“Yes,” enthused Stana. “We were so lucky you were there, otherwise who knows what would have happened!”
“Yes,” agreed Militza, remembering the dark gathering clouds and the subsequent lashing rains and the hands of Philippe raised at the bow of the Standart as he shouted incantations into the roaring wind. It took a while for the storm to abate, but abate it did, and everyone who’d been cowering belowdecks, holding on for dear life, gave him the credit. “You did calm the storm. You absolutely did calm the storm.”
“As God is my witness, you did,” added Stana.
“So, as you can see, I am a man of my word.” Maître Philippe smiled confidently, his argument won.
IT WAS FOUR DAYS LATER AND THE MIDNIGHT SUN WAS LOW IN the sky when Militza and Stana left Znamenka carrying two small wicker baskets and a couple of sharp knives. It was St. John’s Eve’s night—midsummer’s eve—and the most auspicious night of the year for gathering herbs. This was a childhood hobby that had, over the years, gained in importance, but that night, Militza remembered, was perhaps the most significant of all. They had been invited to see the newborn, Anastasia, at Tsarskoye Selo the following day, which, given that she was only a few days old, was a great honor indeed. It suggested to Militza that all was not lost with the tsar and the tsarina; it appeared they were to be given a second chance. However, to arrive without a persuasive plan would be foolish, possibly terminal. Like losing one’s footing on a steep cliff, it would leave their hard-won position entirely vacant, ready for someone else to step into, as they themselves fell, bruised and lacerated, all the way down.
“So, we reiterate Philippe’s suggestion,” began Militza as she walked through the woods, hitching up her white skirts, already damp with dew.
Being alone in the forest with her sister brought her no fear. In fact, she loved the feeling of solitude, loved listening to the wind as it rustled through the leaves of the silver birch; it was as if the trees themselves were talking to her, muttering and mumbling their secrets, telling them exactly where to find the woodland treasures that they were seeking. She loved the light at that hour of night this far north, when the weak sun never waned and the sky was a pale, clean, clear blue; it was as if everything was crisp and new, about to be reborn.
“Alix simply didn’t believe enough,” she continued, picking her way along the path. “She may have thought she had, but she did not.”
“Maître Philippe doesn’t fail,” agreed Stana, sounding equally determined. “We just have to make her realize her mistake. It’s all her own fault; if only she’d trusted Philippe, trusted us a little more.”
“It’s not just her we need to convince. There!” Militza said, pointing to a small patch of blue flowers nestled at the foot of a tree. “Knapweed. Adam’s head, the tsar of herbs, for the tsar of Russia.” She smiled. “Just what we were looking for.”
Stana rushed over with all the enthusiasm of a child, knelt down, and cradled the small blue flower in her hand. “What a perfect specimen—and gathering morning dew just as it should be. We couldn’t wish for better.”
“Lord, bless me.” Militza took a small wooden crucifix out from deep in her dress pocket and, waving it over the flowers, started to chant. “And you, Mother Fresh Earth, bless me to cull this plant.” She made the sign of the cross over the front of her breast. “You have brought it forth for man’s use, and thus I take it. From the earth a plant. From God a medicine. Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated her sister.
Militza took out the short, sharp-bladed knife and knelt down before the plant. A curl of loose birch leaves blew off the ground and spun and danced before them like a wisp.
Militza smiled. “Here come the woodland spirits,” she said, looking up at her sister. “Are you ready? Turn around, otherwise the herbs will lose their power.”
Stana turned her back and prayed. “Holy Adam plowed, Jesus Christ gave seed, the Lord sowed it, the Mother of God watered it and gave it to the Orthodox people as an aid.” She crossed herself and spat three times on the ground. “Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated Militza, and plunged the point of the knife into the palm of her hand. A searing agony ripped through her and she cried out. Her eyes watered, but as she exhaled through her half-open mouth, she began to feel the rush, the high, giddy joy of the pain. She sucked on the wound, drawing the blood closer to the surface. Eventually two scarlet drips appeared and snaked down her wrist, staining the white cuff of her dress. She knelt over the flower, squeezing her left hand harder and harder until finally another three large drops fell, splattering the small blue petals.
