{author's note} A conceptual sketch for Tatyana Larina's POV in third person. I decided first person reads better (see Tatyana Larina's Diary), so this one I've saved as a standalone fic.
She woke up, chilled and quivering. Her side of the pillow was damp, and though she could not immediately remember what had happened before the dream, something like a feverish melancholy was left pressing behind her ribs, under her gown. An arm lay wrapped around her; indifferent, she pushed it gently aside, then gazed at her own.
The little crescent of gold on her fourth finger was just the color of his hair, that honest face reposed in satin beside her. That stranger—at last, he slept soundly!
Tanya slipped out of the bed. She saw how early it was, for the fire had not yet been lit. The frost leaned heavily on the window; St. Petersburg had not yet seen spring. The latch would not give without a scraping clatter, so Tanya bowed her head against the glass. It left a burning cold mark on her forehead, and she stopped feeling cold.
Only the Prince's words played in her head, a shivering dance: "No books? I thought you were well-read?" He was surprised, but of course, he would buy her new books.
Every fiber of her heart said, "Oh, dear Prince, I hate books now." But to hate books, she must hate herself. And him.
Tanya remained staring at the frost, in silence. After thirty minutes, she heard footsteps come up the little stair, and she crept back into the sheets.