“Really?”
“He works between two worlds.”
“The question is, which two?”
“He can cure syphilis.” Militza could feel her pulse rising.
Dr. Badmaev had been her friend and ally ever since she and her sister had arrived in the city. He leaned in very close and whispered carefully in her ear.
“Let me give a word of advice. Rifles? Grain? Money? Your father arriving next month? All eyes are on you. Your time is running out. The knives are out. You need the boy, Militza, and you need him now.”
“Oh, there you are!” declared Stana, taking her sister by the arm. “We’re all waiting for you next door. Philippe says he won’t start without you.”
“Me?”
Militza was confused. Dr. Badmaev’s words had upset her. He had never spoken to her like that before, and he was a man who knew much, everything perhaps. He had more direct access to power than anyone, even the Yusupovs or the Vladimirs. And moreover, unlike the Yusupovs and the Vladimirs, he was trusted. He was a doctor, after all.
STANA DIRECTED HER SISTER INTO THE DARKENED ADJACENT room, where an expectant crowd clustered around a large, highly polished dining table. Countess Ignatiev was sitting across from the door, rubbing her hands with excitement. Next to her was a buxom woman in a defiantly low-cut dinner dress whose husband, so it was rumored, had recently run off with a dancer who was great friends of the ballet-dancing courtesan Mathilde Kschessinskaya. To her right was a French diplomat whose legendary fondness for wine often resulted in him slithering down the walls at parties. Tonight, observed Militza, he looked more sober than usual, and opposite him was a heavily mustachioed general whose well-known fondness for paying for “conversation” had seen him visit Philippe’s late-night clinic on more than one occasion. Next to him was a British journalist whom Militza always tried to avoid due to his irritating habit of pinning one into a corner and talking at one like the captive audience one was.
And so it went on around the table, old faces, old acquaintances—and yet, on closer inspection, the circle was decidedly more peppered by a new crowd. It looked a little more louche, a little more decadent, a little more fashionable. Militza was a little taken aback. Perhaps the closest confidantes of the tsarina and her physician should not be here? Clearly the countess’s little Black Salon was no longer the best-kept secret in town. In fact, she’d go so far as to say it was not a secret at all.
“Ma chère,” said Philippe, patting the seat next to him. “How very delighted I am to see you.”
Militza smiled tightly. She smoothed down her dark green silk dress and took her seat, inhaling a large curl of sickly, heavy incense as she did so.
“I was just about to begin,” he said, wrapping his long, sharply filed fingernails around the planchette in the middle of the green felt Ouija board. “This . . .” he began, explaining to the crowd in his heavily accented French, “is the planchette . . .” There were murmurs of acknowledgment. They were clearly used to the vagaries of the occult. “One keeps one’s fingers lightly in contact with the planchette, but one makes no attempt to move it oneself,” he continued, fanning his short fingers at his audience. His buffed nails shone in the candlelight. “And my close friend the Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna will assist me.”
“Right,” replied Militza, a little taken aback. She was not prepared for a séance; she had not contacted her spirit guide, nor had she opened her chakras or even administered her belladonna drops. She’d had a few large goblets of claret at dinner, and she was more than a little tired, which was not the ideal preparation. Then again, she thought, as she looked around the crowded, increasingly hot and airless room, this was not the sort of atmosphere conducive to contacting a passed-over soul, no matter how far down the lower astral they were. This was surely an occasion when only drunkards or the murdered would be likely to appear, and even then, she thought, they probably would not bother. They’d be lucky if any old soul could make it through.
Philippe brought out a small ceramic bowl and began to light a selection of herbs, adding to the already heady and thick smoke. Militza blinked as her eyes watered and turned to look at her sister. But Stana was looking at Nikolai, who was standing behind her, his hands resting on the back of her chair. He smiled at her and twisted up the corners of his mustache.
Philippe began to chant, at first in French, then moving on to a rather poorly pronounced version of Sanskrit.
