The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “. . . dear . . .” added the tsar, a little tentatively.

  They all turned to stare as the girl flung her arms into the air. Alix screamed, Stana gasped, and Militza covered her mouth in horror. The small, white-faced child stood there, her face expressionless, her mouth impassive—but instead of eyes she had two deep black holes. It was as though they had been gouged out, leaving two dark, soulless pits. They all stared, terrified, not daring to breathe. And then she spoke. It was not the singsong voice of a child but a deep and low demonic growl that seemed to come from the very depths of hell.

  “The man who turns his back on God,” she snarled, facing each one of the assembled in turn with her empty black sockets, “looks the devil in the face!”

  She then turned and walked back into the shadows. Alix started to whimper and weep with fear, while Stana looked across at her sister, who in turn stared at Philippe, looking for some sort of explanation.

  “Well,” he began, rubbing his smooth hands together as he blinked rapidly behind his round, wire-rimmed spectacles, “the advice of a fallen angel, um, a very fallen angel, should not . . . not be taken too seriously. And as no one here has turned their back on the Lord, not one of us. No one has turned their back on God,” he repeated. “No one at all.” He paused and cleared his throat. “So . . . so I think we should simply ignore this.”

  Alix nodded in agreement and mumbled, “Yes. Ignore it.”

  “For the Lord moves in mysterious ways,” went on Philippe, growing in the confidence of his diagnosis.

  “Of course,” confirmed Peter.

  “And we all have faith,” agreed Stana.

  “Yes,” confirmed Nicholas. “All of us.”

  The only person to remain silent was Militza herself, who, as she picked up her small glass of claret, found it difficult to stop her hand from shaking. She glanced over at Peter; his gray eyes were fixed on her, his expression questioning. Militza looked at him and slowly and almost imperceptibly shook her head.

  THE INCIDENT WAS NOT MENTIONED AGAIN. HOWEVER, Philippe decided to avail the tsar of a small golden bell that would magically ring if an evil person were ever to approach him. Its sound was only audible to Maître Philippe himself, but the tsar insisted on taking it with him wherever he went, and with the political situation as it was, with increasing unrest in the countryside, one could never be too careful.

  The other thing Militza recalled from that period was Maître Philippe’s magic hat, which, when he wore it, would make not only him invisible but also those who traveled with him. She could not personally vouch for the efficacy of the cap, though, for the only time she bore witness to it was when she spotted her sister out in a carriage with the Monsieur, his hat firmly in place.

  “I saw you out driving with Maître Philippe this afternoon,” she mentioned to her sister later that evening over a glass of tea on the veranda.

  Stana looked rather puzzled. “But that is impossible!”

  “It is?”

  “Maître Philippe was wearing his magic hat, so neither of us was visible at all.” Militza raised her eyebrows. “He told me so himself.”

  “How strange,” said Militza.

  “Impossible,” confirmed Stana.

  “I must have been mistaken,” her sister replied.

  However, not one of Militza’s growing concerns about Philippe and his practices mattered much because one afternoon in October, as they were playing bezique in the tsarina’s Mauve Boudoir at Tsarskoye Selo, listening to little Olga learning to play the piano, Alix tentatively declared to Militza that she was with child again at last.

  Over the next few months, excitement in the court grew as the tsarina disappeared from view, removing her corset and putting on her customary dark velvet, loose-fitting gowns, declining all dinner invitations and refusing even to go to Grand Duchess Vladimir’s pre-Christmas bazaar. The tsar himself was abuzz with energy, and the news spread at speed across the empire. Letters of congratulations arrived from some of the farthest estates, and Militza’s mother sent a short telegram welcoming the good news. The sisters were delighted—their trust in Philippe had been vindicated—but no one was more delighted than the Countess Ignatiev, whose Black Salon was now so glamorously popular that anyone who had ever been to Dr. Badmaev’s apothecary was clamoring for an invitation. For if the tsar and his wife were embracing the black arts with seemingly magical results, then what better way to ingratiate oneself with the increasingly isolated couple than to try and follow suit?

