The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “Nicky?” Stana frowned.

  “Sent for us?” asked Philippe.

  “Yes, you see I had a terrible dream!” declared Alix.

  “A dream?” Stana was bewildered.

  “Arrested? In front of all those people? For a dream?” asked Philippe, looking from Stana to Militza. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious.

  “You weren’t arrested,” Alix said, laughing. She looked from one to the other, appearing feverish, her skin shining with sweat and her lips pale. “Nicky only asked them to fetch you! How silly. Oh, how silly everything is.” She laughed again. “But I just had to tell you my dream, it was so terrible and I need your help. So . . .” She clapped her hands together.

  “What was your dream?” asked Militza, her dark eyes narrowing.

  “Oh, it was terrible!” Alix shook her head.

  She walked back into the bedchamber, indicating that they should follow. She climbed back into her bed and, drawing her knees up under her chin, went on to explain she felt as if she had been visited by an evil spirit.

  “It stood,” she said, “at the end of the bed. It was tall, much taller than a man but was the shape of a man. It was wearing a black hooded cape like Santa Muerte and it carried a baby. But the baby was tiny and red and covered in blood and it was screaming, it wouldn’t stop screaming. The man was doing nothing to stop the screaming and all the time the blood dripped out of the baby and landed on the floor there”—she pointed—“at the foot of the bed. And then it laid the baby on the bed, still covered in blood and screaming. I leaned forward to comfort it, to stroke it, to stop it from screaming, and it turned into a snake and slithered away, leaving a trail of blood behind it. By then I was screaming so loudly in my sleep that I woke Nicky and some of the servants, I was shaking and covered in sweat—I couldn’t stop shaking and I went to be sick, but there was nothing to throw up, so I retched and retched until eventually I had no strength in me, but still I cried and shook, so Nicky offered to send for you.”

  Just then Nicky appeared at the doorway. “There is nothing to worry about, is there? It was just a dream?”

  “But all dreams have meaning,” replied Philippe, sitting on the end of Alix’s bed, taking charge. “Just as all illness is the soul’s memory from a past life. The soul is much older than the body and, as such, we return to this world to pay our debts, because everything has to be paid for. To heal the sick, you have to ask God to forgive your faults, and at the same time the soul is strengthened and the body is healed.”

  “I knew you’d understand. I knew you would know,” replied Alix, staring at Philippe, a smile curling her lips. “You always understand.”

  “In the heart is the thought, in the brain is the reflection of that thought. Thought is distinct from reasoning; a thought is a direct penetration into the light.” He smiled and patted the back of her hand.

  “The light . . .” Alix nodded in agreement.

  “But what does it mean?” asked Nicky.

  “It means—” Philippe began.

  “It means that you are pregnant,” interrupted Militza. “The baby is small and not yet full of blood, so it must be nurtured, it must be succored, fed with blood.”

  “I knew it!” beamed Nicky. “I knew it!”

  “A baby . . .” Alix smiled and rubbed her flat stomach. “I do feel pregnant.”

  “And this time,” said Philippe, “you will trust me and trust in God and it will be a boy. The son that all of Russia wants.”

  “Yes! A son. The son that Russia wants,” confirmed Militza.

  “And this time,” Alix said, smiling broadly, “there will be no Dr. Ott. No doctors at all. Apart from my very own Dr. Philippe and his beautiful Montenegrin nurses.”

  Chapter 14

  August 1902, Lower Dacha, Peterhof

  FOR THE NEXT NINE MONTHS MILITZA, STANA, AND Dr. Philippe rarely left her side. After a short spell at Tsarskoye Selo, the imperial family—including the newly appointed Dr. Philippe, complete with military epaulets indicative of his recently elevated position—moved to the Lower Dacha, Peterhof.

