The Witches of St. Petersburg

¹⁴ August 1902, Lower Dacha, Peterhof

For the next nine months Militza, Stana and Dr Philippe rarely left her side. After a short spell at Tsarskoye Selo, the imperial family – including the newly appointed Dr Philippe, complete with military epaulets indicative of his recently elevated position – moved to the Lower Dacha, Peterhof.

The moderately sized villa, right on the Gulf of Finland, was the most informal of all the palaces. The rooms, recently refurbished by Roman Meltzer, though a veritable temple to the new and highly fashionable art noveau style, were pokey and cluttered and, frankly, just as Alix liked them. With her newly engaged Montenegrin nurses and her French doctor living very nearby at Znamenka, the days were spent quietly reading, walking, paddling, dozing or attempting to feed the free-flying hummingbirds that darted around the glassed-in tropical winter garden. While Stana’s and Militza’s children travelled back and forth between their palace and the Lower Dacha, filling their days with lessons and exercise, the little Grand Duchesses did the same. Olga, under the instruction of her music tutor, could occasionally be heard practising on the cream-coloured piano in the Tsar’s reception room, while Tatiana was engaged in lessons with her nanny, Margaretta Eagar, and the ‘littles’ were left to play in the expansive gardens with Orchie, or were sometimes escorted, parasols in hand, across the rocks and on to the nearby beach.

This was not a palace where Alix and Nicky received guests. The dining room, with its blue walls and cream-coloured curtains, embroidered with blue poppies, was far too small for official dinners and the reception room, despite the piano and the tall vases replete with white flowers, was not formal enough for any but the most intimate guests. So they lived there, without interruption, social obligation, or indeed ceremony, much like members of the petit bourgeoisie in a comfortable, but not particularly ostentatious, dacha.

Alix was never happier than she was at the Lower Dacha. She had given birth to both Maria and Anastasia in the upstairs bedroom there, surrounded by family photographs. And given the importance of this confinement – the fact that she was most certainly carrying the heir, the future of all Russia – she had little more to do now than wait, sew, read, talk, lie on the veranda, relax on the wicker chaise, drink morning coffee and listen to the waves and the children playing downstairs.

These were halcyon days and slowly but surely, as Alix’s waistline increased, so did her sense of contented satisfaction. She and Militza had never felt so close. She blamed it on her hormones, but the more Militza was there to rub oil into her tired calves and thighs, the more Alix enjoyed the way the Montenegrin’s hands moved inside her legs. How delightful their secret afternoons were, spent in soft, tender caresses and furtive coupling. Militza’s determined fingers were as magic as her swift, loving tongue and the rosacea, the awkwardness, her social nervousness, her inability to understand the comings and goings at court, all faded into the background. She had her close friends and husband by her side and Alix cared little for anything else. Nicky rarely ventured away from the palace, invitations were refused, parties were eschewed and visitors were few and far between.

By day they relaxed, taking luncheon at one and afternoon tea at four, after which they would always dine with Dr Philippe and either Stana or Militza or both and talk long into the night about spiritualism, or indulge in palmistry and tarot, while Dr Philippe would tell them stories of his close friend Papus, otherwise known as Gérard Encausse, who had founded a new Martinist Order which he, Philippe, was particularly interested in.

‘It is so exciting and enlightening,’ he said over dinner, taking a large sip of wine. ‘The light we all carry within ourselves drives the shadows of the night away and the inner sun rises from the darkness.’ He paused to look out at the moonlit sea beyond the dining-room window. ‘You are Man,’ he enthused, turning to stare into Nicky’s pale blue eyes. ‘Never forget that you are the manifestation of human dignity. Respect this noble heritage, for that is your first and foremost task upon the earth.’

‘I have spent my whole life respecting my noble heritage,’ replied Nicky. ‘Have you any idea how suffocating that is? To be forced to rule, torn away from the bosom of your family?’

‘It is your human dignity you should be thinking about,’ declared Philippe, with an ebullient wave of his hand.

‘But what if the heritage gets in the way of the dignity?’ Nicky lit a cigarette and looked at Philippe.

‘All journeys are personal, that’s what the Martinists believe. And Jesus is The Repairer. Through Jesus all things can be achieved.’

