The Witches of St. Petersburg

⁷ 17 December 1899, St Petersburg

Monday night was the most prestigious night to be invited to perch on the Countess Ignatiev’s elegant, raspberry-coloured velvet upholstery and enjoy the sweet wines, cakes and the latest and most glamorous guru in town. And, as she collected her pack of Marseilles cards from her dressing-table drawer and wrapped them carefully in her peach silk scarf, Militza felt a shiver of excitement. The thrice-weekly Black Salons were always exciting, but this Monday was going to be different. Tonight, Countess Ignatiev had promised her someone special, someone very special indeed.

Walking into the large dimly lit drawing room, packed with usual princes, diplomats and divorcees, Militza was met by a rather overexcited Countess Ignatiev.

‘There you are!’ she exclaimed loudly, clapping her hands together and then clutching at her ample bosom. ‘At last! You’re late!’ Sophia Ignatiev was nothing if not dramatic. ‘Darling, there are so many people waiting for you to read for them. We almost have a queue! Here, here,’ she repeated, bustling Militza through the party to a corner where she had placed a marble and gilt card table, covered with a fringed gypsy scarf and two heavy armchairs. ‘Is this all right?’ She smiled, holding her arm out. ‘I was trying to make it as mystical as possible.’

‘It’s perfect!’ agreed Militza, for she was very fond of the Countess.

Sitting down at her table, Militza carefully took out her peach scarf and unwrapped her cards.

‘May I?’ came a familiar voice, as a bronzed hand placed a small clay hash pipe on the table.

‘Dr Badmaev!’ Militza immediately leapt out of her chair to embrace him.

A Buryat by birth, Shamzaran Badmaev (also known as Peter) had grown up on the steppes of Siberia and trained with the monks of Tibet. He was a master of Asiatic medicine and Tibetan apothecary, with a worldwide reputation. Along with his brother, Zaltin, they owned the most auspicious ‘chemist’ in St Petersburg, capable of curing the most stubborn and pernicious of maladies. There wasn’t an infusion, herb or tincture he did not know. His laboratory behind his shop off the Fontanka, was a veritable Aladdin’s cave of delights. Militza had once been very privileged to pay him a visit and even to her expert eye, many of the bottles and bags and powders were completely incomprehensible.

‘How are you?’ He smiled, kissing her three times, his narrow eyes fizzing with an extraordinary energy. There were many in St Petersburg who thought Dr Badmaev was a spiritual master and Militza was one of them.

‘Well,’ she replied, as they both sat down.

‘You look well.’ He nodded and then patted his pocket. ‘I have what you asked for.’

‘You have?’ Militza’s eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘My friend will be so pleased.’

He pulled a small envelope out of his loose-fitting trousers and handed it over to her. ‘There is ashoka flower for sadness and grief, black lotus essence for rebirth and mandrake—’

‘Mandrake?’

‘I have a hermit woman who’s collected it for me for years. She lives in the forests outside Irkutsk, at the crossroads where they used to hang men for stealing horses. There is an abundance of hanged men’s seed in the ground around there and the mandrakes are plentiful.’

‘How does she harvest it without hearing it scream?’ asked Militza, handing him over the pack of cards to shuffle.

‘She was born deaf.’

Militza nodded and smiled appreciatively. ‘Do you have a question for the cards?’

‘Only the question that is on everyone’s lips.’ Militza looked at him quizzically, as he expertly mixed up the pack. ‘The succession?’

Militza’s heart leapt; she glanced quickly around the room to check that no one else had heard. The succession was, of course, the question on everyone’s lips: three pregnancies and the Tsarina had yet to produce anything but daughters; people were beginning to say that she was cursed. Her poor Russian language skills didn’t help and neither did her inability to understand the importance of the court, but to hear it voiced out loud was not only shocking, it was dangerous.

‘Hush,’ she said, taking back the cards and clutching them close to her breast.

‘Don’t tell me you aren’t curious? And haven’t you asked the same question yourself several times over in the comfort of your peach boudoir?’ He smiled, nodding for her continue. ‘Go on…’

She watched him cut the cards with his left hand before she laid them out in formation. She turned over the first card. ‘Ah. The High Priestess… of course,’ she said, moving the card dexterously through her fingers. ‘Wisdom, sound judgement, foresight and intuition.’

‘I have also added some black henbane, so tell our friend that if she has hallucinations, or sensations of flying, she’s not a witch but should decrease the dose immediately.’ He chuckled to himself.

Militza turned over the next card. ‘The Star… Hope. Effort. Faith. Inspiration…’

‘Otherwise she should have a teaspoon in warm water every day,’ continued the doctor. ‘And her husband should always mount her from the right. If he mounts from the left she will have another girl. Is that understood?’

Militza nodded, slowly turning over a new card. ‘So, a teaspoon?’

‘Every day.’

They both looked down at the card. ‘The Wheel of Fortune… Destiny. Fate.’

‘The cards are being very accurate tonight,’ concluded Badmaev.

‘They always are. No matter how many times you ask them the same question, they will always come out the same.’ She picked another and turned it over.

‘The Ace of Cups,’ he said, staring. Look! There you go – fertility and joy!’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Fertility and joy.’ She placed the small envelope very carefully into her silver-thread evening bag and looked back down at the card. ‘But upside down.’

‘Upside down,’ he repeated. They both stared disappointedly at the card. ‘So, the antithesis is true?’

