The Witches of St. Petersburg

⁵ February 1896, Znamenka, Peterhof

So she sent word. Just as Militza always knew she would, and now the Tsar and Tsarina were on their way to Znamenka. Their carriage, complete with an entourage of police and Cossack bodyguards, had been spotted on the road from the nearby Lower Dacha. It would not be long before they’d be turning into the long, tree-lined drive, and Militza felt her heart beat a little faster.

The idea of having the young Tsar and his wife visit her palace, newly refurbished in the Russian Baroque style by the architect G.A. Bosse, was all she could think about. What would the Yusupovs say when they found out? How would Maria Pavlovna react? How contorted would her furious face become now? But what she did not think of, what she did not pause to consider, was quite what events would be put into motion, how a vortex, once opened up, would be hard to shut.

Instead, she stood naked but for a red velvet robe and admired the sweep of her black hair in the mirror. Her maid’s coiffuring skills were improving by the day, she thought, as she ran her hand over her flat stomach. That would change in the coming months. And this time, she knew, it would be the son Peter longed for, a boy he could dote on and spoil and, most importantly, to whom he could pass on his esteemed title and somewhat diminished estates. She smiled. Sweet, Marina, who, now almost four years old, was asleep upstairs She had not yet told Peter that he was to be a father again.

She looked down. Next to her dressing table stood the large chest she’d brought with her from Cetinje. She opened the heavy lid; how rough and coarse the material felt, she thought, as she leafed through a pile of her old clothes. How simple the patterns, and how poor the cut! She held up an old pair of lace-trimmed underclothes – they looked so terribly old-fashioned. How quickly one becomes accustomed to luxury, she thought, smiling, remembering the last time she’d worn them, the night she and Stana had packed to leave for her marriage to Peter. She remembered curling up with her sister in their bed, remembered her mother, Milena, telling them not to be afraid, how they would be looked after – and she had given them her cast-iron pot, just in case. It was ancient and had belonged to her and her mother before that. ‘Use it wisely,’ Milena had warned. ‘And use it with care. You both have a gift that must not be squandered. Call upon your guides; ask Spirit and Spirit will watch over you.’ And now here it was, at the bottom of the chest. Simple, solid, effective. The stories it could tell. She’d get Brana to fill it, light it and place it in the room for later. But first Militza took off the heavy lid and inside she found some drops.

‘Belladonna,’ she whispered, extract of deadly nightshade. She rolled the dark brown bottle between the palms of her hands.

Turning to look in the mirror, she pinned back her eyelids and expertly squeezed a drop of liquid into each eye. She inhaled sharply. The acid sting was painful, but the effect was almost immediate: her pupils dilating, her black eyes becoming even more luminous and glassy. The result was bewitching and completely unnerving.

Militza smiled and, leaning forward, she clipped two drop-pendant topaz earrings to her lobes and turned to look through a gap in the curtains at the falling flakes of snow outside. She opened the window and inhaled the cold salt air from the sea beyond before closing her eyes. She held her palms out in front of her and began to chant:

Her lips moved in a well-practised rhythm as she rocked back and forth, repeating her Sutta three times. ‘Cease to do evil,’ she said in Tibetan, as she undid the rope to her robe. ‘Learn to do well. Cleanse your own heart, this is the religion of the Buddhas.’ Deeper and deeper she went into herself, climbing further and further down within, right into her soul. She called upon her spirit guide to help her. A breeze swirled around the room and the glass chandelier tinkled, the curtains fluttered and ballooned. She could feel his presence. A small shiver rippled through her body; her chest puffed forward and her mouth fell open with a small, ecstatic sigh. The robe cord hung limply at her side, revealing her naked form framed by the folds of the dark material. She began to caress her own bare breasts, running her hands over her smooth flesh, watching her nipples swell and harden in the mirror. Her skin felt so warm, so soft to her touch as she ran her fingers over her flat belly. She inhaled again, her mouth wide, her lips engorged. Her whole body was tingling with life and energy. She loved it when he possessed her. It made her feel dizzy, powerful, completely sensuous… There was pressure on the top of her arms. They felt tight as if someone were holding on, gripping hard, burning, although no one appeared to be standing next to her. She looked at herself once more in the mirror; her huge black eyes stared back at her. She looked ecstatic. Her heart was beating hard; her blood was pulsing. He’d come. She was ready.