‘So Martinism is a part of Christianity?’ asked Alix, sounding a little relieved.

‘Most certainly,’ assured Philippe. ‘We are esoteric Christians.’

Nicky nodded and smoked. ‘I think it sounds very interesting, you must introduce me to your Papus if he comes to St Petersburg.’

‘Like the Golden Dawn, I am presuming they are both theurgy based? Using rituals? Seeing magic in nature?’ asked Militza.

‘Honestly, Militza,’ Alix said, laughing, ‘sometimes I don’t understand where you learn all these things!’

‘They are both equally tolerant of women,’ concluded Philippe.

‘I have been reading the works of Hermes Trismegistus,’ said Militza.

‘And learning to read the stars as a way to oneness – henosis,’ added Stana.

‘As you know, I am also a follower! Hermetic medicine, astrology, alchemy, magic. Are you hoping to open a Lodge in St Petersburg?’ asked Philippe.

‘All in good time. As Hermes Trismegistus said: “The punishment of desire is the agony of unfulfillment,”’ Militza said, laughing, as she looked across at Alix whose lips twitched briefly into a smile.

‘Indeed,’ agreed Nicky, picking up a small clay pipe and filling it with some of Dr Badmaev’s hashish. ‘And we’ve all had our fair share of that.’

It was towards the middle of August – on the sixteenth – while Philippe was out taking some air on the beach, when Nicky called both Militza and Stana to his office. Despite the good weather and his wife’s advanced confinement, he looked pale. Sitting at his expansive desk, surrounded by walnut panelling, his fingers lightly drummed the top of a large cream-coloured folder as he looked out to sea. He was clearly deep in thought.

‘Sit,’ he said, not bothering to look at either of them, indicating two Moroccan-leather chairs. Militza glanced across at her sister. This did not look good. Did he know about the afternoons she spent with his wife? ‘So,’ he said, slowly turning around, ‘it seems, my mother, or rather the Okhrana, has been to Paris.’

‘What are the secret police doing in Paris?’ asked Stana, her back straight, her hands clasped anxiously on her lap. Militza touched her arm, indicating she should be quiet.

‘And it seems that they, or indeed, she, have compiled a little report.’

‘A report?’ asked Militza.

‘It seems,’ he continued, ‘that Our Friend is a little bit of a fraud.’

‘No!’ replied Militza shaking her head, her heart pounding.

‘Absolutely not!’ added Stana. ‘He cured Roman, last summer.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Militza. ‘My son had whooping cough and he came and it went away.’

‘He can cure syphilis,’ asserted Stana.

‘I know,’ he agreed, wearily. ‘I am not sure what I find more disappointing, my mother’s duplicitousness, or the fact the Okhrana actually carried out her instructions over my head.’

‘It is terrible,’ said Militza.

‘Not as bad as the things written in here. That he’s lied, cheated, that he’s a charlatan, that he’s impersonated a doctor and practised without a licence.’

‘But he was highly recommended! He was introduced by a dear friend of mine,’ insisted Militza.

‘I know, I know,’ Nicky nodded. ‘And he calmed the storm when we were on the Standart.’

‘Yes!’ agreed Stana. ‘I remember how lucky we felt to have him on board.’

Nicky smiled. ‘So very lucky.’

‘And he’s been such a good friend to us, he is “Our Good Friend”,’ said Militza. ‘And also, you are about to have your son.’

‘Yes.’ He nodded, exhaling slowly, as he pondered. ‘I am forced to believe – but it is not me I worry for. It is Alix.’

‘Why?’ asked Stana. ‘She is soon to produce an heir and all her problems will be over.’

‘Her problems are immense,’ said Nicky as if talking to himself. ‘There are rumours at court that I am to divorce her. Much like Napoleon did Josephine, when she failed to produce an heir after fourteen years of trying. And we are only in our eighth year.’

‘Eight long years,’ agreed Stana, a little too enthusiastically.

‘So this report,’ Nicky said, suddenly steeling himself, ‘I shall dismiss it. I shall dismiss it out of hand and just to make sure my mother realizes I don’t believe a word of it, I shall dismiss the agent, or agents, who prepared it. That way, there is no misunderstanding as to how I feel.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Militza, with a firm nod of the head.

