This place was a capsule of nostalgia, a ripple caught in the fabric of time only to be truly appreciated by those whose eyes had born witness to the sands of the hourglass spilling away over decades of their own suspended animation. The rich hues and illustrious fabrics and patterns were a regal nod to how luxury had been defined in her day, when granduer was more than the white-washed, sterile coolness and monochrome of today's "upper echelon". They knew naught of what luxury, true luxury meant or looked like. What it felt like at the tips of one's fingers. But this place reminded her of a time before, before she had known Alex or the alternate life he would inevitably present her with, before the destruction of everything and everyone she had held close to her heart. Before, when life had been a thing of irrefutable ease and luxury had been commonplace.
Anastasia had chosen well in The Witchery, for truly a more suitable temporary abode was not to be found within the city limits. It was a magnanimous locale within which she might lose herself to the granduer of it all, tread lazily within the waters of recollection while she attempted to discern how long, if at all, she might like to linger in Sacrosanct. The latent reasoning for her arrival had hardly begun, much less had it been resolved. But after? It could not be genuinely denied that Anastasia had considered lingering here for an extended span of time; she had been reunited with her creator after a decade's time had seen them separated... and, in truth, she felt no urgency to depart from Alexander in quite so hasty a fashion.
All considerations to be carefully mulled over as she flitters from one impeccably-adorned corner of her suite to the other, though her eyes soon catch upon something, or rather someone, lingering upon the walkway of the street below. Finely-manicured brows pinch into a furrow that, though peculiar, is no less flattering upon her sharp features. The Duchess ambles for the barest second longer before ensconcing herself into a thick coat and making short work down to the resort's equally as lavish foyer and out unto the frigid sidewalk.
"William, what on earth are you doing just standing out here? Come inside before you catch your death of cold," she commands, the call to action somehow all the more authoritative as it rolls from her foreign tongue.
Anastasia Romanova
Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia