The Witches of St. Petersburg

²⁶ 10 April 1907, St Petersburg

Rumours of Rasputin’s spectacular ‘healing’ powers swept through the city, tormenting Militza at every turn. He’d ignited a fire within her that she could not control. Every meeting she had with him, every party they spoke at, every time they prayed together in the freezing chapel at Znamenka, all she could think of was the long, lapping length of his tongue, the rough thickness of his powerful fingers and the pleasurable enormity of his shaft. She could not bear it. The slightest giggle from a general’s wife, the warm smiles of a compliant debutante, the high-pitched squeal from a countess sent her heart pounding with jealousy and her blood coursing with rage. And the worst was Anna Alexandrovna Taneyeva.

That plump little nobody, whom she’d met the year before sitting on the sofa in the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s salon, had managed to ingratiate herself with the Tsarina to such an extent that Alix herself had asked Militza to introduce her to Rasputin.

It was not the easiest of carriage rides. The fallout from that afternoon in the Maple Drawing Room had carried on for months. Despite the intervention of Rasputin and the agreement of the Tsar, an atmosphere hung between Militza and Alix that was as cold and dank as a crypt. As the horses took their well-worn route around the park at the Catherine Palace, Alix defiantly did not bring up the subject of Stana’s wedding plans. She’d never been the sort of woman to back down in an argument or to knowingly change her mind, so preferred to remain silent on such unpleasantries. And Militza studiously followed suit. Children and the weather were topics that filled the afternoon affably enough, so when Alix did eventually ask Militza to make the introductions between Anna and Rasputin, she agreed with alacrity. Apparently, it had been Anna’s abilities as nurse that had impressed Alix. One of her older ladies-in-waiting had been taken ill and Anna had made herself absolutely indispensable by the bedside. And there was no quicker way to Alix’s heart, according to Alix, than devout and devoted selflessness. Plus, the little woman was all of a twitter about her impending marriage to Alexander Vasilievich Vyrubov and it was all she could talk about. Should she marry the naval officer, decorated in the Russo-Japanese War? Or should she not? Militza would watch her plain moon face looking for answers around the Mauve drawing. She and Stana found her a dreary irritation and were more than a little annoyed that Alix had taken her so easily into her confidence.

However, with Stana’s marriage just over two weeks away, any straw was to be grabbed with both hands.

Militza, therefore, reluctantly shared ‘Our Friend’ with the foolish little woman, inviting her to tea at her mansion on English Embankment. Rasputin was late. It was an hour before he arrived. An hour, during which time Militza had discussed God and Anna’s unswerving faith since she’d escaped the jaws of death and been blessed by Father John of Kronstadt, no less, who’d cured her from a mortal typhus by sprinkling her with holy water. Apparently, she’d seen him in a dream and begged her father to call for Father John and he’d come and cured her the very next day with a blessing and a splash of water.

‘The Lord is indeed kind,’ said Militza, nodding her jaded head.

‘Very kind,’ agreed Anna, adding another spoon of jam to her tea.

They sat in silence save for the scraping of Anna’s spoon round and round the bottom of her glass cup.

‘Her Imperial Majesty says that Rasputin is a man of God,’ she ventured, eventually.

‘He is,’ sighed Militza, despite herself. ‘Now,’ she said turning towards Anna, ‘don’t be shocked if I kiss him three or more times when he arrives. It is customary for him to greet those he knows well in a familiar fashion. It’s his way. He is a man of the people, a true man – a real man whose being is closest to the Russian soul.’

‘Of course,’ replied Anna, her small eyes widening. ‘Are you feeling well?’

‘Yes.’ Militza’s tone was irritated.

‘Only your cheeks are a little red?’

‘It’s the fire; I have no idea why the servants insist on a fire in April, when it is perfectly clement outside.’

Before she needed to explain any further, the door to the salon burst open and Rasputin strode in wearing a short black kaftan, accompanied by a cloud of violet cologne.

‘Mamma!’ he exclaimed, his three fingers raised in a blessing. ‘How are you?’ He turned briefly to glimpse Anna before planting a kiss very firmly on Militza’s mouth. ‘Bless you,’ he said, holding her face in his hands before kissing her hard again on the lips.

Anna simply stood and stared. She had never seen anything like it before. Thankfully, Militza had warned her, otherwise she might have run from the room in indignation and shock.

‘How are you, my child?’ he asked, kissing Militza for a third time.

