The Witches of St. Petersburg

And then, suddenly, the heavy, tense atmosphere dissipated. Militza hung her head at the table for a few more minutes, catching her breath, then she slowly raised her chin. Levity had returned to her. Her hands released the tablecloth and her shoulders visibly relaxed. She puffed her cheeks, exhaling the last vestiges of what appeared to be the old Tsar. A shiny, youthful luminosity graced her skin and she once more began to resemble a charming young wife of thirty. A smile played across her pretty lips and her dark eyes glittered again in the candlelight.

‘Who would like some wine?’ suggested Peter, his hands shaking. ‘I am suddenly extremely thirsty.’

*

Walking back into the Red Salon, the atmosphere was subdued. Neither the Tsar nor Tsarina had expected quite such an evening and the Tsarina was overcome. The combination of wine, henbane and hashish only exacerbated her reaction, causing her to collapse onto the nearest sofa, weeping and talking rapidly.

‘I remember hearing my mother scream when she arrived too late to save May,’ she said, looking across at both Militza and Stana. ‘It was awful. But what I also remember are the lies and the secrets after May’s death, the way they pretended she was still alive and the way they hid her in the family mausoleum.’

‘Diphtheria is a terrible disease,’ agreed Stana.

‘It swept through that house, choosing its victims irrespective of age. Even the physician sent by Queen Victoria could not save my sister. Or my mother.’ The tears flowed freely down her face as Alexandra smiled ruefully. ‘She was thirty-five and buried alongside her two little children.’ She sighed and then looked up at Militza. ‘I can’t thank you enough. Really, I can’t. I am so very grateful. Don’t you agree, Nicky?’

‘Indeed,’ nodded the Tsar, his face looked haunted, his hand gripped on to his glass; he did not know what to make of the whole damn thing at all.

‘Well, I thought it was all very jolly,’ declared Peter, brightly, opening up a large silver cigarette box and offering them around. ‘Fascinating stuff, don’t you think?’

‘If you say so,’ muttered George, taking a cigarette and lighting it. He looked from one sister to the other. ‘A rum business.’

‘Who knew my wife was so talented!’ declared Peter.

‘A very good show indeed,’ said George, staring at Militza as he exhaled. ‘Where did you learn such tricks?’

‘Indeed!’ laughed Peter, walking over to his wife’s side. ‘Indeed… So,’ he said turning his back on the room, his face etched with nerves, ‘are you all right?’ he whispered, holding on to Militza’s arm. ‘That was quite something. I have never seen anything like it.’

‘I’m perfectly fine.’ She smiled. ‘It could not have gone better.’

‘Oh good, because you know I would hate…’

‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled again, patting him on the arm. ‘You worry too much.’

*

It was another half an hour or so before the Tsar felt suitably recovered enough to leave.

‘An extraordinary evening,’ he said, embracing her, caressing Militza’s cheek with his soft moustache. ‘Thank you, we shall most certainly return to do that again,’ he murmured into her ear, before walking rather slowly towards the waiting carriage.

‘Thank you,’ agreed Alexandra, holding Militza’s hand in hers, her eyes still full of tears. ‘I can’t tell you what it means to me to know my sister is safe and well and being looking after.’ She smiled, still holding on to Militza’s hand. ‘Eating baked apples! You have made me so happy tonight. For the first time in this sad and lonely city.’

6 August 1899, Tsarskoye Selo, St Petersburg

After that seminal dinner, the Tsarina continued to visit Znamenka with increasing regularity – each time revealing a little more about herself, each time shedding another layer. However it wasn’t until the morning of 10 August 1899, when Militza received that fateful telephone call, that all resistance crumbled.

Militza could hear the sound of the Tsarina weeping as she ran across the bridge. The agony and the raw emotion were all too obvious as her cries floated across the lake. Not since the death of Militza’s own stillborn daughter a year and a half ago had she heard a cry so painful. And how she remembered that agony. It was visceral; it stopped her heart and tore through her like a burnished sword. Dear Sofia. Poor, sweet Sofia, born to die so her twin sister, Nadezhda, should live. Born to never draw breath…

Militza picked up her skirts and ran faster.

‘Wait for me!’ begged Stana as she tried desperately to keep up. George was abroad, again, and so she had her hands full with her two children, seven-year-old Elena and nine-year-old Sergei, neither of whom were inclined to run on such a hot and humid day. Their clothes were uncomfortable, the sun was beating down and they were desperate to get into one of the rowing boats lying upturned on the grassy bank.