It's the early hours of December 30, 1916, in an aristocratic palace in St. Petersburg,

the capital of Russia.

Sitting in a lavishly decorated cellar, faith healer and mystic Gregori Rasputin

holds up a near-empty crystal goblet and admires its intricate engravings in the dancing firelight.

As he takes the last sip of his wine, his host rushes over to refill it.

Most aristocrats steer clear of Rasputin, but over the last few weeks, the young

Felix Yusupon has proved the exception. And when he invited Rasputin over to meet his wife this

evening, Rasputin was all too eager. Irina is not only the niece of Russia's autocratic emperor,

but she's also said to be very beautiful, and Rasputin has always had a

weakness for women. All evening, he's waited patiently for Arena to appear, but Felix has made

excuse after excuse, and there's still no sign of her. Rasputin shifts uncomfortably in a high-back

chair that doesn't quite fit his six-foot-four frame. In the dim light, he notices

that Felix's boyish face is starting to perspire. Felix apologizes again for his wife's

tardiness and then mumbles something about going to check on things before dashing upstairs. Now alone

with nothing but his thoughts, Rasputin plays with the silk sleeve of his shirt.

It was a gift from the Empress herself.

He smiles, thinking of how far he's come.

Once he was just a lowly Siberian peasant.

Now he's the closest confidant of the Russian imperial family.

And if Felix Yusupon's recent overtures of friendship are any indicator,

perhaps the country's aristocrats are finally accepting that Rasputin isn't going anywhere.

But just as that thought crosses his mind, Felix returned, not with his wife Irina,

...