The accidental Lady-in-Waiting

The last thing seared into my memory was the blinding glare of an oncoming truck’s headlights, the deafening screech of brakes, and the blood-curdling crunch of crumpling metal. And then came the darkness. Thick, all-consuming, and cold. I thought it was the end. A logical, if terribly unfair, finale for twenty-three-year-old Alisa, whose career as an interior designer in Moscow had just begun to take off.

But instead of the sterile whiteness of an ICU and the steady beep of monitors, my consciousness began to drift up from oblivion through a thick, suffocating scent. It didn’t smell of bleach or medicine. It was a heavy, old-fashioned fragrance: a blend of melting beeswax, dried herbs, camphor, and some cloying, stifling floral perfume that instantly caught in my throat. The air in the room felt stagnant, perfectly still, as if it hadn’t been aired out in an eternity.

I forced my eyelids open. My eyelashes felt like lead, and my head was splitting, as though someone had been methodically bashing it with a sledgehammer.

Light pierced my eyes, but it wasn’t the harsh electric glare of hospital lamps; it was the soft, trembling golden glow of countless candles. Blinking the haze away, I tried to focus. Looming above me was not a smooth hospital ceiling, but something unimaginable. Heavy folds of burgundy velvet, embroidered with time-tarnished gold thread, gathered into a dome directly above my head. A canopy. A literal, honest-to-God canopy, adorned with massive tassels that swayed slightly in a barely perceptible draft.

Where am I? In some sort of themed hotel? Or is this the fever dream of a comatose mind? The thoughts turned sluggishly, like gears in a rusted machine.

I tried to move. My body responded with a strange weakness, but there was no pain from broken bones, no weight of a plaster cast. Only an incredible, unsettling lightness, bordering on weightlessness. The blanket pulled up to my chin was heavy and quilted, made of smooth satin and lined with fur. It was hot. Unbearably hot.

With effort, I freed my hand from under the covers and froze, staring at it as if seeing it for the very first time. Which, in fact, I was. This was not my hand. My fingers, accustomed to the stylus of a graphics tablet, had always been short, sporting a neat, machine-polished manicure. But now, trembling before my face in the candlelight, was a slender, aristocratic hand. The skin was pale to the point of being blue, almost translucent, with a delicate web of veins clearly visible beneath the surface. Long, graceful fingers with almond-shaped nails, utterly devoid of polish.

My heart skipped a beat, then broke into a frantic gallop, battering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“Lord Jesus...” a quiet, strangled gasp suddenly sounded from somewhere to my side.

I struggled to turn my head on the sweat-soaked pillow. A few paces from the massive bed stood a girl. She wore a long, high-collared grey dress made of coarse wool, a white apron, and a strange, starched cap that completely concealed her hair. In her hands, she held a silver tray bearing a steaming bowl.

The girl was staring at me as if the very gates of hell had opened before her. Her face, dusted with pale freckles, had fallen and taken on an ashen hue. Her lips moved soundlessly, and such primal terror swam in her wide, brown eyes that it sent a chill down my own spine.

“Water...” I tried to say, but only a pitiful rustle escaped my parched throat. The voice, too, was alien. Higher, softer, broken.

That sound was the final straw for the maid. Her fingers gave way. The silver tray crashed to the floor. The bowl shattered into pieces, splashing the parquet with a dark, wormwood-scented sludge.

“Holy, holy, holy!” the girl wailed, crossing herself fervently as she backed away toward the massive double doors. “The dead woman has opened her eyes! Holy Mother protect us! A healer! Call the healer! Her Ladyship has woken!”

She spun around and, tangling in her long skirts, shrieked as she fled the room, leaving the doors thrown wide open.

Her Ladyship? The dead woman?

Panic, cold and clammy, slithered down my spine like a snake. I had to get up. I had to understand what was happening. Throwing off the heavy blanket, I swung my legs over the edge of the high mattress. My bare feet met the soft, thick pile of a Persian rug. The room spun before my eyes, and I had to dig my slender fingers into the carved wooden bedpost just to keep from falling.

Breathe, Alisa. Just breathe.

Taking a few deep breaths, I forced myself to look around. As a designer, I couldn’t help but appreciate the sheer scale of the space. This wasn’t merely a bedroom; these were the chambers of a true palace. Impossibly high ceilings boasted elaborate stucco work—plump cupids and floral garlands lavishly coated in gold leaf. The walls were upholstered in emerald silk damask. In the corner towered a massive ceramic heating stove adorned with hand-painted Dutch tiles, emanating that same suffocating heat. Against the opposite wall stood a heavy mahogany dressing table, surmounted by an enormous mirror in an ornate gilded frame, its edges clouded by time.

I was drawn to it like a magnet. Staggering, clinging to the backs of velvet armchairs and the edge of the tabletop, I crossed those few meters, which now felt like a marathon.

I stepped up to the mirror. And the world around me finally collapsed, shattering into a million sparkling shards.

