She was beautiful. Illya couldn't deny that. With curly blonde hair, blue eyes, delicate features, and a sensitive mouth, she brought out in Illya the instinctive urge to sweep her up into his arms, to hold and protect her.
It had all started with the Faberge egg. While on vacation in his native country, Illya had found it in an antique shop in St. Petersburg. Awed by its beauty, he'd known that he simply had to have it.
Later, in the privacy of his motel room, he'd opened the egg, curious to see its inner marvels. Instantly he'd found himself in a different place and time; from the looks of things, St. Petersburg during the World War I era. He saw buildings, cars and carriages co-mingling on the street, people walking around dressed in the clothing of that period. And then he saw her.
She was dressed in a simple yet elegant white dress, with kid gloves and pearl earrings. She was obviously a member of the upper class, perhaps even the nobility. Her eyes fell on him, and suddenly he was speechless. She noticed the Faberge egg in his hands, and her mouth formed a soft 'O' of surprise.
Suddenly apprehensive, Illya slammed the Faberge egg shut and immediately found himself back in his motel room, shaking his head in wonder at his extraordinary experience.
Over the next several weeks, Illya pushed all thoughts of the Faberge egg to the back of his mind, but one night he came home from work and his eyes happened to fall on the Faberge egg sitting on the shelf above his fireplace. He remembered what had happened the last time he'd opened it and, curious, he picked it up and opened it again. Instantly she was there, still wearing the same dress and gazing intently at the object in his hands.
"It's mine," she told him. "My husband gave it to me for Christmas. I've been looking all over for it. However did you manage to find it?"
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Who are you?" she countered, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "And why are you dressed like that?"
"I am Illya Kuryakin, and I'm an investigator," he told her.
"Kuryakin," she muttered softly, her eyes traveling up and down his body.
"What's your name?" he asked. The Faberge egg snapped shut, and he stood once again in his own living room, but not before he heard her nearly whispered response. "Alexandra..."