“Adam’s head, the dew of midsummer morn, and the blood of a witch,” declared Stana, and she swiftly sliced the stem close to the root. “It does not get more powerful than that.”
“Mix with holy water, and even the most barren will conceive a son.”
LATER THAT MORNING THEY OPENED THE DOOR TO THE TSARINA’S bedchamber. Crepuscular and devoid of oxygen, with the curtains tightly drawn, the room was hot and crammed with photographs, icons, and endless painted images. Between the two brass beds swathed in pink bows and a fussy English floral-wreath-patterned chintz, every nook, cranny, surface, and space hosting pots, plants, bronze statues, or little knickknacks from Alix’s travels, the effect was not only an assault on the eyes but also overpoweringly claustrophobic.
Through the half-light they could see Alix propped up on her pillows, the mewling infant by her side. The tsarina’s hair was loose, her face covered in a cold, dank sheen, and she looked weak and lost. Such was the shock and the disappointment of a fourth daughter that she had, apparently, been driven mad by insomnia. She had not slept for three days, stalked by the twin demons of guilt and fear. On closer inspection the sisters saw that her eyes were rubbed red raw, her mouth was dry, and her parted lips were barely capable of speech.
“You are here. At last,” she said.
She spoke so softly the sisters had to strain to hear her. She closed her eyes as a tear slipped out of the corner of one eye and slithered down her cheek. “Tell me all is not lost.” She turned her head towards the closed window and tried to stifle a small cry. “Tell me I am not lost.”
“All is not lost,” replied Militza, sitting on the bed and taking Alix’s thin hand in hers. “You are not lost.”
“We’re here now,” added Stana, sitting down on the end of the bed. “And we have something for you.”
While Alix stared listlessly, Militza placed twelve little wooden dolls, one by one, in a circle on the bed. Made from laundry pegs carved from rowan wood, they wore hand-snipped head scarves of various hues tightly pinned around their smooth, faceless heads. The last time she’d used her Herod’s daughters, Militza had managed to quell the worryingly high fever that had gripped the son of Stana’s lady’s maid, Natalya. For two nights he had tossed and turned, pale and pouring sweat, but eventually the dolls had performed their magic, and the fever had calmed. This morning, as they sat in the dark, stuffy bedchamber, Militza was hoping they might cool Alix’s fever and help her overcome the terrible disappointment of Anastasia’s birth.
“What lovely little dolls,” she whispered, stroking the smooth, featureless face of the one closest to her with a quivering hand. “Rock-a-bye, baby . . .” she began singing in a thin, quiet voice, gently under her breath. “On the treetop . . .” She slowly swayed the poppet back and forth. “When the wind blows, the cradle will rock, and when the bough breaks . . .” She paused and turned to stare at Militza. “The cradle will fall . . .” Her eyes were so haunted and pale, and although she was looking at Militza, Militza wasn’t sure if she could see her at all. “And down will come baby . . . cradle . . . and . . . all.” She suddenly looked at the wooden poppet and threw it across the room. It smashed into a small mirror, sitting on one of the many cluttered shelves, which fell to the floor and immediately shattered into a thousand little pieces. The shocked silence that followed was only broken by the gurgling noises from the tightly sw
addled baby lying on the bed.
“Philippe says you will have a son,” declared Militza. Alix did not reply. She simply stared into the darkness, her face devoid of expression. “Philippe promises you will have a son—and Philippe is never wrong.”
“Really?” she responded eventually, sounding so very hopeless and so very unconvinced.
“Yes! You just have to believe.”
“Yes,” added Stana joining in. “You just have to believe.”
“Believe in what Philippe said. He’s been sent from God. Believe in God and the will of God. Believe with all your heart,” confirmed Militza, taking hold of both of her thin white hands and squeezing them.
“Just believe . . .” Alix sighed and closed her eyes, all her fight gone.
“Just believe, my darling, open up your heart and it will happen,” whispered Militza, gently stroking the back of her hand.
“Believe,” hushed Stana.
They carried on whispering, caressing her hand, stroking her hair, until it almost became some sort of mantra; they rearranged the small wooden poppets, moving around the bed in the half-light, like shadows in the night, their footsteps light, their movements slow. It was like a dance. They lit the heavy rose-oil incense burner in the private oratory just off the bedroom, and the sweet, sickly smell wafted into the room, its odor overpowering. The more the girls moved, the more the airless atmosphere was rendered claustrophobic. The chanting, the cloying perfume, the whispering around the bed—the effect was hypnotic. Alix was slowly drawn into their vortex so that when they came to administer the drops, she was powerless to resist. She opened her mouth like a compliant child as they slipped the pipette between her gently parted lips.
“Adam’s head,” Militza whispered in her ear. “The tsar of herbs for the tsarina.” Alix managed a small smile. Militza leaned in closely, and her lips brushed against Alix’s cheek; then slowly, tenderly, she moved lower, gently kissing Alix on the mouth. The tsarina inhaled sharply, her eyes suddenly wide-open, her face questioning. Undeterred, Militza continued. “Two drops a day, every day, my darling,” she whispered, kissing her again. “Then, when your menstrual blood flows again, four drops every day after that until you conceive again. Which you will . . . I promise.”
“I will,” repeated Alix, smiling slowly at her friend as her pale cheeks flushed pink. She stared into Militza’s deep black eyes, her own burning more brightly than before. She caressed her cheek before she turned her head and, with a relaxed and heavy sigh, let her lids slowly close. Finally, a few minutes later, her chest began to rise and fall. At last she’d fallen asleep.
OUTSIDE THE ROOM, THE ANXIOUS TSAR WAS PACING UP AND down the corridor, his polished boots tapping on the wooden floor. He looked gaunt, his eyes emanating a deep sadness; it was as if he had aged a dozen years overnight.
“How is she?” he asked, taking hold of Militza’s shoulder as the two sisters exited the room, chased by a heavy cloud of incense. His grip was urgent. “Dr. Ott wants to prescribe aspirin.”
“He always wants to prescribe aspirin, that’s his answer to everything,” said Militza. “She is asleep now and she needs to rest. Let the wet nurse take the child.”
“You know Alix doesn’t like that.”
“Alix needs to sleep—desperately needs to sleep. She can feed her child later,” asserted Militza.
There was a noise at the end of the corridor, and Nicholas turned to stare as his two eldest girls, Olga, aged five, and Tatiana, who had just turned four, appeared. Dressed in identical white frilled dresses, their long hair tied back with large pale blue ribbons, they rushed towards him.
“Papa!” exclaimed Olga as she fell against his legs and embraced him.
“Papa!” cried Tatiana, doing exactly the same.
“How is Mummy? Is it a one or a two today?” Olga asked, her pretty face upturned towards her father. “I hate it when her back pain is a two because I know we are not allowed to see her.”
“It is not her back that is hurting today,” said Nicholas, kneeling down and stroking the top of his daughter’s head. “It is the new baby, she’s making Mama tired.”
“When will she be awake? When will she be better?” continued Olga.
“I want to see Mama,” Tatiana announced, trying to push her father to one side to get into the room.
“No, no, no,” said the tsar, taking both his daughters gently by the hand. “Mama needs some rest, she needs to sleep. Why don’t you come outside with me? It is a beautiful day; let’s go for a walk. A walk always makes everything much better.”
Chapter 12
August 1901, Znamenka, Peterhof
MILITZA REMEMBERED THE SUMMER OF 1901 AS A BLISSFUL few months. She and Peter were happy. She knew he loved her, for he told her often, not in so many words but by his deeds. He was kind, protective, and he adored his children, was forever trying to engage them in his favorite subject of architecture. Marina, Roman, and little Nadezhda were not the most willing of students, Militza recalled, but they were well and thriving nonetheless. Even Stana was content. George was in Biarritz, of course, but she and her children had become so used to his absence that no one questioned where he was anymore.