  At the Palm Ball the following year, the tsarina’s good news was now visible for all her intimate circle to see, and Militza and Stana’s position at court was unassailable. When they arrived at the annual intimate gathering for five hundred of the most powerful and connected, resplendent in their couture dresses on the arms of their respective husbands, they caused a parting of the crowds.

  The Grand Duchess Vladimir was one of the first to approach. With a flutter of ostrich feathers and lace, she was at her friendliest and most beguiling best. She picked up a Sobranie cigarette from a crystal case, removed the band stamped with a doubled-headed eagle, and waited for a footman to light it.

  “Wonderful evening, don’t you think?” She smiled, exhaling a plume of gray-blue smoke and waving her fan in a futile attempt to ward off the claustrophobic heat of the ballroom. “Your friend from Lyon not here?”

  “Alas, no. He has more important things to do than attend parties,” declared Stana, with a tilt of her chin as she surveyed the Malachite Hall.

  “How foolish of me! A man of his talents, he must be off healing the sick somewhere . . .” She cleared her throat. “Tell me, will you be in Moscow this Easter?”

  “I am not sure,” replied Militza, acknowledging the half-bowed head of Baroness Buxhoeveden.

  “It depends on the empress,” added Stana, doing the same.

  “Of course,” concurred Maria Pavlovna.

  “Being so heavy with child, she may not want to travel,” continued Stana.

  “Indeed,” agreed Maria Pavlovna swiftly. “We all know how difficult it is for her to carry.”

  “Do we?” asked Militza, turning back and fixing her with a dark stare.

  “Some of us, obviously, are privy to much more than others, but her discomfort is well-known.” The grand duchess continued, hesitating a little, “Well-known in general, but to her exclusive intimates, I am sure there are many other secrets.”

  The woman began to blush, much to Militza’s pleasure. “Yes,” she confirmed with a small, self-satisfied smile. “There are many other secrets.”

  “May I?” interrupted the tall elegant figure of Nikolai Nikolayevich as he bowed his head and clicked his heels together, offering his hand to Stana. “I know how well you dance the polonaise.”

  She glanced briefly across towards George, who seemed to be engaging the attentions of a young tittering female over a glass of champagne. She exhaled furiously. Why not? Imperiously she took Nikolai Nikolayevich’s hand—and along with it the attention of the room. Why was she, a married woman, dancing so intimately with her brother-in-law? And as they danced through the hall, holding hands and bending their knees, the younger girls in their fresh white frocks, out at a dance for the very first time, could do little but stand to one side and stare, letting the more glamorous, powerful, and distinctly more fascinating couple through. In fact, the only person to turn their face away in a moment of overt irritation was the Dowager Empress, Maria Fyodorovna, who had long since given up being remotely cordial to either sister. Ever since she’d heard of the séances and the table-tipping evenings at Znamenka, she had ceased to accept their visit cards or invitations to afternoon tea at Annunciation Square.

  “Congratulations,” came the whispered, tobacco-tinged tones of Count Yusupov in Militza’s ear. The hatred in his voice was as cold and hard as the deepest Siberian winter, but Militza stood her ground, sipped her champagne, and instead of turning to face him, she continued to look ahead and smile r
igidly at the glittering swirl of dancers. “I hear you have made it into the bedchamber itself,” the count continued. “Collecting the morning pot, or so I am told.” He paused. “How very befitting.”

  “Believe what you wish,” she replied curtly, maintaining her gaze on the dance floor.

  “And your friend—or ‘Our Friend,’ as I gather he is now known—remains in the bedchamber all night, I hear? I suspect that special invisible hat of his must come in useful during the moment critique!” He chuckled.

  “Well, the tsarina is with child,” she hissed, turning at last to face him.

  “I didn’t think pregnancy was the problem. Just the lack of heir.”

  “This time I know it will be a boy.”

  He smiled. “You know? Or you pray? Or, more accurately, chant and dance with your devil, burning your herbs, crossing your little fingers, and hoping to triumph? Because if it is not a boy, if you and your friend fail, then what? Where will your little Black Circle of mystics, miracle workers, and gurus be then? If we have to welcome yet another girl? A tsar with four daughters? How useless is that? But then, one only needs to ask your father, he’d know all about it.”