‘Yes.’ Picking the card up, she turned it round in her slim fingers. She sat back in her chair and sighed.

‘But for how long?’ asked Badmaev. ‘How long exactly will the antithesis be true?’

‘Time is not something that Spirit understands,’ said Militza. ‘You know that.’

‘But the wait…’

‘The wait is unbearable,’ she whispered. ‘It is agony. And it eats away at her soul.’

‘Do you mind if I take my turn?’ came a familiar, unpleasant voice.

‘Count Yusupov!’ declared Dr Badmaev leaping out of his seat, swiftly picking up the cards. ‘Of course! We were just finishing…’

Before Militza could say a word of protest Dr Badmaev had vacated his seat for the Count. ‘My dear,’ he said, leaning forward and firmly gripping Militza’s wrist with his sweaty hand. ‘How very charming to see you again.’

‘Count Yusupov,’ she replied, staring at his painful, plump fingers. ‘I didn’t think this was your sort of salon. A little beneath you?’

‘Needs must, my dear. And anyway, I have heard the Tsar likes this sort of thing. Apparently, it is all the rage!’

Militza looked down. ‘If you continue to grip me so fiercely, I will not be able to deal the cards.’ Her black eyes shone with fury.

‘I have no interest in your frivolities,’ he replied, leaning closer and licking his lips.

‘People are beginning to stare,’ she hissed. He loosened his grip but leant further across the table.

‘A small bird tells me that you and your sister have penetrated right to the heart of the palace,’ he began, raising a large eyebrow.

‘Which palace?’ smiled Militza, shuffling the cards. ‘There are so many in this city.’

‘Don’t play coy with me, Goat Girl!’ he spat; a small splash of saliva landed on Militza’s cheek. She slowly closed her eyes and wiped it away with her finger.

‘Shuffle,’ she said, handing him the cards.

He looked at the cards suspiciously, but he inhaled and began to shuffle. ‘People don’t like you. They don’t like you and they don’t like your sinister little sister; most of all, they don’t like your little girl games.’

‘My little girl games?’ repeated Militza furiously taking the cards back and snapping down three of them.

‘Games,’ he repeated. ‘This rubbish!’ He gestured dismissively towards the card table. ‘They want you to desist.’

‘Or what?’ asked Militza turning the three cards over.

‘Or—’

‘Death,’ she said, looking down at the table. ‘Ten of Swords.’ She paused, taking in the image of a hunched young man with ten daggers firmly planted in his back. ‘The King of Swords.’ Militza stared down at the cards. She pushed her chair away slightly. She had never seen anything quite like this before.

‘What?’ demanded Felix, staring at the cards. ‘What? Tell me!’ His face was growing darker, his heart was beating faster. What was the witch hiding?

‘It’s just little girls’ games,’ she whispered.

‘Girls’ games,’ the Count repeated. ‘I have nothing to fear.’

She sighed and looked down at the table, avoiding his gaze. Uncontrollably one tear ran swiftly down her cheek and she deftly swept it aside with her index finger. It was unlike her to feel so emotional, but she had seen something, something terribly sad indeed.

‘Your son,’ she said quickly, not looking up.

‘I have two sons,’ he replied, slowly getting out of his chair.

‘Two?’ she asked, sounding puzzled. She looked at the cards and then looked across at the Count. ‘Well, look after them,’ she bluffed, hurriedly clearing the cards away. ‘Both of them…’

‘And this is Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna,’ interrupted the Countess Ignatiev. ‘I am sorry, Count.’ She smiled at Yusupov.

‘I was just leaving,’ he replied, getting to his feet hurriedly.

‘Here’s the someone I am dying for you to meet,’ continued the Countess, bubbling with excitement.

Militza turned and caught her breath. Before her stood a young, heavily bearded priest, swathed from head to foot in a long black hooded cape. Under the cape, his floor-length black robes were emblazoned with a large golden Orthodox cross. His hooded black silhouette was an arresting sight amongst the gold and raspberry velvet of the salon. He looked like the grim reaper himself. Militza stood up.

‘This is Father Egorov,’ announced Sophia. ‘He has come all the way from the Optina Pustyn Monastery to be with us.’

‘Optina Pustyn,’ repeated Militza; its highly devout and austere reputation was well known.

‘Where Dostoyevsky went before writing The Brothers Karamazov.’ Sophia smiled encouragingly.

‘I know it,’ replied Militza, staring intently at the monk, waiting for him to speak, trying to work out what his intentions were.

‘My friend, Prince Obolensky, has an estate not far from the monastery, near Kozelsk. Dreadful place,’ continued Sophia, taking a swing from her glass of champagne. ‘Nothing to do but hunt in the miserable forest. But he heard this amazing story about a holy fool called Mitya Koliaba who makes prophecies. Only recently he predicted that a local countess would have a baby. And Father Egorov is the only person who understands Mitya and his predictions.’ She smiled. ‘Mitya is a mute epileptic.’

‘What baby did the barren woman have?’ asked Militza, wondering why the Fates had brought this man before her.

‘A son.’

‘And you can understand the epileptic?’

‘I prayed before the Icon of St Nicholas and the voice of the saint came to me and revealed to me the secret of Mitya’s sounds,’ Father Egorov mumbled into his lengthy beard.

‘You understand every word?’ she asked. The monk bowed again. ‘And his prophecies are reliable?’

‘As God is my witness,’ he replied.