‘Well,’ Militza replied, before dabbing her lips with a handkerchief. The man was showing off, she knew he was. He had a new audience and there was nothing he liked more. Torn between slapping him and demanding he take her now on her lilac buttoned divan, she inhaled and exhaled rapidly, trying to take control of her emotions. She knew she had to stop feeling like this. She’d been ‘healed’ once and she was not going to offer herself again, even if she wanted to. Desperately.

‘May I introduce you to Anna Alexandrovna Taneyeva?’

‘You may.’ He turned to look at the lady-in-waiting.

‘This is Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin.’

‘Grisha,’ he replied.

‘I have heard a lot about you!’

Anna smiled and Rasputin did what he always did when he did not know what to say, he stared. His piercing blue gaze had already unnerved so many at court and Anna was not immune. She simply stood and smiled back at him, saying nothing more.

‘Ask him to pray for you,’ suggested Militza.

‘Oh yes,’ said Anna.

‘Shall I pray for you?’

‘Yes,’ she declared, more than a little flustered.

‘What shall I pray for?’

‘Pray, pray… um… that I may spend my whole life in the service of their Majesties!’

‘So it shall be,’ he declared, before he turned immediately on his heel and left.

‘Is that it?’ asked Anna, her head twitching from side to side.

‘Yes,’ replied Militza with mild amusement. The poor woman had only garnered his attention for a few minutes. ‘Grisha has no need of incantations and incense. If he says it is done, then it is done.’

‘But I wanted to ask about my marriage! About marrying Alexander Vasilievich.’

‘Another time,’ Militza said, smiling, placing her teacup down on the small occasional table in front of her. A signal for the woman to leave. Which she did. Eventually. A full forty-five minutes later.

A little over two weeks later on 29 April outside the chapel at the Livadia Palace, Crimea, the sun shone and the flowers bloomed for the wedding of Stana and Nikolasha. A small and intimate affair, it was the antithesis of the ruinous day when she had walked down the aisle to marry George, in a haze of heat and hatred, the cream of St Petersburg looking on with their tight mouths and heavy jewels. There was no need for drops or little pick-me-ups; in fact, all she and Militza had before the ceremony itself was glass of chilled champagne.

Stana was light and full of life, her dark eyes shone and a smile played on her lips. ‘Oh Militza,’ she declared, adjusting her Bolin diamond tiara, her hair piled graciously up on her head, ‘thank you!’ She smiled, leaning over to kiss her sister. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done. I know it’s been difficult and I know you have sacrificed much for me, but I can’t tell you how much I am in your debt. When anyone has been as unhappy as I, she is glad to have a home with a kind husband and to be quiet.’

‘Quiet?’ laughed Militza. ‘I am not sure your life will ever be quiet.’

‘But that is all I want.’

Militza looked at her sister. ‘But you’re only thirty-nine years old – there is much ahead of you.’

‘Nikolasha is fifty.’

‘And still playing politics and soldiers,’ said Militza.

‘He wants nothing to do with politics and he says he wants to retire from the army and hunt wolf with his borzois.’

‘Of course!’ laughed Militza. ‘So what was last summer about?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Me, persuading Nicky to replace Prime Minister Goremykin with Stolypin? Who do you think was behind all of that?’

‘Peter?’

‘Nikolasha! Nikolasha and his friend General Rauch. They begged me to ask Nicky and Alix. They were desperate for Stolypin to be Prime Minister. So I asked. And it happened. You don’t get more political than that.’

‘Well, he’s not interested any more,’ she said, taking a small sip of champagne. ‘Quiet. That’s what we want. Nice and quiet.’

‘This coming from a man who sliced his borzoi in half at the dinner table just to demonstrate how sharp his sword was?’

‘That was years ago and no one remembers that,’ mumbled Stana. ‘Anyway, he’s happy now.’

That much was certainly true. Nikolasha was unrecognizable from the fractious giant he once was. Famed for his quick temper and rash actions, he had become a much more jovial, affable fellow since he’d been with Stana. Militza had once joked it was the power of regular intercourse that had changed the man, much to her sister’s annoyance. Stana put it down to the far more cerebral meeting of souls. She even credited Philippe, posthumously, with granting her fulfilment at last. Nikolasha himself, when talking of happiness, told Militza, ‘For a long time I sought it, and when I had lost all hope of finding it, unexpectedly I received it.’

