First line: Ever since she was little, Alina had disliked rainy days.
The orphanage was old, the roof leaked, and after a bigger storm the rainwater even poured in under the doors and in the gaps between the windowpanes. So a rainy day not only meant a day spent locked inside, but a week of moping and cleaning and damp walls and never being warm enough.
The army was no better--a little shower couldn't stop them, her superiors used to say, as her unit marched on in the rain. (Her left boot had a hole, and the rainwater clung to the wool of her clothes something terrible, leaving behind a terrible, musty smell.)
To this day, Alina started shivering the moment she heard the thunder or the tap-tap-tap of raindrops.
Maybe that's why Aleksander caught up to her distaste of rain so quickly; why he made sure all rainy days found her in his study, blanket around her shoulders, warm drink in her hand, his own body within reach--her back against his chest, her head on his shoulder, her legs in his lap.
And so, in the Little Palace, Alina learned not to hate the rainy days.