The Witches of St. Petersburg

In the bottleneck at the doors to the Nicholas Hall, Peter bumped into his favourite relative, Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich, fondly known as Uncle Bimbo, sipping iced vodka and talking to the French Military attaché; they immediately engaged in conversation.

‘Make way for the Yusupovs,’ whispered Stana, as Zinaida and her husband, Count Felix Sumarokov-Elston, barged through in a rustle of silk and a shimmer of expensive stones. ‘Honestly, Militza, I give up sometimes! These people…’

‘Don’t you feel it?’ declared Militza suddenly taking hold of her sister’s wrist. A powerful pulse coursed through her body and her nostrils flared. ‘Can’t you sense it?’ She inhaled as if smelling the sweetest, headiest scent, her eyelids fluttering with intoxication.

‘What?’

‘Look around you.’ Militza’s black eyes darted left and right. ‘Don’t you see? The old guard are in retreat. The hierarchy is changing. An era is over. Nicholas is very different from his father. He is new. He is young. He never expected to come to the throne this soon. The wind… Listen!’ Militza pushed her sister gently up against a pillar. ‘Father managed to use his friendship with the last Tsar to the benefit of our country and now that the old Tsar is gone, it is up to us.’

‘But how?’

‘I don’t know yet, but I can feel it. Look.’ Militza proffered up her right arm. All the thin black hairs were standing on end.

The sisters chose two more flutes of champagne from a footman’s heavy silver tray and passed a group of Cossacks dressed in scarlet coats and dark breeches with a red stripe down the side. They approached three of Tsarina’s ladies-in-waiting who, wearing their special encrusted diamond-framed brooches with the Tsarina’s portrait, were standing near a table of chilled beluga caviar. The ladies looked across and, flapping out their fans, immediately began to whisper.

Stana took a step forward.

‘Don’t!’ hissed Militza. The women recoiled slightly. One of them stepped behind a plant as protection. It was clearly amusing to gawp and giggle at the Goat Princesses from afar, but saying anything straight to Stana’s determined face was obviously something else.

‘Oh, at last! I was hoping to bump into you,’ began a large bustling woman. Her elderly looking court dress was slightly faded and yellowed around the neck. ‘I have been searching the halls, looking for you both. I am dying to invite you to my salon!’ She beamed, flapping a substantial ostrich feather and mother-of-pearl fan in front of her flushed face. ‘I’m Sophia Ignatiev!’

Militza and Stana smiled. Everyone knew about the Countess Ignatiev and her thrice-weekly salons, where the enlightened, the mysterious and the divorced would meet and exchange ideas. It was a veritable crossroads for mystics and healers, a place to discuss radical theories, exchange ideas, and indulge in a little table tipping and some coffee-ground reading. The Countess Sophia Ignatiev’s reputation did indeed precede her.

‘Enchanté,’ said Stana, holding out a white-gloved hand to the countess. ‘We know exactly who you are.’

‘Oh, do say you’ll come!’ said the countess, enthusiastically taking hold of Stana’s hand. ‘I know you’d enjoy it.’

‘You do?’ asked Militza.

‘Oh yes.’ She smiled, encouragingly. ‘There are so many people I want to introduce you to.’

‘We shall be sure to attend,’ replied Stana.

‘As soon as you can!’

‘Of course,’ smiled Stana.

‘You two would be such an exciting addition!’ exclaimed the countess, silently clapping her gloved hands together. ‘I shall send over my card. I am at 26 Kutuzov Embankment.’

‘We should hurry,’ said Militza, glancing towards a large gilt clock in a nearby alcove. ‘It is nearly nine, time for the procession.’

*

The sisters wove their way through the mass of embroidered dresses and brocaded uniforms towards the Malachite Hall, where the atmosphere of anticipation was growing as courtiers, counts and countesses, princes and princesses all manoeuvred themselves into better positions. Large palms were pushed out of the way as everyone readied themselves for the arrival of the Tsar and his new wife.

‘Ah!’ said Peter, taking his wife’s hand. ‘I have been looking for you.’

‘As soon as the Tsar passes we follow on behind,’ whispered Militza to Stana.

‘Are you sure? I think we should hold back,’ she replied, looking nervous. Not only was Militza asking her to push to the front, which was neither their place nor position to do so, but she was also suggesting Stana parade through the halls on her own, advertising the absence of her husband.

‘Nonsense,’ hissed Militza. ‘We need to assert our affiliation early. We need to start as we mean to go on.’

‘But—’ Stana’s heart was racing. She could not walk behind the Tsar and Tsarina alone. People would talk. They’d ask questions.

‘My brother is here to hold your hand for the polonaise should you so wish?’ suggested Peter, reading her mind.

‘Grand Duke Nikolai?’ Her face lit up.