The wedding was simple. Despite Peter’s offering, Stana chose to walk down the aisle alone because none of her brothers, nor indeed her father, were able to attend. Her brother-in-law had been terribly charming but she preferred to stand firm. Meanwhile, Nikolasha was flanked by a guard of honour led by Colonel Dundadze, commandant of the Yalta garrison. There were representatives from Montenegro and Italy, as well as various members of the army present, but the most notable absence was the Royal family. They all stayed away, their excuses, Militza remembered, were too numerous to recount. An illness. Urgent travel. Business abroad. Nicky and Alix sent the delightful Prince Vasily Dolgorukov in their place, but the others were not so diplomatic. Xenia was so horrified she told everyone who’d listen she couldn’t believe they’d found a church that would actually marry them! Her husband, Sandro, refused even to send a telegram of congratulations and the Dowager Empress was said to have been so appalled when she’d heard the news that the wedding had actually taken place she’d had to retire to her chamber and be administered with tranquilizing drops.

Stana and Nikolasha smiled broadly as they left the church, apparently oblivious to the outrage they had unleashed. After the ceremony, the luncheon that followed the service was a subdued, abstemious but nonetheless joyful affair. Plates of smoked sturgeon were followed by spring lamb, pheasant in aspic, fresh asparagus, forced rhubarb and sweet fruits in wine and ice cream, plus plenty of toasts. There was a gypsy band playing, but they did not kidnap the bride as usual; instead, Nikolasha insisted on paying them beforehand – the idea that anyone might relive, or be reminded of that hideous night, of Grand Duchess Vladimir’s bloodied skirts and the scarlet trail she left across the ballroom, was more than anyone could bear. So the guests retired into the balmy southern spring evening with memories of a pleasant afternoon that was neither ostentatious nor inappropriate.

Later that week, Stana and Nikolasha went on a honeymoon tour of his many country estates, where the groom hunted wolf and fox with his hounds while his new wife read, and walked his expansive grounds, delighting in her own company, her pain, loneliness and humiliation a thing of the past.

Meanwhile, Militza returned to St Petersburg, alone.

Still engulfed in the last gusts of winter, the city felt cold. Perhaps it was simply the inclement weather, after the longer, milder days spent in the Crimea, or maybe it was her reception that was enough to chill the blood. Either way, Militza felt a certain froideur every time she entered a room. Before her sister’s wedding, all eyes had naturally turned towards the two of them, even at a discreet dinner at the Yacht Club. But now, suddenly on her own, with her sister enjoying the first flush of marriage, Militza found herself isolated.

And Peter was no help. The fact that he had helped persuade her father and, thereby, Montenegro to back Nicky in the failed war against Japan was enough for him to want to maintain a low profile. He’d believed, like the late Minister of the Interior, Vyacheslav von Plehve, that ‘a short victorious war would save Russia from all its internal problems’. The war had indeed been short, but it was not remotely victorious: it was catastrophic, with appalling loss of life and it had gone a long way to exacerbating Russia’s internal problems, with strikes, insurrections and insubordination on the rise all over the country. So much so that no one who held office was safe; death in the form of ardent revolutionaries stalked the streets, ready to strike at any moment. Even Plehve, who’d survived at least two assassination attempts, had finally succumbed to a bomb back in July 1904.

So Peter had suddenly, rapidly, become very interested in the running of his estates. His conversion was practically Tolstoyan; he developed an all-encompassing fascination in land management and the welfare of his workers. He was happy to spend the occasional evening with the Tsar at Tsarskoye Selo, as well as giving little dinners for twenty or thirty or so at Znamenka in the countryside. But that’s where he wanted to stay, at Znamenka; therefore he was much less inclined to come into town to attend the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s parties or any of the court balls. He left Militza to go on her own.

Towards the end of May, she accepted an invitation to a Soirée Chinoise at the Vladimirs’ on Palace Embankment. Given the recent defeat at the hands of the Japanese, some would have thought any Oriental theme tasteless, but such nuances had never bothered the Grand Duchess and with Alix always detained in the countryside, so prone to ailments and aches and so terribly, terribly frail, there was a vacuum at the heart of St Petersburg society which Maria Pavlovna thought it her duty to fill. ‘One ought to know one’s job,’ she would say. And her job was to make up for the darkened windows of the Winter Palace where not one glass of fizz was served, nor a note played.

As she entered the Raspberry Parlour in the first floor of the palace, Maria greeted Militza with unusual enthusiasm. A symphony of golden thread and diamonds, the Grand Duchess Vladimir shimmered with delight.