Dinner in the Chinese dining room was polite and perhaps a little rushed. It was obvious that most of the assembled were trying to get through it as quickly as possible to move on to the main event. The poor chefs, downstairs in the subterranean kitchen, had sliced their best salted cucumbers and laid out their most sublime smoked salmon, only for them to be returned almost untouched. Their hot stuffed mushrooms and borscht were a little more successful, as were the roast venison and spatchcock partridge followed by pineapples and preserved cherries from the Crimea.

Even the conversation was stilted and the surprise arrival of George, back from Biarritz, had not helped matters. Stana was laughing a little too enthusiastically, constantly touching his knee, whispering in his ear, trying to engage him with conversation. The poor girl was trying, but George simply looked uncomfortable and complained of a terrible headache. Even when the Tsar enquired as to what he had been doing in Biarritz for all that time, he was not at all forthcoming.

Meanwhile Militza, finding it difficult to keep calm, sipped glass after glass of sweet red wine. Her appetites were not normally this voracious, but her guide always made her more lustful; her white skin became more luminous, her lips rosier and her touch altogether more sensitive. But it was her deep black eyes that held the Tsar transfixed.

‘You look particularly enchanting tonight, Militza Nikolayevna,’ he opined as he sipped his wine

‘Enchanting?’ Militza smiled. ‘It is the good company, Your Majesty.’

Thankfully, once the dinner was over, the party could move upstairs to the panelled library. Peter requested the servants leave the liqueurs and sweetmeats on a small table in the red hall, so the guests could help themselves.

The library was thick with a heavy smoke emanating from the cast iron pot that stood in the middle of the table. The smouldering cocktail of henbane and hashish had been burning all through dinner, filling the room with its intoxicating fumes.

‘I can’t believe we are about to do this,’ Stana whispered into her sister’s ear as she followed her into the room. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’

‘I will be fine,’ she replied tersely. ‘We have come this far.’

‘But when was the last time you did this properly?’ asked her sister.

‘Can you light the six candles for me?’ Militza simply replied.

Stana lit the candelabra while Militza covered the pot with a cloth. There was certainly enough smoke in the room now; as the guests sat down, it mixed with the fine wines from dinner and it did not take long before the sedative and mildly aphrodisiac qualities of the drugs took effect. The Tsar’s posture relaxed and he positively flopped down into his chair. As the most important guests, Militza had the Tsar and Tsarina on either side of her while Peter was opposite, with Stana to his right and George to his left.

Before commencing, Militza laid a square cloth on the table on which were written a series of numbers around the edge. In the middle there were the letters of the alphabet and four squares on which were marked ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ as well as the words ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’. She produced a well-worn glass from a small table in the corner of the library.

‘This,’ she said, holding it up to show everyone, ‘is the planchette. I shall try and contact those who have passed over without using the Ouija board. But sometimes if things are proving difficult, we can rely on the board. You will all need to place your fingers lightly on top of the glass, which will move around – but Spirit will be the one who moves the glass. We are just there to make sure that it doesn’t fly off the table.’ She smiled and then breathed in deeply, flaring her nostrils as she inhaled the heady smoke and spread her arms out. ‘Does anyone have any questions before we start?’

‘Will anything bad happen?’ asked the Tsarina.

‘No. I have my spirit guide here to help. He should prevent too much interference from the lower astral.’

‘All right,’ nodded Alexandra, not quite understanding what Militza was saying, but the mixture of the hashish, the wine and the henbane made her so delightfully relaxed she didn’t mind.

‘Shall we start?’ requested Nicholas.

‘Let’s all hold hands, then we close our eyes and wait,’ said Militza. The Tsar slipped his hand into hers. The feeling of his soft skin against her own gave her a knot in the pit of her stomach. She glanced across at him, but his eyes were already closed.

Within a few seconds the atmosphere changed. The air went cold and the six candles began to flicker. It was as if a fresh breath had entered the room. Alexandra kept her eyes firmly shut and squeezed Militza’s hand all the more tightly. She had waited so long for this, she could not believe it was about to happen. She turned her head, her eyes still closed, towards the ceiling and began to pray silently under her breath.

‘Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done… Oh please God, dear God, please let me speak to May…’

Suddenly, the gentle pitter-patter of feet was heard in the room. Militza sat quite still, her hands clasping those of the Tsar and Tsarina. Stana did not move a muscle. The little footsteps circled the table at a gentle trot and then the rhythm changed and they began to skip. Hop skip, hop skip.

‘She’s here,’ announced Militza. ‘You can open your eyes.’ As the group opened their eyes, two candles blew out, leaving the room in a more profound darkness.

The four remaining candles lit up Militza’s face. Her eyes shone, her topaz earrings glittered and her bosom rose and fell with increasing heaviness. It was as if she were in some sort of trance. She nodded as if in response to a question and then laughed silently at a joke that only she could hear.

‘All right, May,’ she said and smiled and nodded again. ‘I understand the joke. Four candles because you are four. Don’t blow them all out otherwise we won’t be able to see anything.’ Militza chuckled. Peter glanced across at his wife. It was not a laugh he recognized. ‘Your sister is here, May,’ she said.

The sound of skipping increased dramatically and the whole group felt a breeze on their backs as if a small child was running around behind them. The silver servant’s bell on the mantelpiece rang three times and random books flew off the library shelves while the smell of spring flowers filled the air. A May bough. Alexandra looked around the room, trying to see where the heady scent was coming from.

‘May, stop showing off,’ said Militza shaking her head from side to side. Her tone was kind but firm. ‘Your big sister wants to speak to you.’ She turned to look at Tsarina, her eyebrows raised in expectation. The Empress looked blank. Eighteen years of sorrow and sadness and she did not know what to say. Her mouth went dry. She looked across at her husband for support. His pale blue eyes stared back.

‘Um,’ said Alexandra, clearing her throat. She looked around the room, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of her. ‘May? Is it really you?’ Three more books fell off the shelves as the patter of feet continued to run around the room. George shifted in his seat, more than slightly uncomfortable; he was not enjoying himself. In fact, if the Tsar had not been expected, George would sure as hell not have been there either.

‘May?’ the Tsarina continued, glancing around. ‘How are you? I miss you so very much.’

Militza nodded. ‘Are you sure that is what you want to say?’

‘How do we know you’re actually talking to her?’ asked George, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘I am fine,’ continued Militza in a sweet singsong voice that bore little resemblance to her own. She turned to face Alexandra, completely ignoring George. ‘May is fine. She is happy. Lots of people are looking after her. How is Mrs Orchard? Is she still looking after you?’

‘Mrs Orchard!’ Alexandra held her hands up to cover her mouth. Her face softened slightly as a wave of sadness rolled over it. ‘Dear Mrs Orchard… our English nurse,’ she announced to the table and then shook her head in disbelief. ‘Marie was always her favourite. How extraordinary! She is well, May. She is looking after my little Olga now. Just like she looked after you.’ Alexandra’s voice was high and strained, cracking slightly with emotion. ‘I have a little girl, just three months old. But then, you probably know that already.’

Militza smiled suddenly, a playful smile. She raised her shoulders with the sort of exaggerated exuberant delight that adults use towards small children. ‘Oh, that sounds delicious. Lucky you!’ Alexandra looked at her expectantly. ‘Sorry.’ Militza shook her head. ‘She said that she loves baked apples and rice pudding.’

‘Really…?’ said Alexandra quietly. She bowed her head and took a lace hankie out of her evening purse. Her tears were almost entirely silent and she barely moved. Finally, she looked up. ‘She always asked for them…’

‘It’s almost every child’s favourite,’ declared George, pushing his chair back slightly and stretching his arms above his head. ‘Does anyone mind if I get a little brandy?’ As he stood up to make his way to the library door, two more candles suddenly blew out and a tray of small crystal glasses crashed to the floor. The noise was shocking and the whole table recoiled.

‘May!’ shouted Militza, holding up her right hand. ‘Calm down!’

‘Calm down, Marie,’ Alexandra joined in.

‘Darling! George! Please sit down,’ hissed Stana. ‘Spirits don’t like being ignored, especially four-year-old girls.’

George walked very slowly back to his seat and, as he sat down, the two candles ignited once more.

‘Good,’ nodded Militza. ‘She is happy,’ she declared. ‘OK,’ she nodded again. ‘And she wants to say she is sorry about all your toys.’

‘My toys?’ asked Alexandra.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Militza. ‘The ones they burnt. What a terrible smell!’ She shook her head. ‘My nostrils are filling with the smell of soot and burning.’ She stared at the Tsarina. ‘They burnt your toys after she died?’

