Before this trip, I couldn’t have told you what a Fabergé egg was.

On the walk to the museum, I asked Dani.

“Is it a real egg?”

She laughed.

“It’s just around the corner.”

~

The museum occupied a nineteenth-century mansion whose name was written in Cyrillic across the entrance. I recognized it only because I’d spent the walk memorizing the strange collection of letters.

Tuxedoed guards with earpieces pointed us toward the lockers.

Plastic boot covers tore as we stretched them over our winter boots.

A warm British voice welcomed us through our audio guides and began describing the staircase.

Then another room.

Then another.

Red Drawing Room.

Blue Drawing Room.

Silver.

Porcelain.

Furniture.

The guide lingered over every chandelier and architectural flourish.

Dani looked at me.

“Where are the eggs?”

We kept walking.

Closing announcements began echoing through the halls.

We hurried through another drawing room. Green this time.

Still no eggs.

Then we turned one last corner.

~

Nine display cases stood alone in a dim gallery.

I walked toward the first.

It looked almost disappointingly simple.

A smooth white shell.

Then the audio guide explained that it opened.

I leaned closer.

Inside was a golden yolk.

Inside the yolk was a tiny golden hen.

I looked at Dani.

“Oh.”

She smiled.

The next egg opened.

Then another.

A mechanical bird once emerged from it and sang before folding itself back inside.

Flowers unfolded from another.

Diamonds and rubies disappeared beneath layers of enamel.

Dani stopped in front of one covered in jeweled lilies of the valley. The flowers were tiny, pale, and delicate enough to look alive.

I moved to the last Imperial Egg.

It was different.

No mechanical bird.

No flower.

No trick.

Instead, engraved portraits of the imperial family surrounded the surface.

War had scattered Fabergé’s craftsmen.

There would be no Easter gift the following year.

We stood there for a while.

~

The museum continued beyond the gallery—jewelry, cigarette cases, jeweled fruit, ornaments.

We barely looked.

When we reached the lobby, the gift shop had already closed.

I peeled the torn plastic boot covers from my shoes, collected our backpacks, and stepped back into the cold streets of Saint Petersburg.