‘How are you?’ she enquired, thrice kissing the air either side of Militza’s white cheeks. ‘And how was the little wedding? Do tell all!’

‘Intimate wedding,’ corrected Militza.

‘Very intimate. I hear poor Alix’s sciatica prevented her from attending?’ Maria’s face was positively contorted with delight. ‘Anyone else make it?’

‘Is she unwell again tonight?’ asked Militza, pretending to look around the room in search of the Empress.

‘Poor Alix,’ Maria nodded, looking over Militza’s shoulder. ‘To be so afflicted.’

‘Poor Alix.’ They paused to agree. ‘What a stunning dress,’ added Militza. ‘Gold.’

‘Isn’t it charming? I was inspired by my recent trip to Vienna. We took our little train and I met this very interesting artist, Gustav Klimt. I’m thinking of ordering a few works. He’s not terribly expensive.’

‘Is the Tsar coming?’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ She looked around the room. ‘Ma chere!’ she called to a friend, waved and walked off. ‘Have I told you about my trip to Vienna?’

Militza smiled stiffly and took a sip of her champagne. It had been a long time since she’d felt this out of sorts. Surely her sister’s marriage could not have such dramatic repercussions? Was she imagining this feeling? They were four of the most powerful, connected people in the whole of Russia; everyone knew they had the ear of the Tsar and the Tsarina and control over Rasputin. There was no one more powerful than they were. Nikolasha was president of the Council of State Defence, in charge of rearming the troops and the navy, he was popular with his soldiers, well-loved. They were all well-loved, she concluded, walking towards the ballroom and the sound of the orchestra. Then why didn’t she feel it?

She paused by the impressive dining table that ran the length of the banqueting hall. It was groaning with curls of smoked salmon, silver bowls brimming with caviar and a mountain of exotic looking fruits – pineapples, cherries, oranges, apricots and grapes – that on closer inspection turned out to be made entirely of marzipan.

‘Well, if it isn’t one of the Black Crows,’ came the familiar voice of Count Yusupov.

Militza turned around. How dare he call her that! She’d heard that some referred to her and her sister as Crows, or Spiders, or Black Crows or Black Spiders, but never to her face. He was deliberately riling her and she needed to calm down. Why on earth was she feeling so vulnerable?

‘Good evening.’ She smiled briefly. ‘I was on my way to the ballroom. I’ve heard there’s a performance.’

‘Anna Pavlova and the rest of corps did a little Chinese thing organized by Diaghilev,’ he replied, popping a small marzipan apricot into his mouth. ‘You missed it.’ He chewed. ‘How were the heinous nuptials? Did the Lord strike with a thunderbolt? Did the heavens weep at such a union?’ He chuckled to himself, wiping the length of his thick moustache with the back of his hand. In fact, such was his mirth that his small eyes watered.

‘The wedding passed without incident,’ replied Militza. ‘How very kind of you to ask.’

‘And without witnesses?’

‘There were plenty who came.’

‘No one of significance. Poor Nikolasha, a man of his standing and not a Royal cousin to be seen; he has indeed fallen under some spell.’

‘I can assure you, the man is of sound mind,’ replied Militza.

‘Not that your little tricks are much good,’ he declared. ‘“Look after your son!” you said to me once in that silly salon of yours, “Look after him”. Pah! As if you knew what you were talking about. What rubbish! Both my sons are alive well. Felix is here tonight.’

‘Not singing in the Aquarium Café?’ The Count stared at her, his florid cheeks pulsating with anger. He slowly opened his mouth as if to speak but words failed him. ‘This is a small city,’ continued Militza. ‘And stories travel like head lice in a workhouse. Particularly the ones about naughty boys who like to dress up as pretty girls and sing cabaret songs for a living, despite being from the richest family in all of Russia.’ She smiled. ‘It’s going to take more than those daily icy showers to cure such flamboyance, I’m afraid. Now, if you will excuse me…?’

Militza walked through the large oak-panelled banqueting hall with its polished red copper chandeliers and walls decorated with traditional Russian fairy tales, painted to look like tapestries. It was an odd room that felt dark and solid and was in great contrast to the large, open, gilt and pale grey ballroom, with its elaborate ceiling of pert-breasted caryatids and well-nourished cherubs.

