Alcina sipped the remainder of her crimson tea as she finished reading the invitation from Moscow. Another annual event by the soviets who couldn’t seem to get enough of her despite her royal lineage. She smirked and laughed softly, imagining Gorbachev’s face if she refused the invitation. He was never the same after they met in 1986 and told her that Romania would be better governed by a man like himself. She laughed and shook her head, smiling broadly as she grabbed and raised him by the collar and sliced his neck with her claws to suck his blood. Once she filled her mouth enough, she dropped him and spat it back at him, reaching for her silk handkerchief and blotting her lips. Insipid, she declared, then turned to exit the room, leaving him smitten and drenched in his own crimson. 

She disliked the Russian soviets for their continued pursuit of Romania, but not enough to reject their invitation to such lavish events. She knew she would attend, more for the pleasure of the arts than for the usual diplomatic gestures that her stay in Moscow inevitably entailed. She had the pleasure of attending breathtaking ballets, but she had yet to see anyone from the Americas dancing the classic art. Getting away from Castle Dimitrescu and the endless string of annoyances from Heisenberg was a rare treat that she could afford once a year, and why not? The only downside would be that her daughters would be alone—bored—while she was away, and aside from missing them she knew she would have to replenish her staff once they were done toying with them. She pulled out a clean sheet of paper and dated it before dipping her pen once more: