The Witches of St. Petersburg

Militza looked out through the large open window to the beautifully manicured lawns beyond. ‘So do I…’ She added swiftly, turning back to her sister, ‘You will be fine. You are not alone. You have me to look after you.’

‘You?’ Stana’s eyes filled again with tears.

‘I will look after you.’

‘Please… I am not sure I can do it without you. You’ve always been the strong one, the clever one – the one everyone looked up to.’ She grabbed hold of her sister’s shoulders and gripped them tightly. ‘Promise you’ll make it all right? Promise!’

Her grip was strong, her pain evident. Militza looked deep into her sister’s black eyes. Perhaps it was guilt that fate had dealt her the better hand, perhaps it was instinct, the older sibling’s duty to look after the other, or perhaps it was just the raw vision of her sister’s shattered heart, but Militza did not pause. She did not waver. ‘I promise,’ she whispered. ‘Cross my heart.’ She hooked a strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, before cupping her chin. ‘Together, we can do anything,’ she said softly, then kissed Stana’s cheek.

Years later, Militza remembered, then and there, that with one small kiss, she had sealed both their fates. Forever after she was obliged to help her sister, to come to her rescue. She’d promised. She’d crossed her heart. There was nothing more to discuss.

‘Smile,’ she said. ‘You’re getting married.’

*

The wedding was at 3 p.m. and Stana had much to do. As was traditional, her dress was in the style of the court. Made of white silk, it was embroidered with silver thread, pearls and a scattering of diamonds around the neck and it took her over an hour to put on. Her fine lace stockings were difficult to fit in the heat, and her new lady’s maid, Natalya, took an age tugging them over Stana’s knees. The lace underskirts were fitted next, to give the dress volume, followed by the starched petticoats. A wider dress, made of silver and silk, was layered over the top. The inverted V at the front allowed the other skirt of finer silver tissue to peek through. Due to the late summer heat and humidity, instead of a more usual heavy velvet train Stana had opted for a simple mantilla and veil of delicate handmade Chantilly lace. It was attached to a diamond and pearl tiara, her wedding present from the Tsar. Fortunately, Monsieur Delacroix was on hand to make sure her coiffure was perfect. A corpulent fellow with a florid complexion and a long, waxed moustache, he arrived amid much flamboyant fanfare, accompanied by a phalanx of flunkies and a fug of lavender. Monsieur Delacroix had been court hairdresser for so long he knew more secrets than the police, more gossip than the servants, but most especially he knew about nervous brides and he never travelled anywhere without a chilled bottle of Roederer champagne. His energy, and indeed alcohol, went a little way to lightening the mood.

‘So, have you heard the Grand Duchess Vladimir is pregnant?’ declared Monsieur Delacroix, combing Stana’s hair. ‘That’s number four or five.’

‘How fortunate,’ replied Militza, sipping her champagne.

‘That’s a lot of babies,’ commented Stana, staring into the mirror.

‘All that money and all those children – and still no nearer to the throne!’ he laughed into his round chest. ‘You know when the Tsar was in that railway accident at Borki in the Ukraine last year? When twenty-one people died?’ He turned to heat up his curling tongs. ‘Rumour has it that neither she nor her husband returned to Russia, or even asked about his older brother’s health. They were sitting in France with their fingers crossed, spitting at the Devil, hoping against hope the Tsar and all his children would be wiped out, and they’d inherit the throne! Ouch!’ he said, burning his index finger on the hot brass as he pulled a set of tongs out from the gas-fired heater. ‘I don’t think the Tsar has forgiven him. It’ll be you soon,’ he joked, pausing mid-comb and nodding towards Stana’s slim belly.

‘Me? What?’

‘Lots of boys, that’s what every wife needs.’ Stana blushed. Noticing the bride’s evident discomfort, Delacroix continued swiftly, ‘The Grand Duchess Vladimir is sponsoring Cartier to open up here. She’s just ordered another kokoshnik tiara.’ He rolled his small currant eyes and tweaked the end of his moustache. ‘Apparently, they are all going crazy trying to source the diamonds, scouring Siberia! Not that anything can rival her Vladimir Tiara, the one she was given when she got married. That’s got more pearls than the Indian Ocean. I think she wants more stones than the Yusupovs, but no one can compete with them.’

He worked meticulously to smooth Stana’s hair into the two traditional fat ringlets that he placed hanging down over each shoulder. After he had brushed each curl, he then sprayed her hair with a mist of violet cologne from Guerlain in Paris. Finally, he picked up the diamond tiara with the flats of his palms and, careful not to dirty it with his sweat, set it gingerly in place.