Inside the ballroom, the music was loud and the air was heady with the smell of cigarettes and champagne. Many of the guests had arrived in splendid oriental outfits, many borrowed from the Mariinsky theatre but others had been speedily made in the ateliers around Nevsky Prospekt. Some – the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s most certainly – had surely come from Madame Auguste Brissac’s studio on Moika. The overall effect was of effortless decadence as the shimmer of silk and the rustle of taffeta accompanied the glorious music. A green-liveried footman arrived with a silver tray heavy with champagne coupes. He bowed his head while Militza helped herself. As she sipped from the chilled glass, she watched the Tsar drift around the room. He looked well, nodding his head, smiling at the guests; it even looked for a moment that he might be about to dance. Alexei must be doing better, thought Militza. The Tsar’s health and happiness were now so inextricably linked to the welfare of his son and Alix that his humours were like some sort of medical weathervane.

She smiled as he approached. She could feel the eyes of the room looking sidelong at her. Would the Tsar still be irritated by the wedding? Would he hold a grudge? Would he punish her for her sister’s happiness?

‘So, it is done!’ he said as he came over to embrace her. ‘Stana and Nikolasha are at last united!’

‘They are.’ Militza smiled, trying not to appear too relieved.

‘My mother is furious,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘and my sisters are horrified. But they’re only upset because I refused Michael and Baby Bee.’

‘They were first cousins.’

‘Yes, and Nikolasha and Stana are brother and sister.’

‘Not really.’

‘I know.’ He paused. ‘You must come and tell us all about it. We miss you. It has been two months at least. And you missed Anna’s wedding.’

‘Anna?’

‘Taneyeva, now Vyrubova. Our Friend warned her a few days before that it would be an unhappy liaison, but she went ahead regardless.’ He shrugged his large golden epaulettes. Militza stared at him. How on earth could the Tsar be talking about the marriage of the plump, dull Anna? As if it would be of any interest to anyone! ‘She has a little cottage now, just by Tsarskoye Selo.’

‘Who has? Anna?’

‘Alix much prefers to meet people there these days,’ he declared. ‘Far fewer guards.’ Nicky patted her upper arm and turned to move on. ‘Oh, by the way, your father isn’t worried about being left out of the peace treaty with Japan, is he? It’s not like the Montenegrins did that much fighting or committed many troops. You lot don’t really have that much of an army or navy to speak of!’ He laughed a little. ‘Your father’s support was more symbolic, I feel.’

‘Of course,’ replied Militza.

‘Jolly good,’ said Nicky.

Three days later, Militza’s car pulled up outside a small yellow and white villa just 200 feet from the gates of the Alexander Palace. It was a low, two-storey building, more of summerhouse, really – absolutely not the sort of house Militza would have ever noticed before. There was no garden to speak of, but the surrounding trees were in bud and blossom, making the approach to the house a little more charming. As Militza walked up the short path, she stopped. She could hear the sound of piano music drifting out of the open window and there were two people singing. One was a high soprano voice, the other was low and unmistakable – the Tsarina. Militza had heard Alix sing before, a few times, but never outside her Mauve Boudoir.

A footman showed her into the small, cluttered drawing room. The flock-paper walls were full of paintings and nearly every table, sideboard or dresser was covered in little knickknacks, bits of china or porcelain – cups, jugs, dogs, cats and little cherubs. There were newspapers and magazines piled high on various tables and plates of nuts and sweetmeats at every turn. Alix and Anna had their backs to the door as they sat at the piano, squeezed on to one chair, only one buttock each firmly on the seat. They were laughing and bickering slightly over what piece of music to duet next. Militza cleared her throat. They both turned.

‘Your Imperial Highness!’ said Anna, immediately leaping out of the seat. ‘I am afraid I did not hear you enter!’

‘Militza,’ Alix said, smiling. ‘I am afraid you have discovered our terrible secret!’ She laughed a little.

‘Secret?’

‘Our awful piano playing and our even more terrible singing!’

‘On the contrary, I thought it very jovial,’ said Militza.

‘As did I.’

Militza turned around. There he was, sitting in the shadows, watching them.

‘Grisha!’ Her voice was unexpectedly high with surprise.

He nodded. ‘How was the wedding?’

‘Well—’ began Militza.

‘Don’t let’s speak of it,’ interrupted Alix, her thin white hand in the air. ‘I never want it spoken of again.’

Militza was about to say that Rasputin had himself blessed the union and that she herself had persuaded the Tsar to give his permission, but there was something about the adamant little hand in the air that made her realize some things were best left unsaid.

There was a pause. Militza remained standing, while Rasputin looked from one to the other. This was the sort of uneasy situation that amused him.