  The moderately sized villa, right on the Gulf of Finland, was the most informal of all the palaces. The rooms, recently refurbished by Roman Meltzer, though a veritable temple to the new and highly fashionable art nouveau style, were pokey and cluttered and, frankly, just as Alix liked them. With her newly engaged Montenegrin nurses and her French doctor living very nearby at Znamenka, she spent her days quietly reading, walking, paddling, dozing, or attempting to feed the free-flying hummingbirds that darted around the glassed-in tropical winter garden. While Stana’s and Militza’s children traveled back and forth between their palace and the Lower Dacha, filling their days with lessons and exercise, the little grand duchesses did the same. Olga, under the instruction of her music tutor, could occasionally be heard practicing on the cream-colored piano in the tsar’s reception room, while Tatiana was engaged in lessons with her nanny, Margaretta Eagar, and the “littles” were left to play in the expansive gardens with Orchie or sometimes escorted, parasols in hand, across the rocks and onto the nearby beach.

  This was not a palace where Alix and Nicky received. The dining room, with its blue walls and cream-colored curtains embroidered with blue poppies, was far too small for official dinners, and the reception room, despite the piano and the tall vases replete with white flowers, was not formal enough for any but the most intimate guests. So they lived there, without interruption, social obligation, or indeed ceremony, much like members of the petite bourgeoisie in a comfortable but not particularly ostentatious dacha.

  Alix was never happier than she was at the Lower Dacha. She had given birth to both Maria and Anastasia in the upstairs bedroom there, surrounded by family photographs. And given the importance of this confinement—the fact that she was most certainly carrying the heir, the future of all Russia—she had little more to do now than wait, sew, read, talk, lie on the veranda, relax on the wicker chaise, drink morning coffee, and listen to the waves and the children playing downstairs.

  These were halcyon days, and slowly but surely, as Alix’s waistline increased, so did her sense of contented satisfaction. She and Militza had never felt so close. She blamed it on her hormones, but the more Militza was there to rub oil into her tired calves and thighs, the more Alix enjoyed the way the Montenegrin’s hands moved inside her legs. How delightful their secret afternoons were, spent in soft, tender caresses and furtive coupling. Militza’s determined fingers were as magic as her swift, loving tongue, and the rosacea, the awkwardness, her social nervousness, her inability to understand the comings and goings at court, all faded into the background. She had her close friends and husband by her side, and Alix cared little for anything else. Nicky rarely ventured away from the palace; invitations were refused, parties were eschewed, and visitors were few and far between.

  By day they relaxed, taking luncheon at one and afternoon tea at four, after which they would always dine with Dr. Philippe and either Stana or Militza or both and talk long into the night about spiritualism, or indulge in palmistry and tarot, while Dr. Philippe would tell them stories of his close friend Papus, otherwise known as Gérard Encausse, who had founded a new Martinist Order, which he, Philippe, was particularly interested in.

  “It is so exciting and enlightening,” he said over dinner, taking a large sip of wine. “The light we all carry within ourselves drives the shadows of the night away, and the inner sun rises from the darkness.” He paused to look out at the moonlit sea beyond the dining room window. “You are Man,” he enthused, turning to stare into Nicky’s pale blue eyes. “Never forget that you are the manifestation of human dignity. Respect this noble heritage, for that is your first and foremost task upon the earth.”

  “I have spent my whole life respecting my noble heritage,” replied Nicky. “Have you any idea how suffocating that is? To be forced to rule, torn away from the bosom of your family?”

  “It is your human dignity you
should be thinking about,” declared Philippe, with an ebullient wave of his hand.

  “But what if the heritage gets in the way of the dignity?” Nicky lit a cigarette and looked at Philippe.

  “All journeys are personal, that’s what the Martinists believe. And Jesus is the Repairer. Through Jesus all things can be achieved.”

  “So Martinism is a part of Christianity?” asked Alix, sounding a little relieved.

  “Most certainly,” assured Philippe. “We are esoteric Christians.”

  Nicky nodded and smoked. “I think it sounds very interesting, you must introduce me to your Papus if he comes to St. Petersburg.”

  “Like the Golden Dawn, I am presuming it is theurgy based? Using rituals? Seeing magic in nature?” asked Militza.

  “Honestly, Militza,” Alix said, laughing, “sometimes I don’t understand where you learn all these things!”

  “They are both equally tolerant of woman,” concluded Philippe.

  “I have been reading the works of Hermes Trismegistus,” said Militza.

  “And learning to read the stars as a way to oneness—henosis,” added Stana.

