The Paleys (1922-1924) - An Alternate Romanov Story

The Serpent

Vladimir was no stranger to difficult situations. He had made his way through a successful military career even though he didn't have a violent bone in his body and achieved a prestigious position at the Corps de Pages even though he had started his journey there as an 11-year-old boy who barely knew any Russian and even stood toe to toe with his father in arguments that left both of them furious but begrudgingly respectful. He was good at handling people—reading them, anticipating their moves, knowing how to press forward or retreat when necessary.

And yet, as he left Alexei's study, the weight of their conversation still heavy on his mind, he felt exhausted in a way he rarely did.

It wasn't just that Alexei was making a mistake in feeding the fantasy of a relationship that could never work—though he was. It was that he understood him. That desperate kind of love, the kind that made logic irrelevant, that made a man willing to tear down walls, burn bridges, and risk everything just for the chance to be with the person who had become the centre of his world—Vladimir had been there once. And he had lost.

He exhaled, rubbing his temple as he made his way down the Winter Palace corridors. The only welcoming thought from the storm in his head was the fact that Tata was nearby, and he was about to see her. He had always known love to be complicated, but once Tata and he had overcome their barriers, it felt simpler—or at least, it was supposed to. If Alexei's problems had no solution, at least he did. He just needed to see her, to remind himself that not everything in his life was an impossible fight.

He quickened his pace, eager to reach the drawing room where he had last seen her a couple of hours before. But the moment he stepped inside, that small hope was lost. The room wasn't empty, but Tata wasn't there either. Instead, Countess Brasova, her mother, sat alone in an elegant posture as she sipped a cup of tea.

Vladimir hesitated. It was only for the briefest moment—a fraction of a second—but it was there. A rare, unguarded pause as his mind processed the situation and every red flag that came with it. He had never been alone with the Countess before. And he had never wanted to be.

Tata had told him enough—too much, really. Tales of a mother who could smile at you like you were the most precious thing in the world while slowly chipping away at your self-worth. Who could make you doubt yourself without ever raising her voice. Who would hold you close, whispering reassurances while making you feel like you were less than you had been before.

Tata had spent years fighting to free herself from her mother's hold. And though she never said it outright, Vladimir had long since gathered that the Countess viewed her own daughter as a disappointment, a burden, a failed project rather than a person in her own right.

And now here he was, standing before that same woman, alone.

The Countess set her teacup down gently, tilting her head with an air of pleasant curiosity. "Ah, Vladimir." Her voice was light, warm—too warm. "What a wonderful surprise."

Even well past forty, the Countess remained one of the most beautiful women in Petrograd. Her deep green eyes, luminous and unreadable, seemed to catch the light just so, framed by dark lashes that had lost none of their fullness. Her dark hair, still rich and lustrous, was swept into a perfect chignon, revealing the graceful line of her neck. Age had only refined her beauty—sharp cheekbones, smooth skin, an elegance that made younger women seem unfinished by comparison. But it was not just her looks; it was the way she carried herself, with a poise so unshakable it made others feel small without her ever needing to say a word.

Tata had inherited little from her. The same slim frame, the same dark hair—but where the Countess was all polished perfection, Tata was something else entirely. She was striking in her own right, with bold features and energy that drew people in rather than holding them at arm's length. If her mother was marble, cold and flawless, Tata was fire, impossible to ignore. And yet, when Vladimir looked at her, what stood out most was something her mother would never possess—sincerity, warmth, the ability to be truly known. The Countess's face was an ice mask, her expression so perfectly composed that it was impossible to tell what lay beneath.