The Witches of St. Petersburg

‘The streets are full tonight,’ remarked Militza, pulling her white ermine stole a little tighter around her shoulders, gazing out of the window of the carriage as they drove along the Embankment. Through the falling snow she could see gangs of shadowy figures trudging along the pavements, bent against the wind.

‘Haven’t they got homes to go to?’ asked Peter, lighting a cigarette and flicking the dust off his sharply tailored black trousers. ‘Ever since the famine they’ve been pouring into town. It’s desperate. I heard the slums around Sennaya Ploshchad are full to groaning.’

‘Who is going tonight?’ asked Stana, her large diamond earrings catching in the light.

‘Anyone who is anyone,’ replied Peter, exhaling. ‘Half of Moscow is here, calling on their old friends, begging long-lost cousins for introductions and invitations. Poor old Count Vladimir Freedericksz has never been so popular in his entire life as Head of the Court! He’s had endless provincial souls begging him to put them down on his list. I think he is finding the whole thing terribly amusing.’

‘Are the Yusupovs in town?’ asked Stana.

‘Everyone is in town, my dear. And besides, Zinaida and Minny are very dear friends. Everyone’s saying that it’s Minny who’s actually done the list, anyway. Her and Freedericksz.’

‘I am amazed we’re on it,’ muttered Militza.

‘Why didn’t the new Tsarina do the list?’ asked Stana.

‘She doesn’t know anyone, does she?’ replied Peter. ‘And she hasn’t made any effort to meet anyone. No one has seen much of her since the Tsar’s funeral and that was over a year ago.’ He paused. ‘That’s no way to enter the city, is it? Next to a coffin pulled by eight horses caparisoned in black. It’s no wonder thousands of mourners crossed themselves as she passed. It’s a bad omen, everyone says so.’

‘“She has come to us behind a coffin. She brings misfortune with her.”’ Stana laughed. ‘Listen to you, Peter! Talking omens! You’ve been married to my sister far too long!’

‘And the wedding a week after the funeral, with no banquet, no ball and Minny weeping copiously throughout,’ Peter continued.

‘Was she weeping for the loss of her husband, or the loss of her son? That really is the question,’ declared Militza.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ replied Peter, taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘And then they’ve been shut away in those six little rooms at the Anichkov ever since, so it is hardly surprising that the Dowager Empress put herself in charge of the list. Alexandra doesn’t know a soul. And she never will if she remains locked away.’

‘My goodness, the square is nearly full,’ interrupted Militza.

Peter looked out. ‘I told you. Half of Moscow is here.’ He paused. ‘Oh look! How delightful to see the Vladimirs ahead of us. I’d know that dear discreet little carriage anywhere!’

With their coachmen dressed in their distinctive scarlet livery and their coat of arms emblazoned in gold across the side of their carriage, the Grand Duke and Duchess Vladimir were not a couple who chose to blend in with the crowd.

‘I presume she is wearing that tiara?’ mused Militza, looking at three freezing coachmen huddled around a brazier. Their red faces were barely visible through their hats, wraps and the haze of frozen breath. She watched as they passed around a small bottle of samagon between them.

‘Of course, she’s wearing that tiara!’ replied Stana, her face pressed closer against the glass. ‘I can see those enormous swinging pearls from here.’

‘They can see them in Vladivostok,’ observed Peter, taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘What is it with that woman and her jewellery? Why does she have to be so completely vulgar?’

‘Monsieur Delacroix told me she’s ordered a gondola from Venice to moor on the Embankment,’ giggled Stana.

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Peter.

‘You’d think that woman had never seen a rouble in her life!’ added Stana.

‘Well, she hasn’t really, not where she’s from,’ grimaced Peter. ‘Tell me, where is George tonight? Doesn’t he know what he’s missing! He can’t still be in Biarritz?’

‘Isn’t he always?’ replied Stana, digging deeper into her sable muff and hunching her fur-clad shoulders.

‘When is he coming back?.’

‘I am the last person who’s privy to his plans,’ Stana replied, looking firmly out of the window.

‘I can’t think what keeps him there,’ mused Peter. ‘It’s such a dreary little town. Especially out of season.’

‘Good evening!’ announced a footman as he opened the carriage door his frost-blasted nose, poking over the top of his grey coat. ‘Your Imperial Highnesses…’ He bowed low, holding on to the top of his heavy astrakhan hat. He held out a sturdy black-gloved hand to help Stana out of the carriage first, followed by Militza and finally Peter.