St. Petersburg. Winter, 1905.
The world beyond the carriage window was drowning in a desolate white. A ferocious blizzard hammered against the glass, as if the ghosts of the Russian winter were clawing to get inside, desperate to steal the last shreds of warmth remaining within.
Odette Petrova curled herself into the corner of the plush leather seat, pulling her knees to her chest. She clutched a small, worn leather bag—the only fragment left of her old world. She was eleven years old, yet her wide green eyes held the exhausted, hunted look of a child who had learned too early that "safety" is a lie, and "forever" lasts only a moment.
She closed her eyes, fleeing the sound of the wind into the sanctuary of her memory.
She hadn't always been "The Penniless Orphan." She remembered a home that smelled of vanilla and old paper. She remembered her father, Peter, the renowned architect whose designs were the talk of every salon in Moscow and St. Petersburg. A tall man with laughing eyes. And she remembered her mother, Isabelle, that rare French rose. Isabelle was the illegitimate daughter of a French Marquis who had fled her family's chains to marry Peter for love. Odette had inherited everything from her: the auburn hair that gleamed like polished copper, the delicate, noble features, and the French language—the language of love in their home.
Their life was a fairy tale, until her mother coughed blood one freezing winter night. Consumption. That silent beast. It devoured Isabelle slowly, and with the last breath she exhaled at the age of six, something inside Odette's father died too.
The genius architect turned into a ghost. Odette watched her father wither day by day. He replaced his drafting tools with bottles of vodka, and the warmth of their home for the cold tables of gambling dens. Paintings vanished from the walls. Then the furniture. Then the jewels.
Odette remembered that night well. The night that changed everything. She was eight. Her father had returned late, broken, but for the first time in months, sober. He fell to his knees before her, kissing her small hands as tears streamed down his face.
"Forgive me, Odette... I have been weak. But I promise you, I swear by your mother's soul, I will change. I will be the architect you were proud of. We will build a new life."
Odette slept that night holding onto that promise. But in the morning, a violent knocking on the door woke her. Her father's carriage had skidded on an icy road while he was seeking work. The father died. The promise died. And Odette was left alone amidst a mountain of debt.
Since that day, she became "The Parcel." Her uncles tossed her around like a burning coal. Uncle Boris kept her in the attic and made her eat with the servants. When his wife grew bored of her, she was shipped to Uncle Dmitri, who saw her only as an "extra mouth to feed." Three years of shuffling, rejection, and disgusted glares that screamed: Why are you still here?
And today... she was on her way to the Final Station. Dr. Ivan, the husband of a distant relative of her grandmother. A man she didn't know, but he was the drowning girl's last straw.
"Odette?"
The girl jumped at the voice of Dr. Ivan sitting opposite her. He was a large man wrapped in a luxurious fur coat, his features kind but etched with worry. "We have reached the estate boundaries, little one."
Odette wiped the fogged glass with trembling hands. A sharp intake of breath. It wasn't a house... It was an Empire. A towering black iron gate, a long driveway guarded by giant oak trees that looked like frozen monsters raising their arms to the sky. And in the depths, the Volkonsky Palace. A majestic, dark, stony structure, its windows shimmering with a light that seemed miles away.
Noticing her terror, Ivan spoke, "We don't live in the main palace. We are in the annex. I am the family doctor, and my wife, Maria, is the housekeeper. Listen to me closely, Odette..." Ivan hesitated, embarrassment creeping into his voice. "My wife, Maria... she is a very strict woman. She was not... enthusiastic about your coming. Please, be... be obedient."
Ice froze in Odette's veins. Not enthusiastic. The polite word for rejection. The script was repeating itself. She would arrive, the woman would look at her with disgust, and she would be thrown out by morning. Odette gripped her bag until her knuckles turned white. No... I won't allow it. I won't go back to the streets. I will be perfect. I will be the girl they want.
The carriage stopped in front of an elegant red-brick house within the palace grounds. The moment the door opened, "Aunt Maria" stood waiting. She was a tall woman in a severe dark gray dress, her hair pulled back so tightly not a single strand dared to escape. Her gaze was sharp as a scalpel.
"Good evening, Maria," Ivan said with forced cheerfulness. "Odette has arrived." Maria didn't return the greeting. Her eyes fell on the little girl. She saw the old coat with sleeves too short, the worn-out shoes, the thin frame shivering from the cold. Maria crossed her arms, her voice dry and hard. "Ivan... what is this?"
"It is Peter's daughter, Maria. Your cousin's child."
"This is a child!" Maria exploded, not bothering to lower her voice. "I told you repeatedly, I am not a nanny! I am nearing fifty, and I run an entire palace for the Volkonsky family. I do not have the time nor the energy to raise a child, wash her clothes, and wipe her tears. This is not an orphanage, Ivan!"
Every word was a knife plunging into Odette's heart. The memories attacked her: her aunt's screaming, Uncle Boris's grumbling. The feeling that she was a "Mistake," that her very existence was a "Sin." Tears threatened to spill, but her terror of being cast out was stronger than her grief. Move, Odette. Do something. Don't stand there like a statue or you're finished.
Quickly, she swallowed the lump in her throat. She wiped her face with her coat sleeve and painted a quiet, polite, broken smile on her lips. She stepped forward, ignoring the cold biting her bones, held the hem of her tattered dress, and executed a perfect, aristocratic French curtsy—just as her mother had taught her for royal occasions.
