The Witches of St. Petersburg

So why did she feel the desperate sickness of foreboding in her throat and the tight knot of dread deep in the pit of her stomach?

Militza dared not look Stana in the eye. What could she tell her? She was supposed to be the strong one, the cleverest of all the children, fluent in Persian, Russian, French as well as all the languages of her motherland. She was the one who had the sensible head, the clear vision. Zorka, the eldest, might well be able to predict earthquakes and their mother could tell the sex of unborn babies, but it was she, Militza, who had the real power, the one who could really see things. She was the one who spoke to Spirit, the one who was headstrong, who had an answer for everything. Known in her family as a reader of runes and oracles, a sibyl who always found it hard to curb her tongue, why was she so quiet now? What was she to say? That Stana had no choice but to accept this widower duke as her husband? That marriage was lonely? That she herself was struggling to find happiness? That the wedding night was something you just had to get through?

And she knew her husband, Peter, and he also knew where she had come from. He had toured Montenegro with her, witnessed the toasting and fireworks that greeted their engagement. He’d sailed down the Croatian coast in his beautiful white yacht to stay with her family in Cetinje, had seen their unprepossessing palace, its narrow corridors and wooden shutters, he had walked through their scrub of a garden without so much as a fountain, or a manicured lawn, and they’d travelled back to Russia together to be married.

But Stana, poor Stana, had not been so fortunate. She had met her soon-to-be husband just four weeks before, their father selecting him from the shallow pool of eligible suitors at Militza’s wedding. Quite what made the widower, with a motherless seven-year-old son, stand out for their father, neither of them knew.

All Militza knew was there was to be no celebratory cannon fire on Stana’s wedding day, no party at the Tsar’s palace. In fact, neither the Tsar nor even their father were going to attend. It was as if Nikola could not wait to give Stana away, at any price.

Militza sighed. What were they doing here, two sisters so far from home? How could their father have done this? She couldn’t help but think how cruel it was to be born a woman, how cruel it was to be powerless and unable to decide one’s own fate. However, she said nothing, did nothing, except continue to stare out of the window and try to quell her own misgivings.

*

It took Stana half an hour to compose herself enough to sip her tea. She had it strong and sweetened with a little cherry jam dipped in on a silver teaspoon. The maid had delivered a plate piled high with warm blini with soured cream and honey, but neither of them could stomach anything.

‘You’re right,’ Stana declared flatly, as she licked the jam off her spoon. ‘There is nothing else to be done. I have no choice. It is either George—’

‘Or the nunnery on Lake Skadar.’

They looked at each other. It should have been a funny joke: it was something they’d laughed about as children, that they’d end up in the nunnery their father was building. Militza had often declared, in lofty tones, that she was looking forward to a life of learning without distraction. But the older they became and the steeper and thicker grew the convent’s walls, the more of a terrifying reality it was. How could their father truly think this was a good solution to the problem of having so many daughters? Anything, anywhere, anyone – even George – would be better than the nunnery on Lake Skadar.

Militza leant over and took the spoon out of her sister’s mouth. ‘Don’t do that. We are not at home any more.’

‘Don’t I know it! I hate this place! The Grand Palace!’ she snorted. ‘It’s like a cage!’ Stana leapt out of her chair and walked towards the large open windows. ‘Why does it have to be him?’ She turned back towards Militza with her large imploring eyes. ‘Why does it have to be now? I know people are talking. I hear them whisper. I feel them stare. What is that stupid saying of theirs? “An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar?” Well, that’s us. A couple of uninvited Tatars. They don’t like us. They disdain us.’ Her pretty lips curled. ‘I’m scared. I’m scared of these big, cold palaces. I’m scared of the people who live here – and most of all I’m scared of my husband. He doesn’t love me, I know he doesn’t. He can barely look me in the eye.’

‘He proposed to you and that’s all that matters.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘I don’t know what else to say.’

The sisters sat in silence and drank their tea. The only noise was the scraping of Stana’s spoon as she stirred more jam around her cup.

‘I just wish Mother were here,’ said Stana, suddenly putting down her cup and pulling her knees up under her chin. ‘Both Mother and Papa came to your wedding.’

‘You will be fine.’ Militza squeezed her hand.

‘I miss our little palace.’