‘I met a very pretty young lady yesterday.’ He watched as all three women turned to look at him. He had their attention. ‘Very pretty,’ he added. ‘And so very young,’ he embellished, his pale eyes darting around the room, reading all their facial expressions. ‘Munia Golovina.’

‘Princess Paley’s niece?’ asked Alix.

‘Perhaps.’ Rasputin was not entirely sure.

‘She is a close friend of the Yusupov family,’ added Anna, nodding knowledgeably. ‘Some say she might marry Nikolai Felixovich one day. They are practically betrothed.’ Rasputin looked at her, his eyebrows raised with interest. ‘Although he perhaps has his eyes on another, someone who is already taken?’

‘Married?’ Militza asked.

‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ replied Anna, her round face shining with innocence. ‘I am not a woman who likes to gossip.’

‘Quite right,’ said Alix brusquely. ‘I can’t abide idle chatter. It’s the Devil’s work.’

‘She was most ardent in her questions,’ continued Rasputin.

‘Not as ardent as I, surely?’ asked Anna.

‘No one is more ardent than you,’ replied Rasputin. ‘No one believes quite like you, my child.’

‘Mama! Mama!’ The two eldest Grand Duchesses, with long blonde hair around their shoulders and large picture hats, came dashing into the room. ‘Please say yes,’ they began, their young hands clasped together in prayer. ‘Oh, please do, please say yes.’

‘What are you two up to now?’ asked Rasputin.

‘Oh Grisha!’ they exclaimed, not at all surprised to see him sitting there. ‘Do help us with Mama.’

‘Tatiana, Olga! Calm down!’ said Alix. ‘What on earth is going on?’

‘Just say yes!’ began Olga. ‘I am nearly twelve.’

‘And I’m nearly ten,’ added Tatiana.

‘What are you asking?’

‘Mr Epps has to go into town and he was wondering if we would like to go with him?’ asked Olga, extremely tentatively.

‘Whatever for?’ asked Alix, visibly thrown.

‘To buy buttons and ribbons?’ suggested Tatiana.

‘No.’ Alix shook her head. ‘Town? Don’t be so ridiculous!’

‘But we’ve been before,’ said Olga.

‘When?’

‘Yalta.’

‘That was different,’ said Alix.

Militza remembered that day so very well. They’d all, on a whim, decided to walk the few miles to Yalta to go shopping. The girls had been terribly excited; they’d skipped all the way, accompanying Alix in her large wheelchair. It was one of those very brief moments of freedom when no one knew who they were. The Empress had been told off for resting her wet umbrella against some display in one of the shops and the girls had been shocked to pay for their buttons and ribbons with roubles, only to receive change! They had no idea what money really meant. Unfortunately, their anonymity did not last long and as soon as they had left the shop, they were surrounded by well-wishers, keen to gawp at the Tsarina and the Grand Duchesses. They had to call for a motorcar to come and collect them.

‘Please?’ they now begged together.

‘No.’ Alix shook her head. ‘And if you carry on asking, you will make my heart painful and you don’t want me to have to lie down with a pain of two?’

‘No, Mama,’ replied Olga.

‘I hate pain of two,’ said Tatiana, well aware of how her mother liked to grade her levels of discomfort.

‘It means we can’t see you,’ added Olga.

‘Exactly,’ said Alix. ‘Now leave us.’

‘They should go,’ said Rasputin.

‘Yes,’ agreed Alix. ‘Leave us.’

‘Into town,’ he continued. Alix looked at him in astonishment. But she said nothing. ‘What harm could it do? A little trip to buy some frivolities? I see no harm in that at all.’

‘But…’ began Alix.

‘God does not take against the enjoyment of children,’ he said simply. ‘In fact, He delights in it. They should go. In the fresh air.’

The two Grand Duchesses looked stunned and stared at their mother, awaiting her response.

‘Well… Very well then,’ she said tentatively. ‘Very well. If you think so, Grisha.’

‘I do,’ he nodded slowly.

‘Thank you! Thank you!’ The girls could not believe their luck. ‘Thank you, Brother Grigory!’

‘Only for a short time,’ instructed Alix.

‘Of course, Mama!’ they promised.

They rushed out of the villa as quickly as they’d arrived.

‘How lovely! A trip,’ mused Alix, with a little laugh to herself.

‘Tea?’ offered Anna, picking up a large silver pot that had been brought into the drawing room.

‘Shall I be mother?’ offered Rasputin, getting out of his chair.

