The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  Fortunately, during this period the rest of the court had little time to dwell on yet another of the tsarina’s failed pregnancies. They had come to expect little more than disappointment from this sour-faced fräu and had other things on their minds: the preparations for the impending Medieval Ball. The invitations had gone out almost a year prior to the event, and the intricacies of one’s costume were enough to occupy even the most active of minds. For this was no ordinary fancy dress party; this was the ball to end all balls. It had been Alix’s idea to evoke the past glories of the Muscovite court under the first Romanovs, and costumes were to be taken extremely seriously indeed. Alix’s dress, which had taken over seven months to make, was a copy of the robes once worn by Tsar Alexei’s first wife, Maria, in the 1660s. Embroidered with diamonds, sequins, and pearls using golden and silver thread, it was rumored to have cost over 1 million rubles.

  But it wasn’t the costumes Militza remembered that night, when 390 of the city’s most illustrious guests danced at the Winter Palace as if in a “living dream,” although they were extraordinary. Designers and theatrical costume houses had been hard at work for months, and ideas and inspiration had been sought from every quarter. Emirs’ robes, Muscovite princes’ garb, and even court falconer costumes had been studied and copied in minute detail. Peter and Militza had spent a small fortune on their attire. Peter wore a jacket of black velvet with a golden double-headed eagle embroidered on the front in the finest gold thread; his broad shoulders were edged in gold piping, and he wore loose black baggy trousers and soft black boots, while on his head was a fur-trimmed boyar’s hat. Militza wore matching black velvet. Her long wide sarafan was trimmed with jet beads and golden sequins, and her golden kokoshnik headdress quivered with pearls. The Grand Duchess Vladimir was naturally at her extravagant best in a gold velvet sarafan embroidered with jewels, complete with a kokoshnik headdress almost a foot high, studded with enormous precious emeralds, rubies, and diamonds. It dominated proceedings, as indeed did the huge forty-one-carat Polar Star diamond at the center of Princess Zinaida Yusupova’s kokoshnik, which was only usurped in splendor by the four-hundred-carat sapphire worn by Alix herself.

  “That stone is larger than a matchbox,” Peter had remarked, sipping a glass of champagne as they watched the state trumpeters announce the entrance of the tsar and tsarina.

  However, despite the fine fashions, the exquisite workmanship, and the ostentation of jewelry on display, Militza recalled that evening for something else entirely.

  Stana.

  It was just as Anna Pavlova started to dance a few select moments from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake that she noticed them. Standing at the back, hidden—or so they hoped—by a porphyry column, were Stana and Nikolasha. He was dressed as a boyar and she as a boyarina. His arm was around her waist and he was leaning forward, his small black lambskin hat pushed to the back of his head. She held her face close to his as she laughed. He leaned a little closer, and then, as all eyes were on Pavlova’s slowly dying swan, he kissed her. Stana did not resist. In fact, she closed her eyes and seemed to kiss him back. It was not a fleeting embrace. It was passionate and public. It was also easily reciprocated, and this was clearly not the first time they had kissed. Militza frantically looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Peter? The tsar? The tsarina? The Grand Duchess Vladimir? They were thankfully watching the ballet. But then she turned to look the other way, only for her gaze to be met by a man dressed as a seventeenth-century boyar with a white velvet coat with mink trim and a pair of soft cream Moroccan leather boots. His hair was swept back, his mustache had been trimmed, and he wore a dagger at his waist.

  “I see the necromancer has found fresh blood,” he said, staring across at Stana and Nikolasha as she fell backwards against the column, her mouth straining still higher, hoping for another kiss. “Does she not know that incest is illegal in this country?”

  “They are not related!” snapped Militza.

  “Oh, but they are,” he replied, his eyes slowly closing with satisfaction. “You are married to his brother—and brothers are not allowed to marry sisters in Russia; it is a sin.” He smiled. “Quite apart from the blatant adultery, which is, of course, an entirely different matter.”

  “I am not sure it is any concern of yours.” Militza turned to face him. “And frankly, you are not in a position to do very much about it, now, are you?”

