The Witches of St. Petersburg

In fact, he was sitting in the red salon, smoking a cigarette, leafing through a copy of What Is To Be Done? by Leo Tolstoy, having just returned from a luncheon. His face lit up as she walked into the room.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked, getting out his chair to embrace her. His question was not accusatory, but his eyes were enquiring.

‘Just been upstairs to check on Marina,’ said Militza, with a little wave of her hand.

‘But the nurse said she’s been out in her perambulator all afternoon.’

‘Did she?’ Militza frowned. ‘She’s mistaken. We have just been up to see Marina.’ Militza turned and smiled at Stana.

‘And what a sweet fat thing she is too,’ replied Stana.

‘Elegant fat thing,’ corrected Peter, flicking his ash into a small silver tray. ‘Soon to be just elegant – oh, and extremely intelligent; fortunately, she has her mother’s attributes.’ He smiled. ‘Are you well, Stana?’ he asked.

Peter was extremely fond of his sister-in-law, only he wished she’d spend a little more time in that rented mansion of theirs on Sergeivskaya Street, for it was rare for him to find his wife alone.

‘Just as well as I was yesterday,’ she said, smiling.

‘Is George still angry about not being invited to Minny’s birthday at the end of the month?’ he asked.

‘What do you think?’ replied Stana, helping herself to a small sugared almond from a silver bowl on the gilt table in front of her. ‘He’s known the Tsar ever since he was a child and now the Tsarina won’t invite him to her birthday party.’

‘It is supposed to be a small event.’

‘Since when has the Empress Maria Fyodorovna ever done anything small? She and the Grand Duchess Vladimir rule this city.’ Stana crunched the almond and stared out of the window.

‘I think it’s smaller this year. The Tsar’s not well; he’s travelling south at the moment to recuperate,’ said Peter.

‘He hasn’t been well for a while,’ agreed Militza.

‘It’s his kidneys. Ever since that accident at Borki, when he held the train roof aloft to save Minny and the children,’ agreed Peter. ‘I think that must have broken something in him.’

‘Anyway, George is still furious at not being invited and blames me, naturally,’ said Stana. ‘Much as he blames me for all his ills.’ She sighed. ‘I’m quite sure I don’t know why he married me in the first place. Are you invited?’

‘If we are, I shan’t go,’ declared Militza. ‘I am not sure I want another evening of being stared at, giggled at, whispered about or almost entirely ignored. I don’t know what to tell Father. All those letters and requests badgering me to ask the Tsar for help or a bit more money – it’s not as if Maria Fyodorovna allows us anywhere near him!’

‘Anything to help shoe that barefooted army of his!’ added Peter, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘What?’ he said, looking up and catching his wife’s eye. ‘We all know your country is perfectly charming, but the roads are impassable, the peasants don’t want to work – frankly, its only use is its warm-water ports. Am I not speaking the truth?’

‘Sometimes the truth is not always necessary,’ replied Militza.

‘Well, personally, I think you need to make more of an effort,’ he said, glancing from one sister to the other. ‘Get out of the palace. When was the last time you went skating, for example?’

‘My darling, we are not children,’ smiled Militza.

‘All the ladies skate on the Neva in the morning,’ he said. ‘It’s excellent exercise. And Minny’s in the Crimea!’

So the next day, 1 November 1894, Militza packed the elderly skates she hadn’t used since her days at the Smolny Institute and met Stana, just in front of the house, on the English Embankment.

In contrast to the dull, moribund afternoon before, that day was bright and crisp. The snow was dazzling and the ice crystals that hung in the air sparkled more brightly than the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s latest tiara. And the air was cold, so cold it cut like a knife as Militza inhaled. But it was, at the same time, so delightfully pleasurable. After days spent cooped up in her palace with only her sister and the servants for company, there was something incredibly liberating about filling her lungs with little sharp daggers of cold and feeling her eyes water in the brightness.

‘Glorious, don’t you think?’ she said as she found her sister waiting for her by the river. Sporting a white mink hat with a matching muff, trimmed with little white mink tails, Stana looked particularly beautiful in the surprisingly warm sunshine. ‘Do you have your skates?’ asked Militza shielding her eyes with her black-gloved hands. She too had made an effort with her attire. Dressed in a bitter-chocolate coloured suit, trimmed with sable, with a matching hat and muff, she felt excited and braced for any eventuality.

‘I couldn’t find mine,’ said Stana. ‘I looked through all the pairs we had at home and I couldn’t find any to fit. I shall hire some when we get there.’

‘Perfect. Shall we take a troika to the Winter Palace?’

‘I think I’d rather walk.’