‘And Alix shall be told nothing,’ added Stana.

‘My wife will not hear a thing.’

‘What shall I not hear?’ asked Alix as she wandered into the office, dressed in a white floating robe, her fecund pregnant belly protruding before her. ‘I came to see if you wanted fresh lemonade but now I am intrigued! What secrets?’

‘No secrets, my love,’ replied Nicky as he got out of his chair.

‘I do so hate it when you lie,’ replied Alix. ‘I can always tell, you know I can.’ She began to talk towards the desk. ‘What little secrets?’ she teased, smiling.

‘Nothing,’ Nicky replied.

‘Oh, come on.’

‘Honestly. Nothing. Leave it alone.’

‘Don’t be so mean,’ she said childishly as she swayed towards the desk.

‘GET AWAY!’ Nicky shouted, pulling her back from his desk, but as he did so her sleeve caught the corner of the Okhrana files, sending leaves of paper and photographs floating to the floor.

The Tsar was the first on his knees, scrabbling about on the rug, picking up the documents as quickly as he could.

‘Oh look, that’s Philippe?’ said Alix, more than a little curious. ‘Is that a police report? Has he been arrested?’

It was too late. Despite her size and condition, Alix sank slowly to the floor. Surrounded by paper, she slowly picked each sheet up and examined it, if only briefly, before letting it drop from her limp hand.

‘Oh, my darling,’ she said eventually, her huge blue eyes looking up from the floor, ‘say it is not true.’

‘It is not true,’ repeated Nicky, with the brightest of smiles. ‘How can it be? Look at you! You are pregnant. Pregnant with our son!’

‘Yes,’ she sobbed, ‘I am.’

‘I am getting rid of the file, I am getting rid of the man who wrote the file,’ he said, bending down towards her and offering her his hand.

‘Yes,’ she nodded, sniffing. ‘Let’s get rid of them.’ She took his hand. ‘Let’s get rid of them all, including the person who commissioned the investigation.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nicky. ‘Let’s get rid of them all.’

It was only when he pulled her up off the floor that they all saw what had happened.

‘Blood!’ stated Stana

‘A pool,’ whispered Militza.

‘Someone get Dr Philippe,’ said Alix, as she swooned into her husband’s arms.

It took several minutes to carry Alix upstairs and place her in the blue and white bedroom. Militza propped up her listless, marble-white face with pillows while Stana went to find Dr Philippe, commanding the servants to fetch water, towels and Brana. There was chaos and shouting and the sound of running feet as panic spread through the palace; everyone had been caught completely off guard.

The first to arrive was Dr Philippe. Flushed and fresh from the beach, his face was bright pink and he was sweating and short of breath.

‘How is the patient?’ he huffed as he arrived at the top of the stairs, running his thumbs around his tight, damp trouser waistband. ‘Has her time come?’

‘There’s blood,’ replied Militza, whispering with concern. ‘Quite a lot of it.’

‘Oh! Blood is like vomit,’ he replied boldly. ‘There always looks like more than there actually is.’

‘She’ll be all right, won’t she?’ asked Nicky.

‘She has done it a few times before,’ declared Philippe. ‘I am sure she’ll be fine. God is looking after her.’

‘I know, but it is always such a dangerous time. What it is to be a woman,’ Nicky sighed, his brow furrowed with anxiety. ‘And I do love her so very much.’

Dr Philippe patted the back of Nicky’s hand and then entered the brightly lit room. The afternoon sun was pouring in through the open curtains and the seagulls were screaming outside.

‘There, there,’ said Philippe as he sat himself down the edge of her bed. He took hold of Alix’s cold, damp hand. ‘How are you feeling?’

Alix opened her eyes; her mouth was dry and she was clearly in some pain. ‘Well,’ she said quietly, ‘all will be well, now that you are here.’

‘Do you feel that it is time?’ asked Philippe, his hands on the edge of the sheets, preparing to pull them back.

‘Not yet,’ replied Alix, wincing slightly.

Suddenly there was a loud bustle and commotion down in the hall and the sound of footsteps bounding up the stairs.

‘Dr Ott? Dr Girsh?’ said Militza, standing between the two agitated middle-aged gentlemen and the bedchamber. ‘Why on earth are you here?’

‘We were called,’ Dr Ott replied smartly. ‘As the court physician I am expected to attend every imperial birth.’

‘We have been standing by for the last ten days at Peterhof, waiting to be summoned,’ added Dr Girsh, the slimmer of the two, with significantly more hair.

‘And who summoned you?’ asked Militza.

‘I did,’ came a voice from the bottom of the stairs.

They all turned to see the Nanny, Margaretta Eagar, standing somewhat stiffly at the bottom of the stairs. Dressed in a simple grey frock and a white frilled apron, her reddish blond hair piled high on the top of her head, her small piercing blue eyes were defiantly determined. Militza looked down on her from the landing. She had never liked this bossy former matron of an orphanage in Belfast, whose Limerick accent was so thick, even a fluent English speaker like Militza struggled to understand her.

‘You?’

‘Yes, Imperial Highness.’ Margaretta may have curtsied, but Militza sensed her seething anger even from this distance. Militza said nothing. ‘As a former trained medical nurse,’ Margaretta began, ‘I thought her Imperial Majesty might require her physician.’ Her head shuddered from side to side as she tried to control her emotions.

‘I’m not sure if washing bandages and changing bedpans in Ireland qualifies you for much, my dear, but seeing as you are here…’ Militza turned to the two gentlemen on the landing, ‘I shall inform the Empress.’

Back in the bedroom, Philippe had closed the curtains and the atmosphere was a little calmer.

‘I have been chanting and using a little hypnosis and she seems a bit more settled,’ said Philippe as Militza approached the bed.

‘Alix?’ she said. ‘Dr Ott and Dr Girsh are outside.’ She spoke slowly. ‘They said they’d like to examine you?’

‘No!’ Alix replied, shifting in the bed. ‘Tell them no. Tell them to go away. I don’t want them to examine me. Those two buffoons only deliver daughters.’

The bleeding stemmed and it was four days later before full labour began. Initially, Alix took the pains and moans in her stride. During the hours of the early evening she held on to the bedpost, with both hands, moaning and lowing as she rode the waves of each of the contractions, while Philippe, Militza and Stana stood by, occasionally mopping her brow and murmuring words of encouragement. But by midnight she was growing weak and was laid to rest in her bed, with Brana offering little sips of Madeira laced with laudanum to help her through. By now the bed sheets were sodden with blood and her cries echoed around the palace. Militza had her hands between Alix’s legs, her fingerstips slipped inside, as she desperately tried to free the baby’s head. As she pushed and kneaded, Alix moaned plaintively and pathetically with pain. It was patently clear there was not much time left.

‘We need chloroform and forceps – this baby appears to be coming out face first,’ pronounced Militza.

‘Here,’ said Philippe. He rattled around in a box and handed over a small glass bottle and handkerchief. ‘But we have no forceps.’

The struggle was immense and the loss of blood obscene as Militza fought, up to her forearms, desperately trying to ease the baby out. Alix battled against the pain and the chloroform, slipping in and out of consciousness. And then finally, at around 4.00 a.m., just as the sun was coming up over the sea, an exhausted, small, rather skinny baby was born.

Stana stared at the red, wriggling creature on the bed.

‘It’s a girl.’

Such was the shock that no one bothered to swaddle it; they all simply stood there, unable to believe their eyes. A girl. Another girl. How could this be? The Tsarina had believed Philippe wholeheartedly. They all had. And now there was a girl. A fifth daughter.

‘We could kill it?’ suggested Brana, looking at the baby with utter contempt. ‘A little bit of chloroform?’

‘No,’ said Militza.

‘Get rid of it,’ proposed Stana. ‘It has to go. She can’t have a fifth daughter.’ She shook her head. ‘But how?’

They all turned to Philippe, who was so traumatized by what he had seen and what had just happened, he was unable to respond. He stood, motionless and emotionless, staring at the child on the bed, still attached to its mother by a pulsating cord, his whole life clearly flashing before him, for he knew, here and now, that his work in Russia was done. Not even he, the cat with nine lives, the master who could calm storms and hypnotize almost anyone, not even he was capable of coming back from this. A fifth daughter? His life was ruined.

‘I could take her with me, when I leave,’ he said simply. ‘Find her a nice home, a loving family. No one need know.’

There was silence as the four of them digested this plan.

‘Yes,’ agreed Militza. ‘Take her! Take her away and no one need know.’

‘But what do we say? We will need to say something, something by way of explanation?’ said Stana.

‘A miscarriage? A stillbirth?’ Brana shrugged. ‘It happens all the time.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Philippe, warming to the idea. ‘Nature is so wasteful, so cruel, the poor Tsarina, the nation will mourn with her, all the mothers of Russia will mourn; their Mother Russia suffers like they do, they will take to the streets in sympathy, they will fill the churches and weep for her… But a fifth daughter…’ He shook his head. ‘No one rejoices for a fifth daughter. No one fires a cannon or rings a church bell for another girl.’ He shuddered. ‘That doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘It’s agreed,’ said Militza.

‘But what do we say to Ott and Girsh?’ asked Stana. ‘They will want to see something?’

They all looked at each other. Each hoping the other would say something; do something to make the situation better. The baby on the bed began to cry and Alix moaned slightly in response; the effects of the chloroform were beginning to wear off. Whatever decision they came to, they would have to act quickly.

‘Right,’ said Militza, briskly drying her bloodied hands on a towel. ‘You,’ she pointed to Brana, ‘cut the cord. You,’ she nodded to her sister, ‘stay here and look after Alix. I will go and inform the Tsar and you and Brana had better keep that baby quiet and sort something out.’

Militza left the room and, smoothing down her crimson-stained apron, she walked slowly downstairs to the Tsar’s office. On her way she passed several members of the household hanging around in the hall, awaiting the news. As they raised their eyes expectantly, Militza dropped her gaze as if preparing them for bad news. She knocked on the office door and Nicky opened it. She could tell by the expression on his face he knew something was wrong. Had the child been a healthy boy, the shouts of joy would have reverberated around the house so loudly and wildly, you would have heard them on the beach and in the Gulf of Finland beyond. Instead there’d been silence.

‘It’s a girl,’ Militza said softly.

‘How?’ he asked, collapsing into a chair. ‘How can it be?’ He sniffed as tears of desperate disappointment welled up in his exhausted eyes. ‘She believed in Philippe this time; we have prayed to God, we have never stopped praying to God; we have begged and pleaded and been on our knees asking for his help and forgiveness, asking for a son. And now this?’

‘I know,’ soothed Militza, sitting down next to him and taking his hands. ‘I know, I know.’ He rested his head on her shoulder as he sobbed. ‘Listen,’ said Militza as she comforted him with a gentle embrace. ‘I think you know what I am going to say, even if you don’t want to hear it.’ She paused and steadied herself. ‘Russia will not take another daughter. Alix cannot have another daughter. The court won’t accept it, St Petersburg won’t; in the Provinces, the countryside, they will never forgive her. They already think she is a German spy sent to destroy the house of Romanov. You know I am telling you the truth. I am only sorry you have to hear it from me.’

Nicky stopped crying and raised his head, staring at her. He was so close she could taste his warm breath on her lips.

‘Philippe will take her away. He will take her to France. He will need money of course, but you can give him that. But he must go and he must take her with him. And he must go as soon as possible.’

‘But what will Alix say?’

‘Alix is not quite conscious. But we will tell her when she is well. And she will be grateful. She will be pleased we have helped her. She will be happy we have saved her from the mob. But it must be a secret. It must all be a secret. Who knows what would happen if it was ever discovered that there was another girl? You’d have to divorce her and she’d be banished and hounded out of the country. If she even got that far…’

Nicky just stared at her. It was all too much to take in. He looked haunted, scared; he was indecisive at the best of times, but Militza was asking him to make a decision right here and now. And it pained him so much to think about it.

‘Whatever you think is best,’ he mumbled finally.

It was Philippe who christened the baby girl Suzanna. It was his idea to give her such a decidedly French-sounding name, so that no one would suspect where she was truly from. The day they left for Paris was one Militza would never forget.

It was cold and dank and a miserable, thick, fog hung heavy over the dacha. It chilled the bone and made you shiver as if someone was striding over your grave.

Only the Tsar, the Tsarina and the two sisters saw them off. No one else, except Brana, even knew the baby existed. The clean-up had been thorough and organized. Doctors Ott and Girsh were the first to be convinced. By chance, Brana, who had uncharacteristically sharp eyes for a crone, noticed a walnut-sized ovule nestling in the blood and sheets as she cleaned up after the birth. This was hastily retrieved and duly presented to the doctors by way of explaining the ‘miscarriage’. Fortunately, when examined under a microscope it proved to be a dead fertilized egg of around four-week gestation and so they sadly confirmed the Tsarina’s terrible news: an appalling miscarriage that had manifested as a phantom pregnancy. There was simply no child at all. The Dowager Empress was informed, and then the court. Rumours, naturally, abounded. Alix was said to have given birth to an animal with horns, a creature so frightful, so hideous, the spawn of the Devil himself that they were forced to execute it at birth. Others saw the premature death of the baby and the lack of the long-awaited son as a form of divine retribution for the appalling tragedy at Khodynka Field. Despite Philippe’s prediction, very few were sympathetic. However, all this was preferable to the reality. If the truth ever got out, the birth of a fifth daughter? That would destroy them all.

It was decided that Philippe and Suzanna should travel through Finland and then by train to Paris, where Philippe would be met by a trusted colleague of his: Leendert Johannes Hemmes. Leendert and Philippe had been friends for a long time and were of the same Martinist religion. His loyalty was discussed long into the night, as Militza and Philippe plotted and planned. Leendert also possessed psychic powers, which he used to diagnose sickness in the urine of the unwell. He could be trusted. He had to be trusted. The child could not stay in Russia.

‘We shall be fine,’ Philippe assured Alix, as she stood in the cold fog, her grey eyes glazed, her expression blank. ‘It is not a long journey. And we will write.’

‘No,’ Alix replied. ‘No contact. No news. It is the only way. The secret police are everywhere. And I can’t vouch that any news won’t send me insane. The wound needs to be cauterized. Suzanna is dead. She is with May, eating baked apples…’

Philippe nodded. In his arms, he held the silent, sallow, sickly looking Suzanna who already seemed to know her fate.

‘Would you like to…’ He held the baby up.

‘Be sure to keep her warm,’ whispered Alix.

She reached out a thin, shaking hand to touch her daughter for the last time. Her trembling fingers hovered over the baby and she looked as though she was going to bless her child, commend it to God, but she withdrew slowly, clearly thinking better of it.

The Tsar had given Philippe a new and very fine Serpollet motorcar as a token for all his hard work. It was parked, freshly polished, in the driveway, waiting to be taken to the station and loaded on to the train to Helsinki. Philippe was also given some five million roubles, in sequential notes, to ensure Hemmes’s discreet silence. (The fact that Philippe was later to build himself a rather fine house in Rotterdam, with no obvious means of support, was neither here nor there.) Alix had gathered together a small selection of trinkets by which her daughter would one day, when it was safe, know herself: a small Fabergé box, a travelling icon on a silver chain, also by Fabergé, and a thick rope of pearls. All things she could sell if she ever needed to. Poor Alix was not capable of putting pen to paper. So it was Militza who wrote Suzanna a long letter in which she explained why her broken-hearted mother had been persuaded to give her beautiful daughter away.

Just as he was leaving, Philippe turned to Militza and reached into his pocket, taking out a small icon which he placed in her hand.

‘Take this,’ he said, squeezing it into her palm. ‘It is the rarest and most powerful of icons: St John the Baptist, the angel of the desert. It will keep you safe for it protects all who own it. No harm will ever come to you while you have it in your possession. It was given to me by Papus and now I pass it on to you. I don’t need it any more, my work is done and I have no future.’ He kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘Remember, it was St John who declared the coming of the Messiah. And so too will you. You will call him to Russia, like a siren, and when you need him most, he will come. Thank you. Thank you for believing in me. You have a gift, Militza. Use it wisely.’

