Grigori Rasputin Imagine yourself in Russia, 1909. You are the queen of the Soviets, living in the royal palace. Outside sun filters through the lush green leaves that adorn the shade tree. Mixed with the sounds of water trickling down a fountain, there are birds singing a song, a song like honey on the ears. But inside, a dark room your child lies, eyes hallow and cheeks sunken in. He is dying of an illness a strange monk claims he can cure. You see the sheen of sweat envelope his pale face, and…
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