Mother and daughter turned to see Anna Vyrubova standing in the doorway, her plump figure pulled into a tight pink ball gown, her large bosom covered in a modest voile. Her top lip might have been glistening with sweat from the heat of the ballroom, but there was a look of triumph in her eyes.
“She’s upset,” spat Militza.
“But those sorts of comments are treasonous,” declared Anna.
“Just leave us,” said Militza.
“Or what? Or you’ll try and send me away too?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” snapped Militza, hugging her daughter close.
“The tsarina’s upset with you.” Anna smiled, her hands on her hips. “She doesn’t like it when someone tries to take her Friend away.”
“I introduced her to Grisha—why would I want to take him away?”
As soon as she said it, Militza realized it was a mistake. To enter into conversation with this woman was an error because there was no telling what she might say, what conversations she might repeat, what bons mots she might decide to share. Militza had been a fool to underestimate this woman. A fool to write her off so easily. Appearances were deceptive, and she of all people should know that. Just because the woman looked bovine didn’t mean she was. In that moment she realized that she and her sister were in a lethal fight. A fight for influence, position, power—a fight they could not afford to lose.
Leaving word with her husband to stay at the party, Militza left the ball with her weeping daughter. Their early arrival home shocked the footman as he had been dozing in the chair in the hall; equally disconcerting to him was the fact that the grand duchess and Marina arrived alone, leaving the grand duke and his son at the ball.
“Wake Brana!” barked Militza as she ushered her daughter up the stairs. “And tell her to find the black votive candles immediately and meet me in my private salon.”
“The black, Your Imperial Highness?” The footman bowed.
“Yes! Black! And get on with it!”
A VERY BASIC SPELL CALLING ON SANTA MUERTE SHOULD DO the trick. Easy, thought Militza, as she counseled her distressed daughter—easy, strong, and powerful. It was far beneath her and she knew it: this was crude magic, the same spell she’d once berated her sister for. Santa Muerte and black votive candles might not be terribly sophisticated, but Anna could suddenly discover she was not in such rude health after all.
So as Marina lay in her bedroom, staring at the ceiling quietly, seething with humiliation, Militza lit her candles in front of the gruesome image of Santa Muerte, the dancing spirit of death whose magic she began to call upon.
Come, Santa Muerte, dance with me,
Help make Anna Vyrubova no longer be,
Come, Santa Muerte, come to me,
Help make Anna cease to be,
Come, dancing death, come and dance with me,
Kill Vyrubova, one, two, three . . .
Round and round the room Militza spun, mumbling, muttering her zagovor as the black candles burnt in front of the grinning skull. Her heart beat faster as she felt Anna’s heart beat faster. Up and down the ballroom, the tubby little woman galloped. She’d never been asked to dance by so many young men before. So many lovely young men! It must be her proximity to the tsarina, she concluded, that was making her so attractive. Everyone loves power, and she, Anna—yes, Anna—was right at the center of it. What fun!
Round and round Militza spun, fashioning a small fat poppet of black wax in her dexterous, well-practiced hands. She would see to it that Anna, the little gossip, the eyes and ears of the tsarina, the smuggest of all confidantes, would see and hear no more. Olga Lokhtina might have started the rumor about Militza denouncing Rasputin, but it was Anna, Anna who’d spread it, Anna who’d fanned the flames, Anna who was the toxic cancer at the heart of the court.
Up and down Anna trotted, her pink dress pinching her waist, the heat and her dress’s high neck beginning to suffocate her. If only Militza had wax from a “dead” candle, she thought, for candles made from the fat of the dead are much more efficient at dispatching the living, but they were increasingly hard to get hold of these days. Fewer peasants were inclined to exhume the dead to make tallow candles, especially when an old church candle was almost as useful. But not quite useful enough. So Militza spun faster, manipulating the wax from her votive candle and chanting louder, and all the while plump little Anna Vyrubova struggled for breath as she was swung around, forced up and down, under the arm, holding hands, whooping along. And the faster she danced, the tighter the dress became, the shorter her breath. Militza stuck the pins into the short fat poppet she’d made. One, she jabbed the stomach. Two, she pierced the leg. Three, she slowly pushed the needle into the doll’s silent, open mouth.
