The Witches of St. Petersburg

‘There!’ he said, deftly wielding a small silver hand mirror. ‘Perfect.’

Stana got out of her seat and turned to look at herself in a full-length mirror. The tiara, the French lace veil, the silver dress, her dark hair all curled and smooth; she barely recognized herself. She looked ethereal, a princess from a different time and place. She looked across at her sister whose eyes were full of tears.

‘You look beautiful,’ Militza whispered.

There was a knock at the door and Brana, the elderly nursemaid the sisters had insisted on bringing with them from Montenegro, shuffled in. Hunched, dressed in a loose knitted shawl, with her thick grey hair plaited across the top of her head, she was an unusual sight in these rarefied surroundings. The refined Monsieur Delacroix took a step back, even Natalya, the maid, left her mouth open. From the coastal city of Ulcinj, one of the pirate capitals of the Adriatic, she had been with the girls since their birth and had looked after their mother, Milena, before them.

‘Since your mama is not here… Roses,’ she said, holding out the tightly bound bridal bouquet. She spoke in Albanian. The hairdresser and the maid were at a loss to understand. ‘And myrtle,’ she added, with a wide, toothless smile. ‘The height of fashion since Queen Victoria’s wedding, or so I am told.’

‘Oh Brana! Thank you!’ Stana bent down to hug and kiss her fleshless cheek. ‘You always think of everything!’

Stana returned to the mirror. The bouquet was the finishing touch. Her heart stopped. The wedding was suddenly real and she felt sick to the pit of her stomach.

‘It’ll be all right.’ She spoke softly to her own reflection, her mouth dry with nerves.

‘Be a brave girl now,’ said Brana smiling at Stana. ‘Your mother,’ she continued, rootling around in a pocket in her skirts, ‘was engaged at six, married at thirteen when she was not yet a woman. It took her a full four years to produce. And look at her now…’ She smiled. ‘Eleven children.’ She handed a small blue bottle to Militza. ‘And another one on the way.’

‘Open your mouth,’ demanded Militza, taking a step towards her sister.

‘What is it?’ asked Stana doing just as she was told.

‘Laudanum.’ Militza squeezed the top of the glass pipette. ‘A few drops of bitterness and then you won’t feel a thing.’

*

It was around two thirty when they set off from Peterhof towards the Sergeyevsko Estate in an open carriage pulled by six bay horses and festooned with white roses. Militza travelled with her sister, as did a substantial guard of honour all dressed in their immaculate scarlet uniforms. Arriving at the white marble church at exactly 3 p.m., they were met by throngs of newsmen and the official court photographer as well as crowds of excited onlookers who had gathered from all the nearby estates.

‘God help me,’ mumbled Stana, turning her glazed eyes on the crowds and then back towards her sister. ‘God help us.’

The carriage drew to a halt and the crowd fell silent. In attendance were some six grand dukes dressed in full plumed military splendour, their golden buttons and epaulettes glinting in the strong afternoon sun. At six feet seven inches, Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevich, Militza’s recently acquired brother-in-law, certainly stood out from the crowd. His straight nose, his intelligent, sharp blue eyes and elegantly waxed moustache, made him a welcome sight in the sea of unfamiliar faces. He smiled encouragingly at the approaching bride.

‘Papa would be so proud,’ Militza whispered in her sister’s ear.

‘Help me,’ Stana muttered listlessly in reply.

Stana stood up in the carriage and swooned slightly. The drugs, the weight of the dress, the heat of summer. Militza gasped, as did some members of the crowd. Stana gripped on the side of the carriage to balance herself, her white hands shaking as she fumbled. Fortunately, Nikolai Nikolayevich was swift enough to catch Stana before she fell. He rushed forward, pushing aside a footman, slipping his hands firmly around her waist as her legs went from under her. He pulled her close to his chest and her head fell against his shoulder; she shivered as she tried to control herself. Breathing in deeply, all she could smell was the lemon sharpness of his cologne.

‘Thank you.’ Her lips parted in a dry smile. The smallest bead of sweat slithered down her temple.

‘Your Highness,’ he replied, holding her firmly at the elbows. ‘Do you need a glass of water?’

‘No need.’

‘A little air?’

Stana shook her head.

‘Don’t worry,’ he added, turning to address the anxious-looking Militza. ‘She just needs a moment. You go inside. I will look after her, I promise.’

Militza hesitated, she was late, she should go inside the church, but… She looked at him again.

‘I promise,’ he said, again, holding Stana a little more closely to his chest. ‘Go.’