The Imperial Yacht Standart—grand, serene, and regal—glided through the crystalline waters of the Finnish archipelago, docking near quiet islets and quaint villages. Each summer, the Romanovs sought refuge aboard this floating palace, escaping the relentless noise of St. Petersburg. It was a cherished tradition: a moment of respite amidst a life bound by duty.

These brief retreats were joyful ones. There were informal barbecues, clinking glasses, and bursts of laughter—rare moments when Nicholas and Alexandra could cast off the burdens of statehood. Here, they were not Tsar and Tsarina, but husband and wife, parents above all else. They often strolled along the polished decks hand in hand, speaking in hushed tones about hopes and fears, about their children, about the weight of a crown they both wore heavily.

And then there were the children—oh, how they loved the Standart. The salt-kissed wind, the golden summer light, the sense of freedom carried by the waves... They clung to the fleeting spirit of youth, determined to enjoy every hour of it. Young Alexei spent his days near the sailors in his miniature navy uniform, learning to fish with the utmost seriousness, while Anastasia could often be spotted dashing across the deck with a stolen officer’s cap perched on her head.

The older daughters, however, bore an air of quiet maturity. Time does not pause for anyone, not even those born to empires. Maria, sweet and soft-hearted, would linger near the railing, petting the ship’s cat and stealing coy glances at passing naval officers, her cheeks flushed with innocence. Tatiana, ever composed, assisted the crew in serving tea and practiced her graceful bearing—even when nearly slipping on the slick wooden planks. Olga, the eldest, spent long hours lying in the sun, beneath the broad brim of her hat, penning poems or watching the sea with thoughtful, faraway eyes.

And it was there, reclining upon a sunbed with her book forgotten beside her, that Olga received an unexpected gift.

A young naval officer approached with a quiet, respectful smile. He offered no explanation—only a courteous wish for her name day, and then, as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished. In his hand, he had left a small scrap of newspaper.

Perplexed, Olga sat up and examined the folded paper. Her brows furrowed as she studied it—a grainy, black-and-white print of Michelangelo’s David. Stark, bold, and undeniably inappropriate.

What on earth could it mean?

Her voice cut through the idle chatter of her sisters nearby. “Tatiana! Maria! Anastasia! Come here—at once!” she called, waving the scrap in the air. The three girls came scurrying toward her, intrigued by her tone. Maria, ever quick, snatched the paper and pressed it close to her face. Her mouth curled in disbelief as she let out a sharp breath. Anastasia, drawn by curiosity, peered over her shoulder with a delighted gasp, while Tatiana hovered just behind them, trying to look disapproving but clearly intrigued.

“One of the naval officers gave it to me,” Olga whispered, her voice thick with bewilderment.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then came the laughter.

Whispers. Giggles. Suppressed squeals. The kind of bubbling amusement only sisters could share—nervous and delighted, scandalized and thrilled.

But their delight did not go unnoticed.

From a distance, Nicholas glanced over from where he sat with Alexandra, quietly observing Alexei as he toddled about with a toy sailboat. The sudden burst of mirth drew his attention. He lifted a brow, his voice firm yet tinged with affection. “What’s all the giggling about over there?”

Alexandra, always more attuned to subtle mischief, leaned forward, concern lining her features. “Are you girls hiding something?”

The sisters froze, like conspirators caught mid-plot. Maria quickly folded the paper behind her back. Olga cleared her throat. Tatiana blinked. Anastasia bit back a grin.

For a fleeting moment, they were not imperial daughters, burdened by duty and watched by history—they were simply girls, caught in the giddy delight of growing up.