ANNA VYRUBOVA DIDN’T SEEM ABLE TO SCREAM AS SHE FELL TO the ground in agonizing pain. Her stomach hurt, her headache was excruciating, and for a good few minutes her mouth opened and shut, but not a word could come out.
“She looked like a giant codfish,” said Roman the next morning as he drank his coffee at breakfast. “She was like this . . .” He opened and closed his mouth. “And her face was scarlet and there were blotches all over her skin.”
“Nothing more?” asked Militza.
“It was quite a scene,” said Peter, an amused curl to his lips. “She was rolling around on the ground, holding that expansive waist of hers. I have never seen anything like it.”
“And nothing else?”
Roman shook his head. “The tsarina took her home.”
“She probably needed an excuse to leave the party,” said Peter, taking a sip of his coffee. “I have never seen anyone drink champagne with such reluctance in my life!”
“Maybe I should go and visit poor Anna . . .” suggested Militza.
“I shouldn’t bother,” said Roman. “They took her back to Tsarskoye Selo.”
“The tsarina refused to stay the night in town, again,” confirmed Peter. “It is far too dangerous for her in the city. Or so she maintains.”
MILITZA NEVER DID MAKE IT TO SEE IF ANNA WAS RECOVERING from her “sudden turn” at the ball. Not that she felt remotely guilty. She’d acted in haste—she knew that. It was fortunate that there had been no “dead” candles to hand; otherwise Anna’s “turn” might have been something else. But she needed to think about what she might do to neutralize her, bring the fat woman down, make sure that whatever she said in the future would not be taken seriously again.
In the meantime, she had an afternoon tea with the Grand Duchess Elizabeth (or Mavra, as she was more usually known) at the Yacht Club, followed by an evening at the ballet to think about. Militza was very fond of Mavra and her husband, the flamboyant Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich, whose penchant for poetry, the theatre, and late-night trips to obscure banyas made him more entertaining than most of the other dreary souls at court. Also, the two women were attempting to encourage the small flame of romance that was kindling between the charming, talented, poetic Prince Oleg (the fifth of their eight surviving children) and little Nadezhda, still aged only twelve.
“Did you hear the tsarina called for Rasputin last night?” declared Mavra, playing with a small piece of buttered bread and red caviar.
“In front of everyone?” asked Militza.
“No, I gather a car was sent to collect him. Apparently, they trawled the city until they found him in a private room at the Villa Rhode.”
“What was he doing at the Villa Rhode?” asked Militza, already knowing the reply.
“I heard he was so drunk that he swore and yelled, screaming he didn’t want to leave his nice warm whore!” She grinned. “But the driver was having none of it and they forced him to leave; they dragged him kicking and screaming down the stairs, and eventually he slept in the car and managed to sober up by the time he arrived at the palace!”
“Really?”
“It gets worse. Last night, Fat Orlov told Nicky he wasn’t fond of Rasputin! Only for Alix to overhear. Her face was t
hunderous, to say the least. Apparently, the Orlovs are now personae non gratae, to the tsarina at any rate. That woman’s not well!” Mavra shook her head. “I also hear she wasn’t nice to Marina?” She raised a fine eyebrow.
“She was charming,” said Militza quickly. “I think Marina was a little overawed by the ball.”
“Indeed.” Mavra smiled, biting the most delicate corner off her piece of bread. She paused. “Are you going to the ballet tonight?”
“We are invited to the Imperial Box.”
THAT NIGHT WAS ONE THAT MILITZA WOULD TRY IN VAIN TO forget. What ballet she and Peter went to see, she could not afterwards recall, perhaps because she never actually saw the performance.
