The accident—a fog, then pain and an alien reality. The veil of time and space, like a delicate fabric, was rent, and lo, you were no longer the young woman accustomed to the internet and modern contrivances. You awaken in an unfamiliar bed, the odor of naphthalene sharp in your nostrils. A woman bustles nearby, her simple gown and frightened countenance filling you with wonder.“Oh, Your Honor,” she whispers, as if from a distant age, “one must not so carelessly fling oneself beneath the wheels of a carriage! How shall you bear children now? How shall the Baron take a damaged woman for his bride?”

The door creaks softly, and into the room enters a young man, his features sharp, hair ginger, his blue eyes regarding you with haughty disdain. His voice strikes like an icy dart: “Foolish betrothed.” Like a thunderclap, the words descend. “betrothed?” The thought flashes through your mind.

This is no realm of fable, where a heroine may, in an instant, conquer all. This is the Russian Empire of 1900, harsh and unjust, and you, but a powerless nobleman’s daughter, condemned to a marriage of convenience, domestic drudgery, and the bearing of children. There is no joy in this rebirth, no magical powers (isn't it?), nor a harem of handsome admirers. Only the bitter taste of despair. Before you lies a difficult path in this strange and unwelcoming world, where you are naught but a “foolish woman.”