‘All of them.’ Alexandra shook her head again. ‘All my lovely toys. Gosh,’ she sighed, as the memories came flooding back, ‘they burnt everything to prevent the spread of diphtheria.’

‘How terrible,’ Stana sympathized.

‘My favourite toys were gone, as well as Mother and my sister… I remember weeping in the playroom, not being able to find my teddy bear, not being able to find anything…’

The Tsar leant across the table and took hold of his wife’s hand. ‘But you are all right now, darling,’ he said, gently patting her hand. ‘You have me and little Olga.’

‘Your mother gives you her blessing,’ Militza interrupted suddenly, sitting up. ‘Right, of course.’ She looked at Alexandra. ‘She says not to mourn her, that she is happy. She is with… Frittie?’

‘Frederick,’ whispered Alexandra, looking down at her hankie as she picked at the lace edge with her fingers. ‘He died at the age of two and a half. A haemorrhage.’

‘A haemorrhage?’ asked Stana.

‘He fell; he had weak blood,’ said Alexandra. ‘He wouldn’t stop bleeding.’

‘She says she wants you to be happy,’ Militza declared very formally. ‘She urges you to be happy. Be happy, my love, that is all she is saying, over and over… Try and be happy.’

‘Excellent,’ said George, rubbing his hands together and pushing his chair away from the table. ‘That’s all good advice. Now…’

Suddenly Militza slumped forward on the table and three candles blew out. A whistling wind rushed through the room and a lamp fell off the table by the door; the temperature in the room dropped dramatically and Stana reached out and grabbed Peter’s hand.

‘This isn’t good,’ she mumbled.

‘What’s wrong with Militza?’ demanded Peter, standing up.

‘Sit down!’ said Stana, her dark eyes rounded with fear and she grabbed hold of his hand again. ‘Everyone has to keep sitting down! Sit down and don’t break the circle!’

Militza dragged herself up off the table, slowly raising her head. In the light of one candle her face looked dramatically different, the flesh was hanging, the muscles were flaccid, her mouth was drooping at the corners, her shoulders were hunched and her eyes heavily lidded. She looked remarkably like an old man. Peter gasped. He was horrified. He had never seen anything like it. Even George sat back and stared. The Tsar let go of Militza’s hand.

‘She’s transfiguring,’ said Stana, staring at her sister.

‘How extraordinary,’ mumbled Peter.

‘How unpleasant,’ said George.

‘Your… father… is… here,’ Militza announced very slowly in a deep voice that seemed not to come from her own body at all.

‘Whose father?’ whispered Peter.

‘Your… father!’ she said turning a raised finger and pointing to Nicholas.

‘The Tsar!’ said Nicholas looking shocked.

‘You’re the Tsar,’ said George.

Nicholas turned and looked at Militza; not only did she look terrifying, with her flaccid grey skin and half-closed eyes, but she also looked vaguely familiar. Nicholas’s already pale face blanched further as the blood drained. His large watery blue eyes shone in the candlelight as he remembered the last time he’d seen his father: the thick fog that surrounded the Maly Palace in Livadia, the horrific sound of blood being coughed up, the oxygen tanks, the nose bleeds, the vomiting, the Emperor awaiting death, while the Holy Man, John of Kronstadt, held him in his arms, whispering words of religious comfort as the last rays of the sun disappeared from the sky. The noise of the Holy Man’s mutterings, his hooded black cloak, his long dark beard – Nicholas would never forget it. His mother, Marie Fyodorovna, weeping, plus the sweet smell of death and the constant religious chanting still haunted him in the early hours.

‘Should I ask him some questions?’ he stammered. He had always been slightly afraid of his father and he knew that the Emperor had never really had a high opinion of him.

‘No,’ replied Militza, inhaling and exhaling heavily, her palms flat on the table as she fought the powerful waves of the spirit. The whole experience was obviously exhausting her. ‘He wants to tell you something.’ She looked up again at Nicholas. Her black eyes were blank as if she were blind. ‘And he wants you to listen!’

‘Right.’ He looked across the table at his wife. She smiled weakly in support.

‘Fear not,’ began Militza, ‘I am well. The illness is past and I am well.’ Nicholas nodded, thankful. ‘The Coronation will pass well. Many thousands will come. Many thousands will want to come and pay tribute. But beware the advice of others. My brothers.’