“Please,” he said finally, indicating for Militza to manage the planchette. “I know you are good at channeling.” She looked at him and didn’t move. She had no desire to take it up. “There are a lot of people here,” he hissed. “Show them how it is done.”
Reluctantly, she placed her fingers on the upturned glass and closed her eyes. Almost immediately she felt some movement, a force tugging at her fingers, pushing her hand this way. Militza tried to resist. Personally, she didn’t like using a planchette. When she made contact with the spirit world, this was her last method, and she was not hugely familiar with the technique. But whoever this was was determined to be heard. A terrible shiver came over her body, and she could feel a biliousness that made her want to be sick. She felt the color drain from her cheeks as she rocked in her chair.
“Someone is here!” declared Philippe, stretching his arms out dramatically across the table. “See! Spirit makes a wind. Look how the candles move!” He flapped his hand in front of the silver candelabra on the table. “It is someone important!” he added. “I feel it. Terribly important! I feel the weight of state . . . or perhaps . . . of legacy.”
“How exciting!” Countess Ignatiev couldn’t contain a small squeal of delight.
“Let’s hope it is not bloody Pushkin,” drawled the British journalist. “I remember he came through the other day and was awfully full of himself.”
“Shh!” said the buxom woman in the low-cut dress.
Militza felt the planchette move swiftly across the felt, dancing from letter to letter at slick and accurate speed.
“P . . .” said Philippe as he watched Militza’s hands move across the board. “A . . .” he continued. “U . . . L . . . Paul,” he pronounced. “Spirit? Is your name Paul?” Militza felt the planchette move quickly across to “Yes.” But as she did so, she gasped.
“Oh,” she exhaled as she doubled up over the table.
“Are you all right?” asked Stana, immediately taking her arm.
“I feel . . . I feel . . .” Militza was breathless and panting, gasping for air. “I feel as if I have been stabbed in the stomach. The pain! The agony!” She began to sway listlessly in the chair, and yet her fingers firmly gripped the planchette. “I was murdered,” she mumbled under her breath. “I am unshriven . . .”
“Paul?” continued Philippe, leaning forward, looking keenly at the board, clearly delighted that such a communicative spirit had come through with such a large audience to witness it. “Were you murdered?” Militza practically punched the “Yes” square with the glass. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Three times the planchette struck the square; three times Militza’s arms shot forward. Her eyes were closed, and her head was on one side as her tongue began to loll out of her mouth. Yet her back and arms were rigid, alert, attentive, waiting to respond to the next question. It was as if her body had been completely taken over by something—or someone—else and she was no longer capable of controlling it.
“Is she all right?” Nikolasha asked Stana. His concern was touching.
“I think so,” replied Stana. “She has done this many times before.”
“My neck,” wheezed Militza. “I can’t breathe . . .”
“Spirit? Paul?” continued Philippe, staring at Militza, trying to read the expression on her face as she appeared to fight for breath. “Where you throttled? Strangled?”
Militza’s body went limp, but once again her arms shot across the board, hammering the planchette up and down on the “Yes” square.
“Oh!” declared the countess, leani
ng back, away from the table. “How ghastly.”
Standing behind Stana, Nikolasha gripped the back of her chair. His impassive face, with its straight nose, fine brows, and elegantly upturned mustache, began to sweat. His normally erect back hunched forward. Stana sensed his discomfort and, turning around, touched his right hand; it felt cold.
“Ask Paul if he was trampled?” he whispered quietly into Stana’s ear. She looked at him, frowning. “Just ask,” he said, shaking his head. “Please.”
“Spirit?” The whole table turned to look at Stana. “Were you trampled?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.” Militza hammered the glass down repeatedly as if she were in some sort of frenzy.
“Oh, my God, save us!” exclaimed Nikolasha, staggering back from the table, covering his mouth and breathing heavily. “It can’t be! It can’t be!”
“What?” Stana leapt out of her chair and went immediately to his side.
