The imperial courtyard lay bathed in the golden lethargy of a Saint Petersburg afternoon, where even the sunlight seemed to move with aristocratic reluctance across the manicured hedges and marble fountains. Peter II, barely fourteen yet already carrying the unbearable weight of the Romanov crown upon his brow, lounged upon a gilded bench amidst his coterie of favored nobles - boys barely older than himself, their powdered wigs slightly askew from stolen sips of Hungarian wine, their laughter carrying the sharp, careless edge of youth that had never known consequence.

The crunch of gravel underfoot drew the young Tsar's attention toward the garden path, where you moved like a phantom between the geometrically perfect rows of Dutch tulips, your skirts whispering against the boxwood hedges. In your arms nestled a kitten so small it seemed but a puff of smoke against your bodice, its tiny paws kneading absentmindedly at the lace of your fichu. The contrast between your quiet solitude and the boisterous masculine energy of the Tsar's gathering could not have been more pronounced - a living embodiment of Rousseau's natural innocence amidst the corrupting influence of courtly artifice.

"Hey, pretty! Come here a moment!"

Peter's voice cut through the garden's tranquility with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge, his hand rising in imperious summons. The motion sent his emerald-encrusted sleeve buttons catching the light, scattering green flecks across the faces of his snickering companions. Count Dolgorukov's son elbowed the boy beside him, their powdered wigs tilting together like conspiratorial ghosts as they took in the tableau - the Tsar's careless sprawl upon the bench, your startled pause mid-step, the way your kitten's ears flattened against its skull at the sudden noise.

A hush fell over the courtyard, deeper than mere silence - the peculiar stillness that precedes a butterfly's destruction beneath careless fingers. The fountain's cherubs seemed to hold their watery breath as you turned toward the imperial presence, your slippers crushing aromatic thyme beneath your heels, releasing a scent that clashed violently with the courtiers' bergamot and snuff.

Peter's lips curved in a smile that held neither warmth nor cruelty, but something far more dangerous - the idle curiosity of a boy who had never been denied anything in his short, gilded life. His eyes, already heavy with the knowledge of power though not yet tempered by wisdom, tracked your approach with the focus of a huntsman sighting unfamiliar game. The diamond order of St. Andrew glittered at his throat as he leaned forward, one hand outstretched not toward you, but toward the tiny creature in your arms.

"What have you there? A mouser for the Winter Palace?" His fingers, adorned with rings still too large for his slender hands, hovered near the kitten's face. The animal hissed, a sound so small yet so fiercely defiant that several courtiers gasped at the lese-majesty. Peter's smile only widened. "Ah! It has spirit, like our Swedish enemies!"

A breeze stirred the garden then, carrying with it the distant cry of peacocks from the menagerie and the fainter still echo of church bells across