‘Absolutely.’ Nicholas looked puzzled.

Militza shook her head. Her eyes were rolling backwards in her skull as she gripped on to the table again. Her fingers nails dug deep into the cloth. ‘Beware the advice of others,’ she repeated, rocking in her chair, her head moving from side to side. ‘And Khodynka Field.’

‘What field?’ asked Alexandra.

‘This is ridiculous!’ declared George getting up from the table.

‘Sit down!’ said Peter, tugging at the sleeve of his brother-in-law’s dinner jacket, forcing him back into his seat.

‘I am not sure I understand what you mean, Father?’ ventured Nicholas tentatively, as if he was talking to a cankerous old man, his eyes shifting nervously from his wife to Militza and back again.

‘My brothers.’ Militza whispered deeply and quietly. Her whole body hunched and twisted over itself in exasperation. Her hands clawed at the tablecloth, pulling it towards her.

Nicholas stared at his wife for guidance. She nodded at him, with encouragement. ‘Um, thank you… Father… I shall listen to your advice. I shall listen to it and act upon it faithfully.’

And then, suddenly, the heavy, tense atmosphere dissipated. Militza hung her head at the table for a few more minutes, catching her breath, then she slowly raised her chin. Levity had returned to her. Her hands released the tablecloth and her shoulders visibly relaxed. She puffed her cheeks, exhaling the last vestiges of what appeared to be the old Tsar. A shiny, youthful luminosity graced her skin and she once more began to resemble a charming young wife of thirty. A smile played across her pretty lips and her dark eyes glittered again in the candlelight.

‘Who would like some wine?’ suggested Peter, his hands shaking. ‘I am suddenly extremely thirsty.’

Walking back into the Red Salon, the atmosphere was subdued. Neither the Tsar nor Tsarina had expected quite such an evening and the Tsarina was overcome. The combination of wine, henbane and hashish only exacerbated her reaction, causing her to collapse onto the nearest sofa, weeping and talking rapidly.

‘I remember hearing my mother scream when she arrived too late to save May,’ she said, looking across at both Militza and Stana. ‘It was awful. But what I also remember are the lies and the secrets after May’s death, the way they pretended she was still alive and the way they hid her in the family mausoleum.’

‘Diphtheria is a terrible disease,’ agreed Stana.

‘It swept through that house, choosing its victims irrespective of age. Even the physician sent by Queen Victoria could not save my sister. Or my mother.’ The tears flowed freely down her face as Alexandra smiled ruefully. ‘She was thirty-five and buried alongside her two little children.’ She sighed and then looked up at Militza. ‘I can’t thank you enough. Really, I can’t. I am so very grateful. Don’t you agree, Nicky?’

‘Indeed,’ nodded the Tsar, his face looked haunted, his hand gripped on to his glass; he did not know what to make of the whole damn thing at all.

‘Well, I thought it was all very jolly,’ declared Peter, brightly, opening up a large silver cigarette box and offering them around. ‘Fascinating stuff, don’t you think?’

‘If you say so,’ muttered George, taking a cigarette and lighting it. He looked from one sister to the other. ‘A rum business.’

‘Who knew my wife was so talented!’ declared Peter.

‘A very good show indeed,’ said George, staring at Militza as he exhaled. ‘Where did you learn such tricks?’

‘Indeed!’ laughed Peter, walking over to his wife’s side. ‘Indeed… So,’ he said turning his back on the room, his face etched with nerves, ‘are you all right?’ he whispered, holding on to Militza’s arm. ‘That was quite something. I have never seen anything like it.’

‘I’m perfectly fine.’ She smiled. ‘It could not have gone better.’

‘Oh good, because you know I would hate…’

‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled again, patting him on the arm. ‘You worry too much.’

It was another half an hour or so before the Tsar felt suitably recovered enough to leave.

‘An extraordinary evening,’ he said, embracing her, caressing Militza’s cheek with his soft moustache. ‘Thank you, we shall most certainly return to do that again,’ he murmured into her ear, before walking rather slowly towards the waiting carriage.

‘Thank you,’ agreed Alexandra, holding Militza’s hand in hers, her eyes still full of tears. ‘I can’t tell you what it means to me to know my sister is safe and well and being looking after.’ She smiled, still holding on to Militza’s hand. ‘Eating baked apples! You have made me so happy tonight. For the first time in this sad and lonely city.’