  She could hear the hanging pearls on her kokoshnik shaking as vigorously as a shaman’s rattle as she feigned amusement. Her dislike for this man had in no way abated.

  “One can only admire your confidence, Goat Girl.” He smirked. “Don’t you realize your days are numbered? Your butcher’s boy has been sent back to Lyon, and you are still without an heir. How long before she tires of you? How long before she sends you back to the Black Mountains where you belong?”

  “You will spend a long time holding your breath.”

  “Are you still in the bedchamber?” he scoffed. “In charge of the imperial pot?”

  “Militza?” came a voice from behind.

  “Your Imperial Majesty,” he said, his cheeks flushing as he rapidly bowed his head.

  “Count Yusupov.” The tsarina nodded. “How are your sons?” she asked politely as she linked arms with Militza. “They must be really quite grown-up by now?”

  “Nikolai is twenty, and Felix is sixteen—he’s been in Italy and now he’s off to Paris, thinking about going to university in Oxford.”

  “England is such a charming country,” she replied. “We simply don’t go there often enough. I used to love our summers in the Isle of Wight. Osborne House.” She smiled.

  “Ella has mentioned to me your holidays with your grandmother,” he enthused.

  “Militza,” Alix added hurriedly, gripping her hand. “I need to speak to you.”

  “Of course.” She smiled slowly, her head to one side as she turned her back on Count Yusupov.

  ALIX WOVE HER WAY THROUGH THE MELEE OF CIGARETTE smoke, stiff jewel-encrusted costumes, and increasingly inebriated dancing. Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich was dancing an enthusiastic quadrille, attempting to keep hold of a glass of champagne, while declaring at the top of his voice how “astonishingly beautiful” everyone was.

  “What is your sister doing?”

  Alix spun around as soon as they reached the quiet corridor. There was a fiery, furious look on her already patchy red face. She placed her hands swiftly on her earlobes and winced; her earrings were so heavy the lobes hurt when she moved.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” replied Militza.

  “How long has it been going on?” Militza remained silent. “It is common knowledge that her husband has a mistress in Biarritz.”

  “It is?”

  “I can’t believe it!” The tsarina was exasperated. “Stana must know that it is not allowed for a woman to conduct herself in this manner. People will talk—I am sure they are already talking. You must put a stop to it. Put a stop to it immediately. She can’t behave in this way. It is unseemly the way she is carrying on with Nikolasha. Nikolasha, of all people! The man is so respected, so admired by everyone, particularly in the army. He may not be married, but she is!”

  “I am sure it is just a flirtation,” soothed Militza. It was impossible to deny it anymore. “High spirits, the champagne!”

  “That is no excuse!” Alix clasped her hands in front of her and pursed her lips before whispering in a low, seething voice, “Women do not have lusts; they are not allowed to have lusts, and they should not even entertain them.” She paused and rubbed her hands together. “They simply have a duty to their husbands. And that is it. A duty.” She stared at the floor and then looked up. “This is also a scandal that this court does not need. That I do not need. That Nicky doesn’t need. I am sure that a certain lack of moral rectitude in this court was tolerated in the past, before Nicky became tsar, but I find it unbecoming.”

  Militza nodded. There was nothing more to be said. The subje
ct was closed. Both sisters were to be denied.

  BACK INSIDE THE BALL IT WAS LATE; THE PEACOCK CLOCK WAS creeping towards 3 A.M., and it was clear that a certain amount of moral rectitude was disappearing along with the champagne. The Grand Duchess Vladimir was demanding another glass of Madeira while trying to hold on to her enormous headpiece. Grand Duke Konstantin was opening up small enamel cases, looking for some more Sobranie cigarettes, and Nicky, who’d certainly drunk more wine than usual, was complaining his sable-trimmed hat was making him hot.

  Militza was working her way through the crowd just as the orchestra struck up another mazurka, scanning the puce, pinked faces in the Pavilion Hall, looking for her sister. Where was she? What was she doing? Her behavior was going to jeopardize everything that she, Militza, and, indeed, their father had been working for. How could she?

