The Witches of St. Petersburg

‘Frederick,’ whispered Alexandra, looking down at her hankie as she picked at the lace edge with her fingers. ‘He died at the age of two and a half. A haemorrhage.’

‘A haemorrhage?’ asked Stana.

‘He fell; he had weak blood,’ said Alexandra. ‘He wouldn’t stop bleeding.’

‘She says she wants you to be happy,’ Militza declared very formally. ‘She urges you to be happy. Be happy, my love, that is all she is saying, over and over… Try and be happy.’

‘Excellent,’ said George, rubbing his hands together and pushing his chair away from the table. ‘That’s all good advice. Now…’

Suddenly Militza slumped forward on the table and three candles blew out. A whistling wind rushed through the room and a lamp fell off the table by the door; the temperature in the room dropped dramatically and Stana reached out and grabbed Peter’s hand.

‘This isn’t good,’ she mumbled.

‘What’s wrong with Militza?’ demanded Peter, standing up.

‘Sit down!’ said Stana, her dark eyes rounded with fear and she grabbed hold of his hand again. ‘Everyone has to keep sitting down! Sit down and don’t break the circle!’

Militza dragged herself up off the table, slowly raising her head. In the light of one candle her face looked dramatically different, the flesh was hanging, the muscles were flaccid, her mouth was drooping at the corners, her shoulders were hunched and her eyes heavily lidded. She looked remarkably like an old man. Peter gasped. He was horrified. He had never seen anything like it. Even George sat back and stared. The Tsar let go of Militza’s hand.

‘She’s transfiguring,’ said Stana, staring at her sister.

‘How extraordinary,’ mumbled Peter.

‘How unpleasant,’ said George.

‘Your… father… is… here,’ Militza announced very slowly in a deep voice that seemed not to come from her own body at all.

‘Whose father?’ whispered Peter.

‘Your… father!’ she said turning a raised finger and pointing to Nicholas.

‘The Tsar!’ said Nicholas looking shocked.

‘You’re the Tsar,’ said George.

Nicholas turned and looked at Militza; not only did she look terrifying, with her flaccid grey skin and half-closed eyes, but she also looked vaguely familiar. Nicholas’s already pale face blanched further as the blood drained. His large watery blue eyes shone in the candlelight as he remembered the last time he’d seen his father: the thick fog that surrounded the Maly Palace in Livadia, the horrific sound of blood being coughed up, the oxygen tanks, the nose bleeds, the vomiting, the Emperor awaiting death, while the Holy Man, John of Kronstadt, held him in his arms, whispering words of religious comfort as the last rays of the sun disappeared from the sky. The noise of the Holy Man’s mutterings, his hooded black cloak, his long dark beard – Nicholas would never forget it. His mother, Marie Fyodorovna, weeping, plus the sweet smell of death and the constant religious chanting still haunted him in the early hours.

‘Should I ask him some questions?’ he stammered. He had always been slightly afraid of his father and he knew that the Emperor had never really had a high opinion of him.

‘No,’ replied Militza, inhaling and exhaling heavily, her palms flat on the table as she fought the powerful waves of the spirit. The whole experience was obviously exhausting her. ‘He wants to tell you something.’ She looked up again at Nicholas. Her black eyes were blank as if she were blind. ‘And he wants you to listen!’

‘Right.’ He looked across the table at his wife. She smiled weakly in support.

‘Fear not,’ began Militza, ‘I am well. The illness is past and I am well.’ Nicholas nodded, thankful. ‘The Coronation will pass well. Many thousands will come. Many thousands will want to come and pay tribute. But beware the advice of others. My brothers.’

‘Absolutely.’ Nicholas looked puzzled.

Militza shook her head. Her eyes were rolling backwards in her skull as she gripped on to the table again. Her fingers nails dug deep into the cloth. ‘Beware the advice of others,’ she repeated, rocking in her chair, her head moving from side to side. ‘And Khodynka Field.’

‘What field?’ asked Alexandra.

‘This is ridiculous!’ declared George getting up from the table.

‘Sit down!’ said Peter, tugging at the sleeve of his brother-in-law’s dinner jacket, forcing him back into his seat.

‘I am not sure I understand what you mean, Father?’ ventured Nicholas tentatively, as if he was talking to a cankerous old man, his eyes shifting nervously from his wife to Militza and back again.

‘My brothers.’ Militza whispered deeply and quietly. Her whole body hunched and twisted over itself in exasperation. Her hands clawed at the tablecloth, pulling it towards her.

Nicholas stared at his wife for guidance. She nodded at him, with encouragement. ‘Um, thank you… Father… I shall listen to your advice. I shall listen to it and act upon it faithfully.’