  “As you know, I am also a follower! Hermetic medicine, astrology, alchemy, magic. Are you hoping to open a lodge in St. Petersburg?” asked Philippe.

  “All in good time. As Hermes Trismegistus said: ‘The punishment of desire is the agony of unfulfillment,’” Militza said, laughing, as she looked across at Alix, whose lips twitched briefly into a smile.

  “Indeed,” agreed Nicky, picking up a small clay pipe and filling it with some of Dr. Badmaev’s hashish. “And we’ve all had our fair share of that.”

  IT WAS TOWARDS THE MIDDLE OF AUGUST—ON THE sixteenth—while Philippe was out taking some air on the beach, when Nicky called both Militza and Stana to his office. Despite the good weather and his wife’s advanced confinement, he looked pale. Sitting at his expansive desk, surrounded by walnut paneling, he drummed his fingers lightly atop a large cream-colored folder as he looked out to sea. He was clearly deep in thought.

  “Sit,” he said, not bothering to look at either of them, indicating two Moroccan leather chairs. Militza glanced across at her sister. This did not look good. Did he know about the afternoons she spent with his wife? “So,” he said, slowly turning around, “it seems my mother, or rather the Okhrana, has been to Paris.”

  “What are the secret police doing in Paris?” asked Stana, her back straight, her hands clasped anxiously on her lap. Militza touched her arm, indicating she should be quiet.

  “And it seems that they—or, indeed, she—have compiled a little report.”

  “A report?” asked Militza.

  “It seems,” he continued, “that Our Friend is a little bit of a fraud.”

  “No!” replied Militza, shaking her head, her heart pounding.

  “Absolutely not!” added Stana. “He cured Roman last summer.”

  “Yes,” agreed Militza. “My son had whooping cough and he came and it went away.”

  “He can cure syphilis,” asserted Stana.

  “I know,” he agreed, wearily. “I am not sure what I find more disappointing, my mother’s duplicitousness or the fact the Okhrana actually carried out her instructions over my head.”

  “It is terrible,” said Militza.

  “Not as bad as the things written in here. That he’s lied, cheated, that he’s a charlatan, that he’s impersonated a doctor and practiced without a license.”

  “But he was highly recommended! He was introduced by a dear friend of mine,” insisted Militza.

  “I know, I know.” Nicky nodded. “And he calmed the storm when we were on the Standart.”

  “Yes!” agreed Stana. “I remember feeling how lucky we felt to have him on board.”

  Nicky smiled. “So very lucky.”

  “And he’s been such a good friend to us, he is ‘Our Good Friend,’” said Militza. “And also, you are about to have your son.”

  “Yes.” He nodded, exhaling slowly, as he pondered. “I am forced to believe—but it is not me I worry for. It is Alix.”

  “Why?” asked Stana. “She is soon to produce an heir and all her problems will be over.”

  “Her problems are immense,” said Nicky, as if talking to himself. “There are rumors at court that I am to divorce her. Much like Napoleon did Josephine when she failed to produce an heir after fourteen years of trying. And we are only in our eighth year.”

  “Eight long years,” agreed Stana, a little too enthusiastically.

  “So this report,” Nicky said, suddenly steeling himself, “I shall dismiss it. I shall dismiss it out of hand, and just to make sure my mother realizes I don’t believe a word of it, I shall dismiss the agent, or agents, who prepared it. That way, there is no misunderstanding as to how I feel.”

  “Yes,” agreed Militza, with a firm nod of the head.

  “And Alix shall be told nothing,” added Stana.

  “My wife will not hear a thing.”

  “What shall I not hear?” asked Alix as she wandered into the office, dressed in a white floating robe, her fecund pregnant belly protruding before her. “I came to see if you wanted fresh lemonade, but now I am intrigued! What secrets?”

  “No secrets, my love,” replied Nicky as he got out of his chair.

  “I do so hate it when you lie,” replied Alix. “I can always tell, you know I can.” She began to walk towards the desk. “What little secrets?” she teased, smiling.

  “Nothing,” Nicky replied.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Honestly. Nothing. Leave it alone.”

  “Don’t be so mean,” she said childishly as she swayed towards the desk.