“I thought this was supposed to be frivolous? Entertaining?” He was speaking in a low whisper in a dark corner of the room, had grabbed hold of Stana’s shoulders and was spitting as he spoke, clearly fighting some very deep-rooted emotion. “Instead you bring me here and raise the hideous specter of Paul I’s unshriven soul! The very ghost that has haunted Gatchina since he was strangled and trampled to death at Mikhailovsky Castle by his own soldiers. Nicky, me, Peter—we have always been terrified of him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Stana.
“None of us could ever sleep at that hideous palace.” He shivered a little at its memory. “The irony! Sent there for our own safety after the murder of my uncle only to have our nights turned white with the noise of Paul’s screaming, wailing soul. And now,” he said, pulling her extremely close, so that his nose was almost touching her, “you have brought him here! For fun?”
“Time to grow up. Go and rule!”
Nikolasha froze and looked over Stana’s shoulder in the direction of the voice. Militza was standing by the table, facing him. Backlit by candles, she appeared in silhouette, the index finger of her right hand pointing at him.
“Time to grow up. Go and rule!” Her tone was hateful, hard, and completely heartless. It did not sound like her at all.
“Lord Jesus,” whispered Nikolasha, crossing himself as he looked across at her in the darkness. “How does she know?”
“Know what?” asked Stana.
“What the murderers said after they pulled the young Alexander I from his bed, having just killed his father? ‘Time to grow up. Go and rule.’” He shook his head. “No wonder my family are haunted by death, no wonder they hide in their palaces, fearful of assassination. No wonder they cower when they’ve been hunted and shot like dogs over and over again, for centuries.”
“Sergei!” Militza declared.
Nikolasha left the corner of the room and approached her. Militza was standing next to her chair, her hands by her sides, her eyes glazed, repeating the same word, “Sergei,” over and over.
“Sergei? What? Sergei? Who?” Nikolasha quizzed her ever more intensely. “None of the assassins were called Sergei.”
“Spirit?” Philippe now stood up, his voice sounding a little panicked. “Spirit. Paul. Who is Sergei?”
“Sergei!” Militza crashed her fist on the table. Everyone gasped as glasses shattered and a goblet of red wine splashed across the table.
“Oh, dear!” Countess Ignatiev leapt out of her seat. “Someone call a servant!”
Then suddenly there was shouting and a loud hammering of rifle butts on the paneled wooden doors. A man burst through, accompanied by the sound of rattling sabres.
“Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna?” he bellowed, his cheeks crimsoned above the great gray bushiness of his mustache. “Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolayevna?” His eyes narrowed. “Philippe Nizier-Vachot?”
Everyone stood still, some with drinks in hand, as if paused midconversation. A small group of soldiers entered the room and surveyed it, taking in the Ouija board, the planchette, the smell of incense, and the heady aroma of hashish and herbs. It was obvious this was no ordinary gathering. The dark arts were most certainly being practiced here.
“Nizier-Vachot?” the red-faced officer barked again.
“Oui?” came Philippe’s tentative reply.
“Outside!” the soldier ordered, pointing towards the next room.
There was a pause as Philippe, his faced blanching rapidly, walked slowly out of the room.
“Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolayevna?”
His eyes darted from face to face. Stana said nothing. She silently picked up her small evening reticule and walked in a slow and dignified manner towards the door.
“But this is a private party—” began Countess Ignatiev, starting towards the door.
“Sit down!” he shouted. “This is not a matter that concerns you.”
“But it is my house,” she insisted.
“Then do as you are told!” he replied, indicating a chair.
“I am not sure this is correct,” announced Nikolasha, stepping forward.
“Grand Duke,” replied the officer, bowing his head. “I have my orders if you would like to see them?”
“Yes, I would,” he stated, stepping forward. “What is your business with Monsieur Philippe and their Imperial Highnesses?”
“Nikolasha, there is no need. Let us not make a scene and ruin everyone’s evening. I am sure it is nothing. I am sure we shall be fine; just let my husband know what has happened. Let’s go,” declared Militza, gathering herself up off her chair. Spirit apparently having left her almost as quickly as he had arrived, she appeared alert and focused. “And let us accept whatever the Fates have in store for us.”
