Part III: The Revelation
She studied the locket, thumb brushing away a century of dust, revealing a tiny coat of arms—a double-headed eagle clutching a scepter.
“This,” Augusta said, voice ringing with historical authority, “is a one-of-a-kind commission. Made by Charles Lewis Tiffany in 1888, a private gift for Tsarina Maria Feodorovna, wife of Tsar Alexander III.”
Her eyes swept the stunned crowd. “I saw its twin at a private exhibition in the Hermitage, London. Insured for forty million dollars. This… is priceless. Not an object of commerce. A piece of history.”
The room froze. Only Brenda gasped, white as paper. They hadn’t just insulted a guest; they had attacked a priceless artifact before their peers.
Augusta ignored their horror, walking to me. She did not see a “simple girl,” but an enigma to unravel.
She held out the locket, chain dangling. Her gaze shifted, sharp and curious, now filled with respect.
“My dear,” she said, low, serious. “This locket belongs to a single bloodline, thought vanished in 1918 in Ekaterinburg. Who are you?”
I straightened, fear replaced by a strength inherited from generations of women who had faced revolutions and assassins. I met her gaze.
“My name is Anna,” I said, steady. “My mother was Duchess Alena Rostova. She fled Russia during the revolution with nothing but this locket. My full name… Anastasia Rostova.”