  In and out, between the white pillars, Militza searched. The enormous glittering chandeliers above did little to illuminate proceedings, and the whirl, the swirl, the constantly circulating and dancing figures were beginning to disorientate Militza, who was growing more and more confused by the second. In the swirling melee she saw Alix’s face, her calves, her thighs . . . she could taste her. She needed air and she needed it quickly. The heat of her incredibly heavy ornate costume was beginning to consume her. Add to that the blind panic that it was all about to come crashing down around her and she broke out in a cold sweat. She tried breathing deeply, panting, but the sweating and her parched mouth were too much. She had to get out of the hall. Anywhere. Immediately. She needed air or she was going to faint. Eventually she found her way to a small, curved French window. The door handles were stiff; it was February, and she didn’t suppose they expected anyone to go out into the Hanging Garden. She pushed on the doors and staggered outside.

  It was a cold night, and the cloud was winning the battle with the stars. Even so, the Hanging Garden was reasonably warm. Built above the imperial stables, surrounded on all sides by galleries, it was away from the heat and the noise and yet protected against the harsh elements of a winter’s night in St. Petersburg.

  Relief. Militza breathed deeply and willed herself to calm down. She flapped her skirts and tried to loosen the tight collar of her heavily embroidered black-and-gold caftan. She leaned against a wall for support as she inhaled and exhaled, feeling its cold solidity against her back. As she closed her eyes, she heard a stifled squeal, and she suddenly realized she was not alone on the roof.

  Moving rapidly into the shadows, she flattened herself against the wall, behind a climbing evergreen jasmine, and peered through the leaves. There, about four arched windows away, she could see a couple below a statue, bent over each other in the darkness. The woman had her skirts pushed high up over her back, her underwear was gathered in a pool around her ankles, and her pale buttocks were visible in the sudden pale moonlight. He had pulled up his robes and loosened his trousers to the floor. They were quite clearly copulating. She’d squealed as he’d first thrust into her, but now she was moaning. The more he pummeled and pounded, the louder she cried. He was gathering momentum as he gripped on the ankles of the statue for support. She was on the tips of her toes, raising her rump, her back arching with pleasure, her chin thrust forward and her mouth wide-open as she welcomed him, more and more. He moved harder and faster, and her thighs shook with each penetration as the force rippled down her legs. He then slowed and moved more determinedly. Her hands edged out from underneath her as she too grabbed hold of the statue for support. One more. Two more. Three more. A fourth. The woman cried out a shrill yelp, weeping with joy as she shuddered and then collapsed, spent, up against the statue. He folded himself on top of her back.

  Militza stood completely still. Then, eventually, she slowly closed her eyes. She would recognize that cry anywhere.

  Chapter 16

  August 1903, Sarov, Tambov Region

  HE IS SO INTOLERABLY STUPID. HE HAS NO CURIOSITY, no conversation, no idea about anything other than the everyday. He barely reads, he can only speak French and Russian—in short, dear sister, he is a terrible bore.”

  Militza remembered smiling as she stood in the white heat of the Tambov sun. Her sister’s description of her husband had been so apposite that even at the height of their extremely fiery exchange after the Medieval Ball, six months before, it had made her laugh. It was so true. The man was not Stana’s intellectual equal: he was boorish—and, worse, he was boring. They were utterly unsuited. The candles on the eve of her wedding were right, as candles and magic always are. It was a poor match. Everyone knew it. But they were married now. And there was little either of them could do about it.

  Militza had waited almost a week before discussing the scene she’d witnessed in the Hanging Garden. Perhaps it was out of embarrassment, or perhaps she was hoping the situation might resolve itself; either way, Militza avoided her sister and spent most of that week rearranging her library. She had taken delivery of some particularly rare books from Watkins of London, and she’d locked herself away for the week, taking great pleasure in reading them.

  So, when she finally did decide to confront her sister, it was seven days later in St. Petersburg. It was a dark gray February afternoon when she called at the palace, only after much searching to discover her sister in one of the smaller studies on the third floor. The curtains were drawn, the lights were off, and the air was redolent with the stench of incense. Stana and Brana were on their knees, chanting and lighting a series of black votive candles. In front of them was a macabre-looking icon of a dancing skeleton dressed as a saint, complete with golden halo.

  “What are you doing?”