OUTSIDE ON THE STREET IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN TOO COLD TO snow, but somehow flakes were falling. Beneath a streetlight, their white breath bellowing, a small unit of waiting soldiers were covered, their shoulders and bearskin hats frosted white. They had been outside for quite some time.
“In here.” The crimson-faced major indicated a large carriage.
“Who? Me? Just me?” asked Philippe, skittish with panic, looking left and right, slipping and dancing about in the snow. His round face was growing red as he tugged repeatedly at the large corners of his mustache. “I am a French citizen, you know; I need to contact the embassy. I have done nothing wrong. I know lots of people, very important people—I know the tsar!”
“All of you”—the officer hit the side of the door with the butt of his rifle—“in here.”
“All of us?” Philippe’s relief was palpable. He had no idea where he was going, but at least he was not going on his own. “After you, ladies!” he said, laughing a little wildly as he opened the carriage door and offered his hand.
Wrapped in her sable fur, Stana was the first inside, sitting down on the poorly padded seat. Militza followed, her silver fox in hand.
“It’s all right,” she said sitting down next to her sister. “Look,” she said, nodding towards the bench opposite. “We have traveling rugs. They don’t give prisoners traveling rugs.”
“They might do,” replied Philippe, sitting down and immediately covering his legs in the thick rug. “You never know what is going to happen. Especially not in this godforsaken country. I wish I had never set foot in the place. It’s freezing and dark and so are the people. This is not going to end well.”
“That is neither charming nor helpful,” snapped Stana. “Just because you have been arrested before.”
“Not for anything serious,” insisted Philippe.
“I call impersonating a doctor serious.” Stana grabbed hold of the blanket.
“Not if you are curing people,” he replied.
“It’s against the law.”
“So is witchcraft.”
“Not if you are curing people,” retorted Stana, shivering with cold. She pulled back the short black curtain and peeked through the frosted glass of the carriage window. The streets of St. Petersburg were almost entirely deserted, the few
people braving the cold at such a late hour wrapped up tightly, their footsteps silent and their shoulders hunched. “I wonder where they are taking us?” she asked suddenly, inhaling and biting her bottom lip as she tried to control the wave of rising panic. She looked across at her sister. “Where do you think? Why didn’t you let Nikolasha stop them?”
“I didn’t think there was much he could do,” she replied sanguinely.
“But where are they taking us?”
Militza shrugged. “We shall know soon enough.”
THEY TRAVELED IN SILENCE THROUGH THE NIGHT. THE ONLY noise was that of the carriage wheels slicing through the snow, and the longer the journey continued, the tighter the knot became in Stana’s stomach. Philippe somehow managed to doze, occasionally erupting into loud snores as his large nose tipped backwards towards the ceiling of the carriage. Militza, on the other hand, never moved. She sat stock-still, staring ahead as if in some sort of trance.
Finally, towards the early hours of the morning, they arrived. The carriage pulled up outside a large building and they were released, hearts racing, back into the night. Standing in the snow, still dressed in their evening wear, fine diamonds around their necks, the two sisters held hands for comfort. They blinked as they took in their surroundings.
“Tsarskoye Selo!” exclaimed Militza, looking at her sister.
“What are we doing here?” asked Stana, with increasing confusion.
“Follow me,” barked the major.
Still surrounded by guards, the three of them were escorted into the back of the palace, past the sentries and up the back stairs into the tsar’s private quarters and the bedchamber. As one of the guards raised his hand to knock on the door, Alix burst out. Dressed in her nightclothes, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes were wide with panic.
“You’re here! You’re here!” She embraced first Militza and then Stana, covering them with kisses, as if she were a lost child found in the woods. “Philippe!” She embraced him too. The three prisoners stood there, their arms by their sides, too shocked to understand what was going on. “They have searched St. Petersburg for you. Or so I hear. From the Vladimirs’ to the Yacht Club and finally the Ignatievs’—you have been hard to find! But I was desperate, you see, desperate, so Nicky sent for you.”
The Witches of St. Petersburg Page 15
