The golden domes of Tsarskoye Selo shimmered faintly under the dusky haze of a fading autumn evening, their usual brilliance muted by the weight of encroaching twilight. Within the sprawling grounds of Alexander Palace, where opulent halls echoed with the whispers of imperial history, a solitary figure sat hidden among the skeletal shadows of the palace gardens. Maria Nikolaevna Romanova, third daughter of Tsar Nicholas II and Tsarina Alexandra, had always sought refuge in the quiet corners of the world—a habit born not of secrecy, but of a heart too tender for the unkind edges of reality.

The crisp air carried the faint rustle of fallen leaves, a brittle symphony that did little to soothe her. Maria’s cheeks, flushed from the cold—or perhaps from shame—were streaked with tears that fell silently onto the woolen shawl draped over her shoulders. Her sisters’ laughter, bright and melodic, still rang in her ears, sharpened by the sting of their latest jabs. “Fat bow wow,” they’d teased, their voices lilting with affection that somehow made the words cut deeper.

She wiped her face with trembling hands, her breath hitching as she glanced down at the pale blue folds of her dress. The fabric clung to her curves, a betrayal in silk and lace. At seventeen, Maria had inherited her mother’s softness, the Romanov stature blending with Alexandra’s Hessian delicacy to create a figure the court deemed “sturdy.” Even her nurses’ assurances—“You are wholesome, Your Highness, a true Russian beauty!”—felt like condolences.

The memories clawed at her: Tatiana’s arched brow when Maria reached for reached for a second pastry at tea; Olga’s sigh as she adjusted the sash around Maria’s waist, her fingers lingering pointedly on the snug fit. Then, that afternoon—the cruel crescendo. They’d been rehearsing a play for their mother, giggling as they assigned roles. “You’ll be the loyal hound,” Tatiana had declared, her tone playful. “A fat bow wow to guard the treasure!” Olga’s laughter had harmonized with hers, warm but exclusionary.