Perhaps it was the calm before the storm? Although, truthfully, no one really knew then that there was a storm brewing, or what a terrible storm it would be. Granted, the spark of unrest was being heartily fanned in the countryside, and the city was increasingly crowded and fractious, but out in Peterhof, blissful Peterhof, surrounded by the gentle, lush forests, rocked by the cool breeze off the gulf, there appeared to be few concerns. The weather was not unduly hot, and the afternoons were bathed in a glorious golden glow, the evenings light and languid—and the tsarina was an almost daily visitor.
Her morning telephone call from the Lower Dacha was generally followed by the loud sound of her carriage wheels as they came rattling up the drive, usually in time for tea. She was very fond of tea, as were her girls. English tea with milk and sugar, not the usual Russian jam. Sometimes she would bring all of the girls with her, including the baby, Anastasia, so that they might amuse themselves with Marina, Roman, and Nadezhda as well as Stana’s Sergei and Elena. (George’s son Alex was thankfully away serving with the hussars.) Sometimes the tsarina would bring along just the “bigs,” Olga and Tatiana; sometimes she would come on her own. And if she didn’t manage to come—if her back was hurting her or, more recently, her heart, or if one of the children was unwell—then she would always make another telephone call in the afternoon. A lengthy telephone call, where all manner of intimate minutiae was discussed. It was as if the sisters had become her daily fix and, like a laudanum addict, she could not manage without them.
The Dowager Empress reacted to their relationship with consternation. Her previously frosty behavior towards the “Black Spiders,” as she now called the sisters, became increasingly hostile. Minny could not stand to be in the mere presence of either Stana or Militza and would quite often refuse to attend any function she knew they might attend. Militza was fascinated by the withdrawal of the Dowager Empress. How unlike Maria not to have put up more of a fight, she thought at the time. The Dowager Empress, along with the Grand Duchess Vladimir, might still control the pockets of St. Petersburg, but she had totally lost control over her son. The tsar and tsarina’s circle was now so small and the influence that the two sisters exerted so strong that no one dared cross them. Helped in part by Dr. Badmaev and his regular supply of hashish and cocaine elixir—of which Militza was growing increasingly fond—the sisters’ grip around the couple became very tight indeed. Along with that, the gossip became increasingly vicious and slanderous.
“YOU WILL ENJOY WHAT I HEARD YESTERDAY AT THE YACHT Club,” pronounced Peter as he lit a cigarette at the breakfast table one morning and slowly stirred his coffee. “You and Alix are having an affair. Or was it Stana? I am not quite sure.” He chuckled and twisted the ends of his mustache. “And Philippe is in the bedroom with you both! Or was it all thre
e of you? I had rather too much claret to remember. But it was jolly amusing nonetheless!”
“Fascinating,” replied Militza, dressed in a pale blue silk morning dress, as she slowly punctured two raw egg yolks with a silver fork and whipped them into a light froth at the bottom of her glass. “One should never underestimate the creative power of jealousy.”
She put her lips to the rim of the glass, opened her throat, and swiftly swallowed the medicinal cocktail. She was not overly keen on her early-morning egg potion, but since the Grand Duchess Vladimir had been overheard extolling its health-giving properties, all the ladies of the court, including Alix, were drinking raw egg for breakfast.
Militza slowly pressed the corners of her mouth with her napkin as she tried to calm herself. The mere mention of her closeness with Alix made her heart beat faster. She had not kissed her again since that hot, heady afternoon in her bedchamber, but she had thought about it, relentlessly, as she lay in bed, the images churning around in her head, the smell of Alix’s flesh, the touch of her bosom, the taste of her. Militza had become so intimately familiar with Alix, her moon cycle, and her desperate desire to have a son that she now knew of every occasion she was penetrated by the tsar and how and for how long, and whether he mounted from the left or the right or from behind, that there were times when she felt herself flushed with a hot, fiery emotion that was hard to explain.
All she knew was that it was a dangerous emotion, for it clouded her judgment. She’d made that mistake once before, and she was not going to let it happen a second time.
A footman bringing a letter on a silver salver disturbed her thoughts. She plucked it from the tray and turned it over and over in her hands. She’d recognize that script and seal anywhere.
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