He then turned to the Tsarina. ‘Your Imperial Majesty…’ He bowed his head. Alix stared at him. Her strained face was impassive, her thin fingers nervously played with the lengthy rope of pearls around her neck. ‘You will get your son. I predict if you canonize Seraphim of Sarov and swim at midnight in the holy waters you will conceive and realize your dreams. Seraphim himself once predicted your reign. He said that one day Russia would be ruled by a Nicholas and Alexandra and he would be canonized in that reign. Do this and you will conceive your son.’

Alexandra simply stared and nodded slowly. ‘As you so command, so I shall do,’ she replied.

‘Don’t weep for me – and don’t weep for your baby,’ said Philippe, taking hold of her slim shoulders. ‘I promise you, some day you will have another Friend who, like me, will speak to you of God. Here,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tiny posy of dried flowers. ‘These violets were touched by Christ. Touched by his very hand. They have been worshipped and prayed over for centuries. I am giving them to you to keep you safe.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied.

‘I have no need of them any more. For in a few years, 1905, I shall be dead.’

‘Don’t say that!’ She placed her shaking fingers on his lips.

‘It is true. For I always speak the truth.’

‘Hush.’

‘But my spirit will live on.’

‘It will,’ she whispered. ‘I bless the day we met you.’

Her face turned a raw, dark pink. She was visibly shaking as she walked slowly back into the palace.

That night Militza put Alix to bed. She was given one of Brana’s more potent cocktails of poppy-head tea and warm milk which she sipped in bed, staring at the wall, unable to say a word. Eventually, she lay down and, while Militza’s slowly stroked her hair, she quietly wept herself to sleep. Equally exhausted by the schemes and plans of the last few days, Militza herself fell asleep a few minutes later on an adjacent divan, only be woken later by Alix.

It must have been two or three in the morning, she remembered, and the moon was shining through the open window. Alix was standing in a thin white nightdress, bathed in a silver light, slowly rocking what looked like a poppet in her arms and singing sweetly under her breath. Militza sat and watched, transfixed. The Tsarina was not weeping, she didn’t look distressed – in fact, she looked blissfully happy, singing a lullaby and rocking the wooden peg doll in her arms. It was as if all her worries and the agony of the last few days were as nothing. Her voice was sweet and childlike and her movements were effortless. She looked like a wisp, luminous in the moonlight.

‘Alix?’ ventured Militza, as she slowly crossed the room towards her.

‘Oh!’ she replied, turning around suddenly. ‘It’s you!’ She smiled; her cold hand cupped Militza’s chin and she ran her thumb gently along the length of her lips. Her voice was breathy, her eyes glassy. And the look on her face was one of divine bliss. ‘Look!’ she said offering up the poppet. ‘Look, my love.’

Militza caught a glimpse in the moonlight. ‘A magic doll from Smolensk.’

She recognized its sharp wooden face and crude clothing immediately. She remembered asking Brana to find it, sending her to the nunnery in Smolensk. It had taken the crone days to find the right group of nuns, for they had become increasingly secretive over time. Eventually, it was the queue of the weeping barren outside a small back door down a narrow back street that alerted her to them. They were all waiting, desperately waiting, for a little wooden doll to rock to sleep at night in the hope that it might help them conceive.

‘Look, Nicky, it’s like baby Jesus,’ replied Alix, softly caressing the top of its hard head.

‘A boy,’ whispered Militza, walking towards her.

‘Yes, my love, a boy.’ She smiled. ‘We have a son at last.’

‘Well done,’ replied Militza, taking Alix by the shoulders and directing her back to bed. The opium tea was playing tricks with her traumatized mind.

‘Are you pleased?’ Alix cowered. ‘Have I pleased you at last?’

‘Yes, yes, you have done well.’

‘All I wanted to do is please you, my love,’ she continued, standing by the bed, swinging the poppet in one hand. She turned back towards Militza, took a step towards her and placed her lips on Militza’s cheek. ‘I have only ever wanted to make you happy. A son for you, for Russia.’

‘I know,’ Militza whispered before pushing her slowly away, towards the bed.

‘Stay with me?’ Alix’s voiced sounded panicked. It was hard to tell if she was conscious or unconscious, in this world or another. She suddenly grabbed Militza by the elbows and stared, terrified, into her eyes. ‘I don’t think I will make it through the night on my own.’