The year is 1917. A Russian aristocrat flees the revolution in a painted caravan with her mother, their cats and her little girl. The snow falls and geese fly in V formations overhead. As the lady drives the horses, wrapped in cashmere and furs, behind her, her mother, old Madame Blavatsky strokes her cats, reclining on a brightly patterned thick woven rug, telling stories to her granddaughter. Her jewels glimmer on her wrists in the moonlight. The cats purr. In one story a tiny robin sacrifices his life for a beautiful princess, in another a prince is turned into a polar bear by a powerful witch to wander forever on the frozen waters of Siberia. The little girl falls asleep to the sound of hooves on snow and dreams of magic carpet rides and rabbits with pink jewels for eyes.