That evening, as the maid, Katya, attended to Militza’s toilette, brushing and piling up her long black hair with diamond pins, Militza stared at her reflection, running over and over again in her mind the scene she’d witnessed at the little yellow villa. Alix had let Rasputin overrule her. And there was something about Grigory’s manner as he sat in the chair, something about the way he’d looked at Militza, the way he challenged Alix, that she found disconcerting. He appeared powerful; worse, comfortable with those in power. Her mind wandered to the icon he’d taken from her. Was that the difference? Now that he had Philippe’s St John the Baptist, the angel of the desert, was he truly as untouchable as Philippe had foretold? But what was worrying her most was that he appeared not to need her, Militza, any more. She knew he visited Tsarskoye Selo without her, despite her protestations. But how often? And Brana had told her that he’d even turned up to the palace once or twice, completely uninvited. He passed by whenever he liked. If she really pulled rank, reminded him exactly who he was and where he’d come from, could she grasp back control? He was hers. Entirely hers. She’d made him. Perhaps she needed to remind him of that.

She sighed. While Katya finished heating and placing the last few curls around her face, Militza called Brana to her room. Her collection from Badmaev was growing on her dressing table, but what she really needed was a little cocaine elixir. A couple of drops should do the trick before she went out. If it had not been a soirée at the Countess Ignatiev’s, she would surely have sent her excuses. A few minutes later and there was knock at the door and the crone arrived with a small red bottle on a tray. She drank the entire contents of the bottle and felt significantly better: her thoughts were clear; her brain was focussed. She thanked Brana and then picked up her Marseille cards from out of the top drawer of her dresser.

Should she? Why not? Just three cards before she went out. She normally didn’t turn cards for herself. In her early teens, she’d turn cards every day and live her life exactly according to them. But her mother had warned her against it and she’d broken the habit. But now, having drunk Badmaev’s elixir, she felt her self-control weakening.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Brana, tray in hand, as she watched Militza shuffle the cards.

‘It’s fine,’ snapped Militza. Sometimes the woman really was too much. She closed her eyes and held the pack close to her chest. She inhaled deeply before she chose three from the deck. ‘Le Diable,’ she said, staring straight at the Devil. ‘Chaos, anarchy… Le Pendu, the hangman, suspended from one leg, unable to do anything… helpless…’ Her heart was racing; she felt a little sick. The cocaine was surely a bit strong. She paused before she turned the final card. She’d asked about the future. This was not what she had anticipated.

‘What’s the last one?’ asked Brana.

‘Le Judgement,’ said Militza looking down as the black eyes on the card stared directly back at her. ‘So the dead shall rise and we shall all be judged, not by our words, but by our actions and our deeds.’

‘The cards are never wrong,’ said Brana. ‘Maybe the question you asked was incorrect?’

It was late by the time she arrived at Countess Ignatiev’s apartment on the French Embankment. Even the stairs outside were littered with people: some were talking, others were intertwined, embracing like young lovers; all were in quite an intoxicated state. Inside, the air was thick with conversation and the smell of cigarette smoke and hashish; the low light was crepuscular and it was almost impossible to see the faces of the guests or to distinguish one person from another.

‘Goodness,’ exclaimed Sophia Ignatiev when Militza finally discovered her seated at a small card table in the corner. ‘There are so many people! I swear half the clergy are here.’ She puffed her face as she exhaled and waved a pretty peacock and ivory fan. ‘But I am so glad you are here. I have been having these dreams, proclamations, really.’ She inhaled heavily on a small pipe. ‘Father Seraphim keeps appearing to me and we discuss the fact that there is a prophet here amongst us whose purpose is to reveal the will of Providence to the Tsar and lead him on the path of glory.’ She exhaled a small curl of blue smoke. ‘And that person,’ she whispered, leaning forward. ‘And that person is – Rasputin. Absolutely it’s him. I am sure of it.’

‘Right,’ said Militza.

‘My dreams are actually prophetic. I have told everyone.’ She waved her hand about her to indicate she had told the whole room. ‘Everyone.’ She smiled. ‘He’s here, you know, Rasputin. In the other room. Talking to some journalists.’

‘Journalists?’ Militza looked towards the door.

‘Yes,’ she said, nodding vigorously. ‘You should see them! Eating out of the palm of his hand.’