She and Peter arrived early at the Mariinsky Theatre, Peter dressed in white tie while she wore her favorite ruby silk dress with diamonds, sapphires, and long white evening gloves. There was nothing out of the ordinary. In the crimson bar with the red velvet banquettes and the gilt ceiling, just behind the Imperial Box, the cream of St. Petersburg sipped champagne and waited for the first strains of the orchestra to strike up before taking up their places in the golden auditorium. The conversation was as usual: Who was in? Who was out? And what on earth had happened at the Orlovs’ the night before? Poor Anna’s crisis was much discussed. But the festering, fermenting swill of revolution in the countryside and the slums of the cities were not topics that bothered anyone.
Still, Militza was nervous as she sipped her champagne; her sixth sense was making her feel twitchy, anxious, paranoid.
The orchestra struck up a few chords, and the glittering crowd drained their last few bubbles from their flutes and moved, en masse, towards the door. With a surge of entitlement they pushed at each other with discreetly pointed elbows, for the seating in the Imperial Box was something of a free-for-all. The tsar and tsarina were, naturally, on their thrones in the middle of the box, where they could see and be seen, but the other chairs were not allocated. The tsarina might pat one close to her to indicate where a favorite might sit, but other than that, tickets were not issued. With Anna still prone in her bed, fighting what Rasputin had declared was little more than a slight fever, Militza jostled her way forward with confidence. Her eyes were firmly on the prize, a seat to the right of Alix. The tsarina looked directly at her. The trumpets sounded, the blue velvet curtain began to part, and Militza smiled and prepared to move forward, but instead Alix turned suddenly around and gently tapped the shoulder of her lady-in-waiting Sophie Buxhoeveden. And that was it. Militza had no seat. There was surely a seat for her somewhere, in among the shadows and tucked away in the pleats of velvet, but she couldn’t see it. Peter had been swept up over to the other side of the box and was chatting away to Uncle Bimbo; he had no care for his wife. Why would he? She had always been seated close to the tsarina in the past, so why would tonight be any different? Militza’s head swam. She turned around and around, and the lights in the auditorium dimmed. She could not see anything.
The orchestra began the overture, and Militza realized she must get out before the lights on the stage went up and it was noticed she was standing on her own, without a chair. With seconds to spare, she stumbled swiftly out of the box.
“Madame?” queried a voice as she made her way into the private bar, flushed and blinking. “Are you all right?”
Militza looked around, confused. Furious indignation coursed through her veins. After all she’d done for that woman! That disloyal, half-brained idiot!
“Prime Minster,” declared Militza, cauterizing her feelings as quickly as she could. She offered up a gloved hand for him to kiss.
“Your Imperial Highness.” Peter Stolypin kissed her hand. “Are you not watching the ballet?”
“I don’t feel the inclination,” she replied with a wave of her fan.
“Oh?” He looked at her quizzically.
“I felt like a glass of champagne.” She nodded towards the bar and the large silver bucket, full of ice, where there lay a bottle of the tsar’s favorite champagne, Louis Roederer Cristal. “And you?”
“A meeting at the Duma. It went on for hours.”
“Well, I won’t keep you, sir, have a good evening,” she said brusquely. She wanted to get outside into the street, to breathe in some of the ice-cold St. Petersburg air, to steady herself, her brain, and her emotions. Whatever was going to happen next, the tsarina would pay.
“Is the Friend in the box?” he asked, looking at her directly. “Rasputin. Or Rasputin-Novy, as we are now supposed to call him?”
“Him? No.” She shook her head.
“I can’t stand the man,” he said, running his hand through his thick beard. He scrutinized her expression as he slowly turned up the corners of his curled and pointed mustache. Militza revealed nothing. “I cannot stand him at all.”
“But didn’t he help your daughter?”
“It is what he is doing to Russia that I can’t abide.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to know he is not in the theatre tonight.” Militza smiled.
“I believe you and he are well acquainted?”
“I know Rasputin,” she confirmed.
“Well?”
“Quite well.”
“Well enough to go to Siberia, if I am not mistaken?” Militza was taken by surprise. How did he know?
“It was a brief visit.” She smiled charmingly. “And now, if you will excuse me, I simply must go.”
“Was that before or after you went to the police?” he asked.
Militza glanced around the room. Had anyone heard him? How did he know so much?
“If you will excuse me, Prime Minister, I really must leave.”
