The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  Finally, they came to a halt back in the Nicholas Hall. The procession broke up and the dancing began. The tsar was first to choose a partner, the middle-aged wife of a member of the diplomatic corps. Meanwhile Alexandra was forced to dance the quadrille with the woman’s rotund husband. Peter took hold of his wife, placing his hand around her waist as the orchestras at each end of the enormous hall began to play.

  “I am not sure your little move has been much appreciated,” muttered Peter. “Half the eyes of the room are upon you.”

  “Really?” replied Militza, pretending not to care. “And the other half are on my sister.” They both looked across at Stana, who, dressed in pale pink, was surrounded by a small troop of young officers waiting to take her hand.

  “I am not sure the other ladies look too pleased,” suggested Peter.

  “Nor indeed does your brother,” retorted Militza, noticing the tall figure of Nikolasha brooding slightly by an orange tree.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” declared Peter. “Your sister is a married woman.”

  AFTER THE FOURTH QUADRILLE, THE ORCHESTRAS STRUCK UP A mazurka and Peter immediately took his leave. Not the most coordinated of dancers, he had ripped his wife’s expensive Worth dress with his spurs at the last party, and she had vowed never to dance the mazurka with him again. Relieved to be spared, Militza leaned against a marble pillar and searched for the tsar among the swirl of dancers. Instead, she spotted her sister on the other side of the hall, dancing with the tsar’s younger brother. Militza smiled; if only her father were here to witness this, Stana in the arms of the tsarevich, Grand Duke Georgie, who looked so very handsome as he swooped up and down on one knee. Papa would surely toast Stana with a glass of the sweet apricot rakia that he was so fond of.

  “May I?” came a voice from behind her that made Militza jump slightly. She turned to see the unmistakable thick mustache of Count Felix Yusupov.

  “May you what?” asked Militza, somewhat confused.

  The count did not reply, but merely gripped her hand a little too fiercely as he led her to the dance floor. Militza wanted to resist, but she feared causing a scene—something Count Yusupov knew perfectly well, of course. He said not one word to her as he spun and swirled her this way and that, maneuvering her into the middle of the room. The more Militza tried to pull away, the tighter his grip became.

  “You probably think you are very clever,” he whispered as he held her firmly against his chest. He smelled of vodka and tobacco. “Getting so close in the line behind the tsar and tsarina.”

  “Not at all,” she replied, her mouth a little dry.

  “I saw you pushing in.” Militza attempted to say something, but he pulled her in tighter. “I don’t know what pushy little ideas you have, trying to befriend the new tsar, but let me be the first to warn you: we don’t like trespassers here.” He held her so tightly against him now and whispered so forcefully in her ear that she could feel the brush of his lips against her skin.

  “No,” she whispered in agreement.

  “Some of us belong to families that have been here for hundreds of years—we have earned our places, our titles, and the tsar’s patronage.” His fingertips were boring into her waist and her shoulders. She could feel her own skin bruising.

  “Doesn’t your family have more riches than the imperial family? You own lands the size of France!” Militza attempted to laugh lightly, trying to flatter the man.

  “It’s not about money, you foolish Goat Girl!” His mouth was now so close to hers, their lips were almost touching and she could taste his acrid breath. “It’s about power! Influence is power and power is influence. You pull a trick like that again, and you will understand what real power is.”

  Finally, the music stopped and the old count released her; he clicked his heels, bowed his head, and walked away. Militza could hardly breathe, her chest and throat were so tight. It took her a few moments to gather herself together enough to walk through the crowd. The music started up again, and the couples in the packed ballroom began to dance once more. Militza was left to weave her way through them like a street drunk who’s imbibed too much.

  “I SAW YOU DANCING WITH COUNT YUSUPOV,” COMMENTED Peter when she approached her husband.

  “Yes,” replied Militza, her hands shaking.

  “An odd person.” Peter sucked on the end of his cigarette. “I’m not sure I like him much. She’s the one with the title and all the money. He’s from nowhere—and that’s never good for a man. Poor chap, I think that’s what makes him so charmless. Are you all right, darling?” Peter looked at her suddenly. “You look a little pale.”

  “I think I just need some air.”

  It was all Militza could do to stop herself from running towards the open side door. But once through, she let out a loud sob as she fell against a window. Tears of anger, fear, and indignation poured down her cheeks. She had been so stupid! Overcome with ambition and giddy at the sight of the tsar, she had made a foolish mistake. What she had done was reckless. And she was not the reckless type. It was Stana who rushed in regardless. Not her. What had she been thinking? Had Yusupov seen the ambition in her eyes? She must be more careful next time, must play a longer, smarter game. She was too clever, too talented, to be caught out that easily.

  The windowpane felt cool against her hot forehead. Militza dried her tears and then suddenly caught a glimpse of herself in the glass. Her white skin, her black hair, and her ruby necklace and tiara were reflected back at her. She was not a woman to be defeated. She would use all that her mother had given her to make her father proud. If Count Yusupov wanted an easy victory, then he had picked on the wrong woman. She looked at herself again, and this time her deep black eyes shone back at her, brooding and burning. Her pupils quivered as they began to dilate, and the fine hairs on her arms stood on end. What? She desperately needed a second chance. But so soon?

  A pitter-patter of tiny feet came running up the corridor. Militza turned around. And there she was: a little girl with pretty blond curls and a pale blue bow in her hair.

  “My goodness!” said Militza, bending down, a smile on her face. “You should be in bed!” The little girl giggled and fluffed up her white party dress. “What’s your name?”

  “May,” said the little girl, dancing from one foot to the other.

  “How old are you, May?”

  “Four,” laughed the little girl, holding up four fingers on her chubby little hand; then she turned and started to skip along the moonlit corridor, singing.

  “Where is your mummy, May?” called Militza.

  “My mummy’s dead,” came her reply.

  “Who are you talking to?” asked a voice.

  Militza looked up to see the young tsarina as she stepped out of the shadows and shimmered in the moonlight. Militza quickly swooped into a deep and graceful curtsy.

  “Your Imperial Majesty,” she said. “I am Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna.”

  “Good evening,” replied Alexandra with a small smile. In the half-light and away from the intense heat and scrutiny of the ball, the empress appeared calm, controlled—and certainly more beautiful. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Oh, it was just a little girl. A little girl who very definitely should be in bed!”

  “What was her name?” The tsarina fiddled with her fan as Militza stared into her blue eyes.

  “She said her name was May.”

  “May?”

  The sound of a child’s running footsteps echoed farther down the long dark corridor.

  “May! Is that you?” the empress turned and shouted, her hollow voice reverberating against the walls. “Little Marie? Are you there?”

  “Wherever she is, she should be asleep.” Militza laughed gently, looking up the corridor towards the noise. “It is long past her bedtime.”

  “She is asleep,” replied the empress starkly. “Fast asleep. She has been lying in the ground for a long while now.” She turned to look at Militza. “Ma
y has been dead for eighteen years.”

  Chapter 5

  February 1896, Znamenka, Peterhof

  SO SHE SENT WORD, JUST AS MILITZA HAD ALWAYS KNOWN 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 country 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 Militza 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 coiffure 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, now almost four years old, was asleep upstairs, and 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:

  Sabba pāpassa akaranan,

  Kusalassa upasampadā,

  Sacitta pariyō dapanan,

  Etan Buddhānasāsanan

  Her lips moved in a well-practiced 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 inside herself, 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 inquired 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 paneled 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 smoldering 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, the tsar and tsarina sat on either side of Militza, 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 “Good-Bye.” 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.” Alexandra nodded, 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. She felt his soft skin. 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 under her breath.