Anastasia- a brain draft

*__EDIT__* When I say "brain draft," I literally mean I'm dumping stuff out of my head. I feel a little embarrassed, because this is not the greatest writing. I was looking for feedback on the actual idea, which I got! =] Still deciding whether or not to continue with this story.

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Anastasia was everything you'd never expect in a princess. You probably think of the lost duchess the way they show royalty in movies: an idyllic, demure princess with a smile behind her lips, just waiting for her lost birthright to be returned. That never described Anastasia. Her older sisters carried the family dignity, she carried the levity. She never hid behind a polite smile. In fact, she rarely hid anything, except maybe plans for her next prank. She smiled her widest smiles, no matter who was watching. She made faces when she felt silly. It was obvious when she was irritated. If she had something clever to say, you would hear it. The Imp, they teasingly called her. Alexei's big sister, the sweet and spicy child of the Romanovs, lit the fire under everyone's heels. Her personality was an undying flame.

Perhaps that's why I could never accept her death.

No, I did not know her personally. But I studied the Romanovs' lives for most of my own until that fateful night in the library. It was a visiting exhibit on the Special Collections level, "The Fall of the Last Tsar," with replicas of fabrige eggs, a transcribed copy of one of Lenin's journal, old photographs, details of Rasputin's murder, and most precious of all, an actual collection of papers taken from the Tsarina's boudoir. The head of Special Collections, Genevieve Waldon, knew me well, and had invited me in to review it with the rest of the staff before it was made accessible to the public.

I'm not sure how I spotted the note. Alexandra's papers were spread out inside a glass case, most of them personal letters between her and Nicholas. A yellowing journal page about the Grand Duchesses' new tutor caught my attention. I had read a transcription of it before in my research. As I ran over the familiar words, I noticed that there was a small corner of another piece of paper poking out from behind it.

"Dr. Waldon," I called. Genevieve stepped away from the display of fabrige eggs, where she had been showing the internal mechanism to some of the staff members from other departments.

"Aldeen." Her eyes sparkled. "Amazing collection, isn't it?"

"I could stand here all day. But I was wondering, look right there. This journal page-"

"Queen Alexandra's. The actual page, too. This case is the only part of the exhibit that contains originals."

"Yes. Do you see that side there? What's underneath it?"

Genevieve squinted. "Well... what in the world?"

Twenty minutes later, Genevieve had the exhibit's team of handlers lifting off the heavy glass lid. All of us visitors were brushed aside and ordered to stay back. The gloved hand of a specialist reached in and carefully turned over the journal page. As she did so, a small piece of stiff paper fluttered away, landing on the padded table. Genevieve glared at the shocked team of specialists.

"Explain," she demanded.

A tall man with square glasses and gray flecks in his hair cleared his throat. "I supervised this case, Dr. Waldon, and I promise you there was nothing sticking together when we set it up."He squirmed a little as Genevieve continued to glare. I almost felt guilty for spotting his mistake.

The same red-haired woman who had turned over the journal page now carefully picked up the note. It was blank except for two brief lines scrawled along the bottom. "I can't make out the script," she said.

Genevieve moved forward to examine it. "It's in Russian," she said, then turned to look at me. "Aldeen? Would you mind?"

My face reddened as everyone in the room looked my way. "Of course not," I said, and hurried over to the case. I was so excited, I could have sworn my heart was tripling its usual rhythm.

It took me almost no time to decipher the lines, but my brain would not process the information.

"It... it doesn't make any sense," I said. I stared in confusion at the note, feeling Genevieve stare at me just outside my peripheral vision. I looked up at the gloved woman holding the note out for me, then at the man in glasses across the room. "How did this get here?"

"What does it say, Aldeen?"

I made a feeble attempt to clear my throat. "It says, 'You have seen them. The Romanovs live.' And," I whispered, "it's in my handwriting."

Then the world went black.