Stolypin slowly sat down on the banquette, rubbing the top of his shining pate. “Unfortunately the tsarina herself called an end to that little investigation?”
“I am afraid I don’t understand quite what you are saying, sir?”
“Khlysty charges?”
“I think you are mistaken, sir.”
“The man is bad news,” he continued, quietly, careful not to be overheard. “He is a tragedy for this country. I love this country and that man is ruinous for all of us. He has letters from the grand duchesses, intimate letters that he is bandying around town. He reads them aloud when he is drunk.” Stolypin’s tones were hushed, but the importance of what he was saying was clear. “They only need to fall into the wrong hands. The press are on to him already, the endless profiles, the cartoons—the man is more famous than any courtesan. If they find the letters . . .” He shook his head. “He needs to go. And he needs to go far, far away.”
“Well then, Prime Minister . . .” Militza leaned over, her pendant sapphires shining in the candlelight. “Ban him from the city,” she whispered. He stared into her black eyes. “You have the power to do that, sir. Ban him so he can never set foot in St. Petersburg, or indeed Tsarskoye Selo, ever again.”
Chapter 31
February 10, 1911, Peterhof
AND SO IT WAS THAT HE CAME CAREERING THROUGH the woods, barefoot and breathless, throwing himself at her mercy, begging her to let him in.
Quite who’d tipped him off that there were guards waiting to arrest him and serve him with his citywide ban and arrest warrant he would not say, but he was incandescent with rage and fury that they would be after him. Him! Of all people! But he had just enough time to throw himself out of the train and run through the snow. He’d managed to commandeer a car at some point that took him to the forest outside Peterhof, where he’d leapt out and gone straight to Znamenka. He was like a lost dog who’d managed to run all the way home, only to arrive panting, starving, and shivering with the authorities not far behind.
IT WAS STANA’S IDEA TO HARVEST HIS TOENAILS, MUCH LIKE they’d harvested the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s dead baby all those years ago. They needed something, anything, to work with. Rasputin’s power was strong, and his influence was all-encompassing, seeming to grow by the day. The more the newspapers wrote about how appalling he was, the more d
etermined his followers became and the more the tsarina cleaved to him. “People believe what they want to believe,” Stana used to say. But Alix was more than a believer. It was almost as if he were her own spoiled child and she were the only one who could control him. It was, of course, like so many things with Grisha, entirely the other way around, for it was he who controlled her. Not that the tsarina noticed. By this stage she rarely left the palace and never sought counsel of anyone outside her trusted circle—Anna, Rasputin, Nicky, and the children. Very occasionally the tutor Mr. Charles Gibbes, an Englishman, was allowed to have an opinion or an idea, but mostly everyone’s job in the circle of trust was to agree with Alix.
And no one agreed more vociferously than Anna. Anna, who recovered rather too quickly, agreed with anything Alix said. She lived on her doorstep, loved the tsarina with all her naive heart, and became Rasputin’s most ardent supporter.
Stana and Militza had often idly wondered quite how ardent a supporter she was. Was she being “healed,” or was her pink, plump flesh not to the Siberian’s taste? They knew they themselves were not to her taste; Anna’s feelings for the sisters were abundantly clear. Over a relatively short period and in mirrored sympathy with the tsarina, she had managed to become the daily supporter of Rasputin and the daily detractor of Militza and Stana. She refused ever to refer to them by name and insisted on calling them either “the Black Women” or “the Crows.” Within a matter of weeks, it was as if a war, a war of rumors and of gossip, had broken out between the palaces.
So when Rasputin chose to knock on Militza’s door in the middle of the night and ask for sanctuary, not only was Militza shocked, she was also most accommodating. She could have thrown him to the lions, which was what she wanted to do. Stolypin had done exactly what she’d suggested. But yet . . . if she could lure Rasputin back into her thrall, then perhaps he might open the doors to the palace for her once more. After that night at the ballet, the invitations had most certainly dried up, and what little love there was left between the tsarina and Militza and Stana, the bustling, busy Anna was doing her best to destroy.
The Witches of St. Petersburg Page 36
