The Witches of St. Petersburg

What she didn’t know was that they more than understood; they themselves had heard those whispers, they’d felt the same loneliness. And they also knew what it was like to have a mother who was desperate for a son. They had seen the potions, the lotions, they had smelt the smoke, seen the fires and heard the incantations. Their palace in Cetinje had been full of it – the freaks, the fools, the endless spells. And they knew exactly what to do.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Militza, nodding fiercely, her lips pursed with determination. ‘You will have your son.’

‘I promise,’ added Stana.

‘Cross your heart?’ whispered Alix, before lying back, exhausted, in to her chair.

7 17 December 1899, St Petersburg

Monday night was the most prestigious night to be invited to perch on the Countess Ignatiev’s elegant, raspberry-coloured velvet upholstery and enjoy the sweet wines, cakes and the latest and most glamorous guru in town. And, as she collected her pack of Marseilles cards from her dressing-table drawer and wrapped them carefully in her peach silk scarf, Militza felt a shiver of excitement. The thrice-weekly Black Salons were always exciting, but this Monday was going to be different. Tonight, Countess Ignatiev had promised her someone special, someone very special indeed.

Walking into the large dimly lit drawing room, packed with usual princes, diplomats and divorcees, Militza was met by a rather overexcited Countess Ignatiev.

‘There you are!’ she exclaimed loudly, clapping her hands together and then clutching at her ample bosom. ‘At last! You’re late!’ Sophia Ignatiev was nothing if not dramatic. ‘Darling, there are so many people waiting for you to read for them. We almost have a queue! Here, here,’ she repeated, bustling Militza through the party to a corner where she had placed a marble and gilt card table, covered with a fringed gypsy scarf and two heavy armchairs. ‘Is this all right?’ She smiled, holding her arm out. ‘I was trying to make it as mystical as possible.’

‘It’s perfect!’ agreed Militza, for she was very fond of the Countess.

Sitting down at her table, Militza carefully took out her peach scarf and unwrapped her cards.

‘May I?’ came a familiar voice, as a bronzed hand placed a small clay hash pipe on the table.

‘Dr Badmaev!’ Militza immediately leapt out of her chair to embrace him.

A Buryat by birth, Shamzaran Badmaev (also known as Peter) had grown up on the steppes of Siberia and trained with the monks of Tibet. He was a master of Asiatic medicine and Tibetan apothecary, with a worldwide reputation. Along with his brother, Zaltin, they owned the most auspicious ‘chemist’ in St Petersburg, capable of curing the most stubborn and pernicious of maladies. There wasn’t an infusion, herb or tincture he did not know. His laboratory behind his shop off the Fontanka, was a veritable Aladdin’s cave of delights. Militza had once been very privileged to pay him a visit and even to her expert eye, many of the bottles and bags and powders were completely incomprehensible.

‘How are you?’ He smiled, kissing her three times, his narrow eyes fizzing with an extraordinary energy. There were many in St Petersburg who thought Dr Badmaev was a spiritual master and Militza was one of them.

‘Well,’ she replied, as they both sat down.

‘You look well.’ He nodded and then patted his pocket. ‘I have what you asked for.’

‘You have?’ Militza’s eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘My friend will be so pleased.’

He pulled a small envelope out of his loose-fitting trousers and handed it over to her. ‘There is ashoka flower for sadness and grief, black lotus essence for rebirth and mandrake—’

‘Mandrake?’

‘I have a hermit woman who’s collected it for me for years. She lives in the forests outside Irkutsk, at the crossroads where they used to hang men for stealing horses. There is an abundance of hanged men’s seed in the ground around there and the mandrakes are plentiful.’

‘How does she harvest it without hearing it scream?’ asked Militza, handing him over the pack of cards to shuffle.

‘She was born deaf.’

Militza nodded and smiled appreciatively. ‘Do you have a question for the cards?’

‘Only the question that is on everyone’s lips.’ Militza looked at him quizzically, as he expertly mixed up the pack. ‘The succession?’

Militza’s heart leapt; she glanced quickly around the room to check that no one else had heard. The succession was, of course, the question on everyone’s lips: three pregnancies and the Tsarina had yet to produce anything but daughters; people were beginning to say that she was cursed. Her poor Russian language skills didn’t help and neither did her inability to understand the importance of the court, but to hear it voiced out loud was not only shocking, it was dangerous.

‘Hush,’ she said, taking back the cards and clutching them close to her breast.