The Alexander III Bridge, a little slice of Russia in the middle of Paris. It's funny Dmitry ends up here, the one gasp of familiarity in a strange, dazzling world. Somewhere across that bridge, there's a woman wearing a beautiful gown and the royal jewels she deserves. She will never look upon him again, which is pretty much what he deserves. It doesn't matter that he found a diamond in a haystack when he lied and cheated to get her here.

He's given up on pretensions. Most of the fine clothes have been pawned, save the few items in his suitcase. And the shoes, because his old ones has been worn through before this venture even started so that he could have found his way home by the cobbles beneath his feet. The nice shoes he keeps. Everything else he wears is from Russia, roughly woven and indifferently made, just like him.

Heaving a sigh, Dmitry looks across the road, takes in the colors of Paris. He can't stay here of course, can't afford to. He also can't run the risk of taking a walk up the Champs-Elysées and seeing a proud young woman with tidy curls. No, Paris is not for him. Never was.

So where to? There's a whole lot of world out there beyond Paris and he's young and able enough to find work. He could find someplace else in France or maybe even beyond it. Or he could go back to Russia. That's the worst option of the lot, of course. He'd step off the train and into shackles for what he's done, blessed with a vacation to Siberia, just like his father. Does he have convictions worth dying for? Not really, except Anya.

The only place he can't be is Paris.

One more look, he decides, before he goes to the train station. As he lifts his head, he hears footsteps and swears he sees a red gown. It must be a trick of the light because he blinks and it's not there.

Nothing is there. No Alexander Bridge...No Paris...No red gown. It's a train station but like nothing he's ever seen before.

"What?"