  “It’s a fool who underestimates the power of a woman.” Militza turned back to face the dancers and took another sip of her champagne. She was determined not to let this puffed-up, florid dog of a man ruin her triumphant evening.

  “Perhaps,” he replied. “But it is also a fool who puts all her trust in a hairdresser from Lyon.”

  “He’s a doctor.”

  “He’s been arrested five times in France for practicing without a license.”

  “He can cure syphilis.”

  “With what?”

  “Psychic fluids and astral forces.”

  Count Yusupov laughed. “Those trifles may work in your salons and in the drawing rooms of your hysterical ladies, but in the real world, syphilis kills—and kills you very slowly. Your friend is no doctor, my lady. No doctor at all.”

  “I don’t see any of your doctors making a difference,” she replied. “I don’t see any of your doctors doing anything at all.”

  What was it about this man that he managed to get under her skin? What was it about this family that made them think their influence was superior and they were somehow above it all? After all, she was the one who had access to the tsar. Total, unadulterated access. No one could get to him without her approval. She and Stana were the gateway—they’d made sure of that. And their father could not have been more delighted. There was money for his barefoot soldiers in Montenegro, money for his roads, and Militza herself had paid for a shiny new water system in the capital, Cetinje. The Yusupovs would be forgotten when it came to write this chapter of history.

  She withdrew from his company and walked behind a porphyry column before searching in her silk bag for a small green bottle. It contained a cocaine-laced liquor that Dr. Badmaev had recently given to her to combat lethargy and nerves. She took a small swig and felt immediately rejuvenated. The consommé will soon be served, she thought, and the Yusupovs will soon be defeated. Everything shall be as it should be. All she needed was a boy.

  Chapter 11

  June 19, 1901, St. Petersburg

  MILITZA NEVER FORGOT THE MORNING SHE WOKE UP to the 101-gun salute. For the last two weeks of Alix’s confinement, both she and Stana had been almost continuously by the empress’s side. The increasingly hot and humid days under the long summer sun had been spent in a state of heightened and yet contented alert; they’d drunk tea, sewed samplers, and quietly waited for Alix’s waters to break. The confident assurances of Maître Philippe had meant the usual anxiety that surrounded the final days of the tsarina’s pregnancy had dissipated into a sort of balmy blissfulness. She was to have a boy, and hers and Russia’s problems would soon be over.

  So when Militza lay in bed that morning and heard the resounding silence following the 101st firing of the cannon over the Neva, her head began to swim, her heart began to race—and it was all she could do to reach the nearby pot in her bedroom before she vomited. Despite the bright sunshine outside, her teeth began to chatter. She could not understand how this could have happened. Philippe had been so sure, so confident. She had trusted him completely. So had Alix, and so, indeed, had the tsar. How could she and Stana ever come back from this? What would happen to their friendship with the tsarina? Their influence? Their power?

  She had to think—and she had to think at great speed before all that she had worked for, all that she had achieved, disappeared like sand through her quivering fingers. She pulled on her dressing gown and began to pace her bedroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in her gilt triple-paned dressing table mirror: she looked haunted, ashen-faced, and her long dark hair tumbled, unbrushed, over her white lace chemise. She was shocked by what she saw. She had been so certain. Tears welled in her black eyes. What could she do? There were no incantations to change the sex of a baby who had already been born, no spells to alter what had already come to pass. Where was her magic now? How could it have gone so wrong?

  There was a knock at her door, and Brana walked in holding a tray.

  “Oh, Brana!” she cried, rushing across her bedroom and throwing herself at the aged crone, collapsing onto her small hunched shoulders and inhaling the acidic smell of old sweat and garlic. “I can’t believe it! Where’s Peter?”

  “He left for his club early this morning,” replied the crone.

  “The tsarina has had another daughter!”

  “A fourth!”

  “What are we to do?” The old woman could offer little advice, but instead she stroked Militza’s hair, as she had done a thousand times before, muttering simple platitudes in her ear. Slowly, as Militza sat back on the bed, tears of frustration and humiliation trickling down her face, Brana poured her a cup of chamomile tea laced with laudanum and wild strawberry jam.

