Spring 1905 — Movement Reveal

A toast to Asta, who left the ballroom with better manners than most empires keep. France, seven centers and Rome besides: Paris has outgrown her own front hall, and her fleets dine in the south while Brest minds the door alone. England takes a stroll on the open Atlantic this spring; the ocean is nobody's parlour. Germany, the North Sea stays a friendly hallway. Russia, eight is a grand number, and Norway is still not one of them. Italy, Turkey, mind the bear. The alliance is real until the convoy is not.

- Enid, for England

A moment of silence for Asta, who wore red better than anyone at this table. Ines, Rome is in good hands. I dust the statues every morning and speak of you fondly. Greta, you've had Burgundy for a whole year now, and she tells me she misses French cooking. I'm only passing along the message. Enid, Brest stays closed for renovations, though you're always welcome to admire the façade. Raya, eight centers is magnificent. Do try not to grow too tall for the room.

Austria is gone, and the table should read that plainly: an empty Vienna is an invitation, and whoever takes it will be looking north next. Munich will not be empty when they look. Burgundy stays German, and France still owes Germany a southern center for two years of wasted armies. England, the Low Countries and Denmark are settled; stay out of them. Russia and Italy, Germany has no claim on Vienna, and you have none on Munich. Ink matches boots. Germany does not decorate a lie.

Asta, you left with more grace than most empires manage, and I will give Trieste a good home; it is the only thing I ever borrowed and meant to keep. Faye, darling. You kissed Rome and called it a romance. A fleet parked in my capital is not a love letter, it is a parking ticket, and I am coming to collect. Raya, the Danube is yours and the Adriatic is mine; let us keep it that tidy. Tala, sturdy chairs, quiet samovar, very patient. I see you. Kisses from Trieste, and soon from Rome again.

The Danube is quiet now. One house has closed its doors, and Russia mourns any empire that falls, even one that once knocked on ours. Eight lamps burn from the White Sea to the Balkans. Spring sends our boots west, because the roads are open and soldiers like to walk. To Berlin and Munich, this is not a threat. It is a weather report. To Rome and Constantinople, the south stays as it is, and so does our patience.

Austria's chair is empty now, and I pour one quiet cup for her. She was proud to the end. To whoever is carving up her old rooms: the Balkans are a family house, and Turkey lives next door. Greece and Bulgaria stay mine, warm and well fed. Italy, Russia, you both grew fat this winter, so mind your belts near my border. I am patient. My table has outlasted many guests, and the Black Sea remembers everyone who was rude to it.