  “GET AWAY!” Nicky shouted, pulling her back from his desk, but as he did so, her sleeve caught the corner of the Okhrana files, sending leaves of paper and photographs floating to the floor.

  The tsar was the first on his knees, scrabbling about on the rug, picking up the documents as quickly as he could.

  “Oh, look, that’s Philippe?” said Alix, more than a little curious. “Is that a police report? Has he been arrested?”

  It was too late. Despite her size and condition, Alix sank slowly to the floor. Surrounded by paper, she slowly picked each one up and examined it, if only briefly, before letting it drop from her limp hand.

  “Oh, my darling,” she said eventually, her huge blue eyes looking up from the floor, “say it is not true.”

  “It is not true,” repeated Nicky, with the brightest of smiles. “How can it be? Look at you! You are pregnant. Pregnant with our son!”

  “Yes,” she sobbed, “I am.”

  “I am getting rid of the file, I am getting rid of the man who wrote the file,” he said, bending down towards her and offering her his hand.

  “Yes,” she nodded, sniffing. “Let’s get rid of them.” She took his hand. “Let’s get rid of them all, including the person who commissioned the investigation.”

  “Yes,” agreed Nicky. “Let’s get rid of them all.”

  It was only when he pulled her up off the floor that they all saw what had happened.

  “Blood!” stated Stana.

  “A pool,” whispered Militza.

  “Someone get Dr. Philippe,” said Alix as she swooned into her husband’s arms.

  IT TOOK SEVERAL MINUTES TO CARRY ALIX UPSTAIRS AND place her in the blue-and-white bedroom. Militza propped up her listless marble-white face with pillows while Stana went to find Dr. Philippe, commanding the servants to fetch water, towels, and Brana. There was chaos and shouting and the sound of running feet as panic spread through the palace; everyone had been caught completely off guard.

  The first to arrive was Dr. Philippe. Flushed and fresh from the beach, his face was bright pink, and he was sweating and short of breath.

  “How is the patient?” he huffed as he arrived at the top of the stairs, running his thumbs around his tight, damp trouser waistband. “Has her time come?”

  “There’s blood,�
� replied Militza, whispering with concern. “Quite a lot of it.”

  “Oh! Blood is like vomit,” he replied boldly. “There always looks like more than there actually is.”

  “She’ll be all right, won’t she?” asked Nicky.

  “She has done it a few times before,” declared Philippe. “I am sure she’ll be fine. God is looking after her.”

  “I know, but it is always such a dangerous time. What it is to be a woman.” Nicky sighed, his brow furrowed with anxiety. “And I do love her so very much.”

  Dr. Philippe patted the back of Nicky’s hand and then entered the brightly lit room. The afternoon sun was pouring in through the open curtains, and the seagulls were screaming outside.

  “There, there,” said Philippe as he sat himself down on the edge of her bed. He took hold of Alix’s cold, damp hand. “How are you feeling?”

  Alix opened her eyes; her mouth was dry, and she was clearly in some pain. “Well,” she said quietly, “all will be well now that you are here.”

  “Do you feel that it is time?” asked Philippe, his hands on the edge of the sheets, preparing to pull them back.

  “Not yet,” replied Alix, wincing slightly.

  Suddenly there was a loud bustle and commotion down in the hall and the sound of footsteps bounding up the stairs.

  “Dr. Ott? Dr. Girsh?” said Militza, standing between the two agitated middle-aged gentlemen and the bedchamber. “Why on earth are you here?”

  “We were called,” Dr. Ott replied smartly. “As the court physician I am expected to attend every imperial birth.”

  “We have been standing by for the last ten days at Peterhof, waiting to be summoned,” added Dr. Girsh, the slimmer of the two, with significantly more hair.

  “And who summoned you?” asked Militza.

  “I did,” came a voice from the bottom of the stairs.

  They all turned to see the nanny Margaretta Eagar standing somewhat stiffly at the bottom of the stairs. Dressed in a simple gray frock and a white frilled apron, her reddish-blond hair piled high on the top of her head, she had a defiantly determined look in her small piercing blue eyes. Militza looked down on her from the landing. She had never liked this bossy former matron of an orphanage in Belfast, whose Limerick accent was so thick, even a fluent English speaker like Militza struggled to understand her.