  Militza was shocked to find her sister performing something so base. Both the women remained motionless, petrified like statues. It was Brana who eventually spoke first.

  “Praying to Santa Muerte,” she replied, with a shrug.

  “Lighting black candles? Black? Whom do you wish vengeance on?”

  Militza looked from one to the other. This is what she and Stana used to do as children. This was Catholic magic, Catholic ritual. Not something they’d brought with them to Russia.

  “Brana?” she asked.

  “I am only doing as I am told,” mumbled the crone.

  “What do you expect me to do?” Stana spun around. She looked different. Her normally bright clear skin was gray, and her eyes were dulled with depression. “I hate him,” she said simply. “I love my children. Of course I love them. They are the only things that make my life worth living. But I am humiliated, Militza. Every time George goes to Biarritz, to his actress, another small part of my soul dies.” She sighed. “I am trapped and I don’t know what to do. I did as Father told me. I married the man of his choice—and now what? Must I spend the rest of my days being dutiful? Still in service to that wretched country of ours? Sometimes I think the nunnery would have be preferable.”

  “I am so sorry,” said Militza, shaking her head.

  “Don’t be. The pity’s the worst of it. ‘Poor Stana and her dreadful husband.’” She laughed dryly. “And now I have found someone who makes me happy. Is it wrong to want to be happy? Nikolasha makes me happy. He is dashing and strong and popular at court, unlike George. And he loves me.”

  She looked at Militza. Her sister always had a plan. What was to be done?

  Stana would keep her distance, demanded Militza. Stana naturally protested. It would be unbearable, impossible. But Militza was adamant. Stana would spend the summer in the Crimea, as far away from her lover as possible. While he occupied himself with his borzois and his estates in Tula, south of Moscow, Stana was going to try and take control of herself, and hopefully, eventually, these ridiculous, lustful feelings would go away. That was the idea, at least.

  THE THREE-DAY JOURNEY ON THE IMPERIAL TRAIN WAS STIFLING. Traveling due south from St. Petersburg to Sarov, the entire Romanov family except the little grand duchesses, plus their entourages, had packed themselves into the airless carriages to attend the canonization of Ser
aphim in Tambov. The atmosphere on the train was not that of a joyous excursion to celebrate a saint, but was more like a funeral, redolent with a muttering, mumbling, pious fervor that Alix and her sister Ella were particularly adept at. Metropolitan Anthony, the Moscow head of the Orthodox faith, accompanied the royal party. He spent most of the journey walking the length of the train, a trail of incense and prayer billowing in his black-cloaked wake. Everyone else was more or less confined to quarters, drinking endless cups of weak tea, playing interminable rounds of bezique. Militza and Stana shared a cabin. Needless to say, George had declined to come on the journey, citing some business in France, and sharing a cabin was by far the simplest way, Militza decided, to keep an eye on her sister. Her husband and his brother did the same, and although Peter was not yet privy to Nikolasha’s blossoming relationship with his sister-in-law, he had been keen on the sleeping arrangements, delighted to be able to spend some time with his older brother.

  Alix had been the driving force behind the canonization. Even if Philippe had failed in his bid to give her an heir, his promise that she should have a son in the event of Seraphim’s canonization was something she clung to. She remained determined no matter how many times the members of the church hierarchy tentatively suggested that Seraphim was not a suitable candidate for sainthood. There were rules to making someone a saint, and frankly, Seraphim failed to pass any of the tests. Firstly, despite his being dead for over seventy years there were few miracles directly attributed to him. And secondly—and most importantly—they did not find a perfectly preserved body upon opening his coffin, as was expected of a future saint. What remained of Seraphim was only a pile of bones and the remnants of his leather lestovka. But Alix was steadfast, as she always was. And once Alix decided on something, it was almost impossible to dissuade her. As for the emperor, he just wanted to keep her happy. So, against the advice of all concerned, the service was to go ahead. The knowledge of Seraphim’s prediction that Nicholas and Alexandra would rule over Russia and he would be canonized during their reign only strengthened Alix’s resolve. His other prediction, that “terrible future insurrections that will exceed all imagination and . . . rivers of blood would flow during their reign,” was quietly overlooked.