  “This will make you feel better.”

  “I am not sure if even one of your special drinks can make a difference,” she replied as she watched her old nursemaid replace the lid on her familiar blue glass bottle. “I am not sure how we can ever come back from this.”

  “You will come back from this,” said the crone. “You always have a plan.”

  IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE A SWEET LAUDANUM SLEEP CAME OVER her. Cradled in its soft opium embrace, Militza lay back and loosened her gown, relaxing in a seminaked state on the bed, feeling the gentle summer breezes flow over her exposed skin. Down she went, deep down into her disturbed subconscious, and the voices began: whispering, chastising, teasing, the faces, the tears, the cries, the longing, the desperation, Count Yusupov’s laughing eyes, the sneers of Grand Duchess Vladimir, the words “Goat Girl,” “Goat King,” all finally dissolving into the loud, painful screams of labor. She woke dramatically from her slumber to find her sister violently shaking her by the shoulders. Stana was fully dressed, and sunlight was streaming through the open window.

  “Wake up, wake up!”

  “What time is it?” mumbled Militza, gathering her white shift around her.

  “It has gone two o’clock in the afternoon!” declared Stana, her eyes wide with panic. “It’s the most appalling day of our lives, and you take one of Brana’s cocktails? What is wrong with you? We need to think! We need to act! We need to come up with a plan!”

  “I am sorry, I am sorry . . .” Militza roused herself as fast as she could. Clearly, Brana’s tea was stronger than she had thought. “Give me a minute, I shall be fine.”

  “Fine! I am not sure we shall ever be fine. It was all anyone was talking about on the English Embankment as I came over here. You can hear the whispering all the way along the park. You can almost hear the Vladimirs sniggering from here. We are lost. Our country is lost. Papa will never forgive us. Montenegro was relying on us for grain, for arms. The tsar promised Father forty thousand rifles—do you think he will give them to him now?”

  “The tsar will give Papa his rifles,” Militza stated quietly, buttoning
up her shift. “You have my word on that.”

  “Your word? What use is your word when Alix has had another daughter? We should have cracked an egg, done the test, then at least we would have known.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! That’s a parlor game, not something you can play with a tsarina!”

  “Have you spoken to Philippe? Philippe will know what to do,” declared Stana, pacing around the room. “Philippe always knows what to do.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, A SURPRISINGLY CALM-LOOKING PHILIPPE strode into the red salon at the Nikolayevsky Palace. The two sisters were sitting side by side on the button-backed divan, their backs straight, their hands on their laps as they awaited his explanation. But instead of any browbeating or hand-wringing, the diminutive guru from Lyon stood by the fireplace, placed his hand on the marble mantelpiece, and slowly shook his head.

  “She did not believe.”

  “But she did,” corrected Stana. “We all did.”

  “She did not believe . . . enough,” replied Philippe with a shrug. “Maybe she had doubts? Maybe she did not listen enough, maybe she didn’t believe with her heart? Monsieur Philippe never fails. Monsieur Philippe always succeeds.”

  The two sisters stared at him in silence. Was this the best he could do? Was that all he had to say? Stana had been expecting more. An idea, at the very least. Something to give them all hope, a scintilla of a chance against the growing clouds of jealous animosity that were gathering on the horizon.

  “Yes!” Militza agreed suddenly, standing up and starting to pace the room. Her sister looked at her a little surprised. “Monsieur Philippe never fails.” She nodded. “He always succeeds. He never fails. We never fail.” It was as if she were trying to convince herself. “The tsarina simply did not believe enough. It is that simple. One should always keep it very simple. She needs to try harder; she needs to submit entirely to Philippe’s will. To the will of God.”

  “I am glad you understand.” Philippe smiled, smoothing down his fecund mustache. “I have done nothing wrong. I am a man of my word. I have cured all my patients from many terrible diseases—and those I haven’t cured simply didn’t believe enough. Remember the other day when I calmed a storm while we were sailing on the Standart?”