She raised her head, meeting Maria's furious glare with green eyes shining with held-back tears and silent pleading. She spoke in a soft voice, void of any whining or annoying childishness: "Good evening, Madame Aunt. I apologize deeply for causing you such trouble."
Maria fell silent, stunned by the polite tone and the flawless diction. Odette continued rapidly, the words rushing out as a desperate defense for her right to exist: "Madame... I do not eat much, believe me. And I know how to take care of myself. I can sew, I can embroider, and I can help you arrange the linens. My mother taught me French, and she taught me quietness. I promise you... I swear to you, you will not hear my voice in the house. I will be like a shadow. Just... please don't send me back to them."
Her voice trembled on the last sentence, and a single, rebellious tear fell onto her pale cheek.
Maria stood frozen. She had expected a crying, loud, or rude brat. She did not expect this small creature who possessed angelic beauty, wounded pride, and deep terror in her eyes. She saw the features of her late cousin in Odette, and she saw the French "Isabelle" in that noble stance.
Maria exhaled slowly. The anger faded, replaced by a strange sense of responsibility—and pity. She looked at Ivan, whose eyes were begging her, then back at Odette. "You... you speak like the nobility despite those rags," Maria muttered, her voice less sharp. "And you have intelligent eyes... and very sad ones." She sighed in surrender. "Fine. I cannot throw you out in this snow. But listen, girl, your stay here is not my final decision. We live in the shadow of the Volkonskys. No stranger enters the palace grounds without the Great Grandmother's permission."
She turned to Ivan with practical sternness: "Take her immediately to Princess Ekaterina. If the old woman doesn't approve, she sleeps here tonight and goes to the convent tomorrow."
Odette walked behind Dr. Ivan toward the Main Palace. Her heart was drumming rhythms of fear. Another test. She had to convince yet another person that she deserved to live. They entered. The luxury was dizzying; ceilings that touched the sky, crystal chandeliers the size of carriages, carpets that swallowed their footsteps.
They reached the "Blue Salon" At the head of the room sat Princess Ekaterina Volkonsky. The matriarch everyone feared. She sat like a crowned queen. Beside her was Princess Natalia (Alexander's mother), a beautiful woman, but anxiety dwelt in her features.
"Ivan?"Grandmother Ekaterina said without lifting her eyes from her book. "What is this time for a visit?"The doctor bowed deeply, presenting Odette with fear. "Your Highness, this is Odette. My wife's orphaned relative I told you about. I came to ask your permission for her to live in my home. I promise she will not leave the doctor's quarters, and no one will even glimpse her."
Princess Ekaterina lifted her head in boredom. But the boredom vanished the instant her eyes landed on Odette. Under the chandelier light, Odette looked like a living painting. Her fiery hair, ivory skin, and eyes holding the magic of deep forests. It was a rare beauty a beauty not even some nobles possessed.
Odette curtsied again, back straight, head held high, and spoke in perfect French: « C'est un grand honneur de me tenir en votre présence, Madame. »
"French?" Ekaterina's eyebrows shot up. "Come closer." Odette approached. The Grandmother lifted the girl's chin with her cane, examining her as one examines a gemstone. "Beautiful... and cultured. And there is pride in that gaze."
She turned to Natalia with a sly smile. "Look, Natalia. Ivan wants to hide this flower in his house. Isn't that a waste?" Princess Natalia looked at Odette. Suddenly, her eyes widened with genuine alarm. Natalia didn't just see a beautiful girl. She saw danger. She knew her son, Alexander, all too well. The boy who lost his father as a child and was raised under the pressure of his crippled grandfather to be the "Head of the Family" -hard, unyielding, merciless. Alexander, raised by the military on cruelty and possession.
Natalia whispered with extreme politeness, masking her panic: "She is... extremely beautiful, Mother. And this... might be inappropriate." She turned to her mother-in-law, voice dropping to a hush: "Alexander will return soon. And you know his sharp temper, his hatred for disorder. The presence of a strange girl, of this age and this appearance... might provoke him. I fear her presence will create complications we do not need."
Natalia was trying to say: My son has been crushed by responsibility until his heart became stone. This fragile, beautiful girl would be his perfect toy—or his victim.
But Grandmother Ekaterina laughed, as if Natalia's warning only made it more exciting. "You are afraid of your own shadow, Natalia. Alexander is a man, and men need beauty around them." The Grandmother struck the floor with her cane, delivering her final, irreversible verdict: "Ivan... The girl will not remain a prisoner in your house. I will cover her expenses. We will enroll her in the 'Smolny Institute.' She will be educated as if she were one of us."
Ivan gasped. "Madame... this is generosity we do not deserve!" Returning to her book coldly, she said: "I want entertaining company. And this girl is an interesting project. Clean her up. Buy her clothes befitting my palace. Dismissed."
Odette walked out, feeling her legs could barely support her. She had succeeded. She had been accepted. But as she left the hall, her eyes met Princess Natalia's. The mother's look was full of pity... as if apologizing for a fate that hadn't even begun.
Then, Odette glimpsed it. Above the fireplace. A massive oil portrait of a young man in a black military uniform with a red collar. His features were sharp as a sword, his eyes cold as Siberian ice, looking down at her with arrogance and possession.
Odette's body shivered. Not from the cold this time, but from a dark, vague feeling. She had survived the wolves of the street, only to walk into the den of a much more dangerous wolf.