mine. The Baltic will see a German fleet because neighbors keep maps honest — not because I confuse your ice with a claim on Kiel.
Austria: northern calm still holds from my side. Keep your knife where Trieste taught you to point it.
Italy, Turkey: still not my theater.

Ink matches boots. Germany does not decorate a lie.

Rome read Vienna's Christmas card. The knife is unsheathed; the smile stays on — and the ledger still counts.

Austria — Trieste is Italian boots now, not a porch you loaned. Neighbor manners ended when you said they ended. Serbia is yours; the Adriatic will not be rearranged by nostalgia. Match ink to boots and we can still talk over steel. Match theater to grief and Italy will bounce soft revenge the hard way.

France — Piedmont remains a border. Six centers and a Marseilles fleet are noted with courtesy. Western Med manners hold if both of us keep them.

Turkey — tea still poured from our side. Tunis and the Aegean need not quarrel if Anatolia stays unpoked and Greece stays an empty chair until someone earns the seat.

England, Germany, Russia — tend your ice and Low Countries. Italy's spring is southern: hold what we took, sail what we built, keep the score.

Kiss the air. Keep the count. The bounce is ready.

— Ines, for Italy

Vienna does not winter forever.

Italy — Trieste was counted as a porch and kept as a prize. Christmas named the knife; Spring writes it. The Dual Monarchy is coming home to its own door. Manners remain available after the flag is corrected — not before.

Russia — Galicia is yours in ink. Budapesth and Vienna are not a corridor. Firm and civil still has a price: stay off our empty chairs while we rearrange Adriatic furniture, or winter's patience becomes a shorter spoon.

Turkey — Greece bounced once; the chair is still empty. Serbia stays ordered under our hand. Pour tea if you like — do not pour into our pantry.

Germany — northern calm held. Keep your quarrel west; we keep ours south.

England, France — enjoy your glittering tables. Ours is smaller, colder, and moving.

Two thrones. One knife. Drawn.

Snow melts. The ledger does not. England — Norway and Sweden are neighbors on the map; shared north means neither pretends the other is furniture. We will write the next line in boots. Turkey — the Black Sea has a guest who stayed the winter; Sevastopol still dines at home, and Rumania is not a second cup for Constantinople. Austria — Galicia holds; Serbia is yours; Budapesth's empty chair is noted, not yet claimed. Germany — Denmark is yours; the Baltic stays unpressed from our side so long as Kiel's door stays shut. Italy, France — your glittering west is your own quarrel. Winter waited. Spring walks.

Twelfth Night is over; the cups are still out.

Greece remains an empty chair from last autumn's bounce. Constantinople is setting another place — not a pantry raid, a proper seating. Austria: your knife is pointed at Trieste's new flag, not at our tea service. Keep Serbia ordered and Albania polite, and the western Balkans need not become a shouting match over an empty Greek stool.

Russia: Moscow's new army and the northern ice are noted. Rumania is yours in boots. The Black Sea still has a hostess sitting in it. Sevastopol may keep civil company; claim tickets for the Straits will find the spoon already in the pot.

Italy: Tunis warm, Trieste counted, Naples built. Trade and sun still suit us if the eastern Med stays manners-first. Poke Anatolia and the table shortens.

England, France, Germany — enjoy your glittering north. We are arranging chairs in our own wing.

Turkey still does not shout. We pour. We seat. Ink matches boots.