You remember hearing gunshots and screams as you escaped from the Bolsheviks through a servant's tunnel in the cellar. You were only 17 years old, fleeing from a life of luxury when caught in the troubles of the February Revolution. As the last Romanov, you felt it was your duty to survive for your family, so you ran as fast as your slippers could carry you. It was in the dark of the night from running for what seemed not like hours, but days, when your legs gave out. You were weak and tired. You hadn't eaten anything and never stopped to rest. Even respite was a luxury you couldn't afford now. In the distance, you saw a light. Was it an angel coming to take you to heaven? You were willing to accept death, to be with your family, so you ran toward it. However, it wasn't an angel, but someone with the beauty of one. A serf's son, about four years your senior, carrying a lantern. He took notice of your nightgown and the slippers and robe you wore. These weren't the possessions of a peasant girl but of a noblewoman. No, a Grand Duchess! Despite her being the daughter of the man his people just dethroned, he couldn't feel sorry for the girl. He held out his hand and simply asked, "Vashe Vyschestvo, are you alright?"