From the depths of the slightly hazy Venetian glass, a stranger stared back at me. A perfect, porcelain, unearthly beauty, though bearing the unmistakable stamp of a grave illness. It caught my breath to see how stunning she was in her feverish fragility. Enormous eyes, the color of damp violets and taking up half her face, stared back with the exact same shock I was feeling. They were framed by thick, dark lashes that cast a sharp contrast against her alabaster skin. Deep lilac shadows bruised the skin beneath them—the lingering marks of a prolonged fever.

Her lips were plump and set in a capricious pout, though currently bitten almost raw, burning like a vivid stain on the pallid face. And her hair... A thick, heavy wave of ash-blonde hair fell over her shoulders and back, cascading well below her waist. It was disheveled and tangled, yet still looked like a rushing waterfall of silk.

I was wearing only the finest sheer batiste nightgown, heavily embellished with Brussels lace at the collar and cuffs. The fabric was so delicate that it left little to the imagination, clearly outlining sharp collarbones, fragile shoulders, and high, firm breasts, the peaks darkened by the cold—or perhaps by agitation. This body was young, slender, and absolutely perfect. And it was... mine.

I raised a trembling hand and touched the hollow cheek. The girl in the mirror matched my gesture. The skin was hot and damp. I ran my fingers along the slender neck, feeling for the wildly beating pulse.

Alive. I am alive. But who am I now?

Tearing my gaze away from my new face, I walked unsteadily toward the tall window, half-draped in heavy curtains. It was double-paned, set in thick wooden frames, the lower half of the glass obscured by an intricate, impossibly beautiful pattern of frost.

I pressed my feverish forehead against the ice-cold pane and looked outside.

What I saw made me forget how to breathe. Before me spread a city straight out of a fairy tale, plucked right from the history textbooks I had loved to leaf through as a child. A broad river, locked in thick ice, where tiny figures of horses and people moved along freshly carved sledge tracks. On the opposite bank rose majestic palaces with columns and elaborate stucco, while the golden spire of the Peter and Paul Fortress pierced the pale blue, bitterly cold winter sky. The sun hung low, flooding the snow-covered rooftops with a sparkling pink light.

Down below, across the snow-swept square, an elegant carriage fitted with runners glided past, drawn by a team of four horses. The coachman, clad in a long sheepskin coat, cracked his whip.

No cars. No glass-and-concrete high-rises. No noise of a twenty-first-century metropolis.

St. Petersburg. The eighteenth century. An era of crinolines, duels, palace coups, and royal favorites. The era of Catherine the Great.

The clatter of many feet, agitated voices, and the heavy rustling of skirts echoed in the corridor. The doors to my bedroom flew open with such force that they crashed against the walls.

A short, rather plump middle-aged man literally burst into the room. He wore a heavily powdered wig with tight curls at the sides, from beneath which beads of sweat were breaking out, and a magnificent dark-blue velvet coat embroidered with silver. His hands convulsively gripped a leather medical bag. Behind him crowded a flock of terrified maids, craning their necks to peek into the bedchamber.

The man froze upon seeing me by the window. His face, previously crimson from his frantic sprint, began to take on a grayish tint right before my eyes. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his snow-white lace jabot.

“Princess... Anna Alexandrovna...” he whispered, his voice trembling and breaking. He took a hesitant step forward, as if afraid I might vanish into thin air. “Your Ladyship... But how? It is impossible! Last night you were in your death throes, your pulse barely perceptible... I myself sent a messenger to Her Imperial Majesty to inform her that her favorite lady-in-waiting would not live to see the dawn...”

He pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, redolent with the scent of tobacco and some sharp cologne, and dabbed his forehead. His hands were shaking so badly that he nearly dropped his bag.

“A miracle... A true miracle of the Lord!” breathed the physician (for that, undoubtedly, was who he was), stepping closer. “The Empress Catherine Alekseyevna herself prayed for your health in the palace chapel! You must return to bed at once, Princess! The drafts will kill you more surely than the fever!”

He fussed about, waving his hands at the hushed maids, ordering them to fetch hot stones, broth, and fresh nightgowns.

I just stood there, my arms wrapped tightly around my own slender shoulders, watching this comical, terrified man. My brain, having finally pushed past the stages of shock and denial, began to function with a frightening clarity.

Anna Alexandrovna. Lady-in-waiting. Favorite of the Empress. A dying girl who had miraculously resurrected, only to yield her body to me—Alisa, from Moscow, 2024.

I didn’t know by what whim of fate or magical error I had been hurled into this opulent, corset-bound era, steeped in intrigue and poison. But I knew one thing for certain: I hadn’t survived a horrific car crash in my own world just to die from a draft or court machinations in this one.

I slowly stepped away from the window, straightening my spine with as much pride as this frail body could muster, and looked the physician squarely in the eye.

“I have no intention of dying, Karl Bogdanovich,” I stated, mildly surprised by how commanding and icy my new voice sounded. (I didn’t actually know his name, but for some reason, I felt absolutely certain I had nailed the type). “Help me to bed. I still have far too much to do.”

The physician blinked in astonishment, clearly not expecting such a tone from the meek, dying violet that Anna apparently had been until this morning. Confusion flashed in his eyes, but he immediately rushed to carry out the order.

Sinking back onto the fresh, warm sheets, I closed my eyes. The game had begun. My new, insane, impossible life had begun. And I intended to play it by my own rules.