spetterpoep (spetterpoep)

There was a time, not very long ago, when we lived in an enchanted world of elegant palaces and grand parties. The year was 1916 and my son, Nicholas, was the Czar of Imperial Russia. We were celebrating the 300th anniversary of our family's rule. And, that night, no star burned brighter than that of our sweet Anastasia, my youngest granddaughter. She begged me not to return to Paris, so I had a very special gift made for her, to make the separation easier - for both of us.