At just after 3 p.m., the ice began to empty. The Grand Duchess Vladimir was one of the first to disappear, along with her silver salvers and gloved servants.
‘I am not sure I have ever seen skates like those!’ she declared as she walked past the sisters. Stana and Militza simply smiled in reply.
After the Grand Duchess, the other skaters dissipated quickly, leaving the sisters among the last out on the ice. They sat on a wooden bench, untying their skates as the sun slipped behind a cloud.
Suddenly, it was deeply cold and the drop in temperature was accompanied by a sudden rush of wind. Militza looked up. Flying towards them, at low level, was a flock of starlings, some two to three thousand strong. They swarmed past her and up in the air over the spires of the Peter and Paul Fortress on the opposite bank, their beating wings swooping overhead, sounding like the smacking of waves or the gentle clapping of applause. They curled up like smoke, spun like a top, flowed like a great river. Militza had never seen a murmuration like this before. They dispersed; they came back together. They seemed to disappear completely and then gather like a large, dark, ominous cloud over the golden spires, snaking around them like a giant serpent. They ebbed and flowed, morphing from the shadow of a great black beast into a disparate cloud of nothing, only suddenly to reappear, racing across the river like a swarm of locusts. Once, they flew so low and fast over the ice, Militza could feel the wind of their wings on her face. She closed eyes and inhaled slowly. She could feel their energy. They made the hairs on her arms stand up. She felt a sudden rush of adrenaline.
‘The Tsar is dead,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘He’s dead,’ she said, turning to look at her sister sitting next to her on the bench.
‘Who?’
‘The Tsar is dead.’
‘Long live the Tsar,’ replied Stana, staring across the frozen river at the heaving black swarm. ‘Long live the Tsar.’
4
10 January 1896, St Petersburg
It was on a night in early January 1896 that things began to change. There was a significant shift in power. The moment, Militza later remembered, that she and Stana slowly and determinedly, like a couple of well-rehearsed chess pieces, made their opening move.
The Nicholas Ball was the first and the largest of the season. Just after Orthodox Christmas, it was the precursor to almost three months of solid parties and dancing. The balls themselves decreased in size and increased in importance as the season wore on. The final Palm Ball, just before Lent, was therefore the most exclusive, most intimate evening. For a mere 500 guests, it was the most sought-after soirée in town. However, since the death of Alexander III; there had been no parties, there had been no soirées, no balls, and very few had managed to make the acquaintance of the new Tsarina, Alexandra. Fresh from her little provincial town of Hesse, no one outside a very select circle had managed to meet her face to face.
But tonight was her social debut. Expensive court dresses had been ordered from Madame Olga Bulbenkova’s workshop on Yekaterinsky Canal. Bolin and Fabergé kokoshnik tiaras had been unpacked and dusted down and now troops of hairdressers and manicurists were speeding from palace to palace, trying to keep warm between appointments.
With as many as eight thousand guests attending the Nicholas Ball, and with carriages and drivers to accommodate, an early arrival in Palace Square was essential. Not only was the carriage-jam unbearable, sometimes lasting up to three hours, but also the flaming braziers closest to the Winter Palace were at a premium for the thousands of coachmen who had to wait around for hours in the stamping cold, braving the arctic winds gusting up the Neva.
‘The streets are full tonight,’ remarked Militza, pulling her white ermine stole a little tighter around her shoulders, gazing out of the window of the carriage as they drove along the Embankment. Through the falling snow she could see gangs of shadowy figures trudging along the pavements, bent against the wind.
‘Haven’t they got homes to go to?’ asked Peter, lighting a cigarette and flicking the dust off his sharply tailored black trousers. ‘Ever since the famine they’ve been pouring into town. It’s desperate. I heard the slums around Sennaya Ploshchad are full to groaning.’
‘Who is going tonight?’ asked Stana, her large diamond earrings catching in the light.
‘Anyone who is anyone,’ replied Peter, exhaling. ‘Half of Moscow is here, calling on their old friends, begging long-lost cousins for introductions and invitations. Poor old Count Vladimir Freedericksz has never been so popular in his entire life as Head of the Court! He’s had endless provincial souls begging him to put them down on his list. I think he is finding the whole thing terribly amusing.’
‘Are the Yusupovs in town?’ asked Stana.
‘Everyone is in town, my dear. And besides, Zinaida and Minny are very dear friends. Everyone’s saying that it’s Minny who’s actually done the list, anyway. Her and Freedericksz.’
‘I am amazed we’re on it,’ muttered Militza.
‘Why didn’t the new Tsarina do the list?’ asked Stana.
‘She doesn’t know anyone, does she?’ replied Peter. ‘And she hasn’t made any effort to meet anyone. No one has seen much of her since the Tsar’s funeral and that was over a year ago.’ He paused. ‘That’s no way to enter the city, is it? Next to a coffin pulled by eight horses caparisoned in black. It’s no wonder thousands of mourners crossed themselves as she passed. It’s a bad omen, everyone says so.’
‘“She has come to us behind a coffin. She brings misfortune with her.”’ Stana laughed. ‘Listen to you, Peter! Talking omens! You’ve been married to my sister far too long!’
‘And the wedding a week after the funeral, with no banquet, no ball and Minny weeping copiously throughout,’ Peter continued.
‘Was she weeping for the loss of her husband, or the loss of her son? That really is the question,’ declared Militza.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ replied Peter, taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘And then they’ve been shut away in those six little rooms at the Anichkov ever since, so it is hardly surprising that the Dowager Empress put herself in charge of the list. Alexandra doesn’t know a soul. And she never will if she remains locked away.’
‘My goodness, the square is nearly full,’ interrupted Militza.
Peter looked out. ‘I told you. Half of Moscow is here.’ He paused. ‘Oh look! How delightful to see the Vladimirs ahead of us. I’d know that dear discreet little carriage anywhere!’
With their coachmen dressed in their distinctive scarlet livery and their coat of arms emblazoned in gold across the side of their carriage, the Grand Duke and Duchess Vladimir were not a couple who chose to blend in with the crowd.
‘I presume she is wearing that tiara?’ mused Militza, looking at three freezing coachmen huddled around a brazier. Their red faces were barely visible through their hats, wraps and the haze of frozen breath. She watched as they passed around a small bottle of samagon between them.
‘Of course, she’s wearing that tiara!’ replied Stana, her face pressed closer against the glass. ‘I can see those enormous swinging pearls from here.’
‘They can see them in Vladivostok,’ observed Peter, taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘What is it with that woman and her jewellery? Why does she have to be so completely vulgar?’
‘Monsieur Delacroix told me she’s ordered a gondola from Venice to moor on the Embankment,’ giggled Stana.
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Peter.
‘You’d think that woman had never seen a rouble in her life!’ added Stana.