Sure enough, as she walked into the next-door room, there was Rasputin surrounded by an attentive group of acolytes. There was the actress with the plunging décolletage; there was the weak-willed general and the British journalist with the bad breath who always insisted on pinning you in a corner and asking the most impertinent of questions. Tonight, he was right next to Rasputin, asking him all sorts of things that didn’t seem remotely polite, but Grigory was loving the attention and gorging himself on red wine. He glanced over at Militza as she walked into the room and a smile briefly floated across his lips before the actress thrust herself a little closer to him and took his attention.

How different he is outside of the company of the Tsarina, thought Militza, staring at him as he leant over and kissed the actress’s plump bosom. I wonder what Alix would think if she knew exactly how her dear Friend behaved without her? Perhaps someone should tell her?

She turned and walked back into the slightly quieter room, encountering Dr Badmaev as she did so.

‘I was hoping you’d be here!’ she exclaimed, moving to kiss him on the cheek.

‘Will you sit and have a glass of wine with me?’ he asked, indicating two chairs.

‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘Do you have any of your elixir with you?’

‘The cocaine?’ She nodded. ‘Here,’ he said, pulling a small red bottle from out of the pocket of his loose trousers. ‘The Tsar goes through about three of those a week,’ he said, handing over the bottle.

‘It’s a good way to start the day,’ said Militza. ‘Poured into sweet tea to take away the taste. Thank you,’ she added, immediately pouring some into her wine. ‘It’s so crowded in here these days.’ She looked around the room, before taking a sip.

‘I remember when it was simply Stana, you and me and the Countess plus a few divorcees!’ chuckled Badmaev.

‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s the boredom, I suppose. In these gilded drawing-rooms, life becomes weary much faster. When money can get you whatever life offers, even the most fantastic possibilities fail to satisfy.’ He paused to take in the crowded room before him. ‘Everyone is tired, everyone is jaded; and in such times people gravitate to what lies beyond human comprehension. Talking to Spirit. Table tipping. Tarot. Even your Martinism.’ Militza raised her eyebrows. ‘People tell me everything,’ he smiled. ‘Even Rasputin.’

‘What of him?’

‘The Tsarina talks of little else. When I am summoned to prescribe herbs for her heart or her sciatica, she always talks of him. The man of God, who is no priest, the miracle worker from Siberia.’

‘She says that?’

‘But both you and I know there are no miracles, only science.’

‘And faith.’

‘But where will your faith get you when your son is bleeding to death?’ he asked.

‘Hush!’ she shot him a look. ‘Maybe that is all she has?’

‘And what of all of my medicines and my expertise and all that I have done?’ he replied sharply, placing another bottle of cocaine elixir down on the table. ‘For you,’ he said standing up, as if to leave. ‘Don’t take it all at once!’

‘Well, well, if it isn’t my old friend from Tibet!’ Rasputin placed a large hand on Badmaev’s shoulder. ‘Don’t trust him!’ he said to Militza. ‘He’d sooner betray you and sell your soul for a kopek!’ He roared with laughter, rocking back and forth as he slapped the doctor hard on the back. ‘What?’ he declared. ‘Have you lost your sense of humour? Come on, friend!’

‘Go to hell,’ hissed Badmaev.

‘Me?’ said Rasputin, taking a step back and flinging his arms open, as he laughed even louder. ‘I’m already there! Come,’ he added with a chuckle, putting his arm around Militza, ‘what on earth is wrong with him?’ He yawned. ‘Must be terribly upsetting, losing one’s position at court! Take me home!’

As the chauffeur drove through the chilly streets of St Petersburg, Militza listened to Rasputin ramble on about his dealings with the Tsarina and his afternoons at Anna’s little yellow house. He was obviously drunk – and with her he did not feel the need to hold back.

‘That fat little Anna,’ he laughed. ‘She just repeats everything I say; it’s as if she does not have a mind, or will, of her own! She is the emptiest of vessels. Like a great big bell. If she weren’t so plain, like a poorly cooked suet pudding, I might bend her over a table and show her the way of the Lord! As for the other one, Little Mama, squeaking through the gardens in that wheelchair of hers, she is so scared and isolated from her own people. I don’t think she’s left her quarters for months. She claims ill health but I am not so sure.’ He snorted. ‘But she listens to me, and me alone. She’ll do anything I say, anything to keep that little boy of hers alive. It would be sweet if it weren’t so pathetic.’ He leant over towards Militza, his eyes staring into hers, the pupils slowly dilating. ‘See this,’ he said, waving his hand in her face. ‘Between these fingers I hold the Russian Empire! Its future is in my hands.’ He laughed as he thrust his fingers between her thighs.