‘All of them.’ Alexandra shook her head again. ‘All my lovely toys. Gosh,’ she sighed, as the memories came flooding back, ‘they burnt everything to prevent the spread of diphtheria.’
‘How terrible,’ Stana sympathized.
‘My favourite toys were gone, as well as Mother and my sister… I remember weeping in the playroom, not being able to find my teddy bear, not being able to find anything…’
The Tsar leant across the table and took hold of his wife’s hand. ‘But you are all right now, darling,’ he said, gently patting her hand. ‘You have me and little Olga.’
‘Your mother gives you her blessing,’ Militza interrupted suddenly, sitting up. ‘Right, of course.’ She looked at Alexandra. ‘She says not to mourn her, that she is happy. She is with… Frittie?’
‘Frederick,’ whispered Alexandra, looking down at her hankie as she picked at the lace edge with her fingers. ‘He died at the age of two and a half. A haemorrhage.’
‘A haemorrhage?’ asked Stana.
‘He fell; he had weak blood,’ said Alexandra. ‘He wouldn’t stop bleeding.’
‘She says she wants you to be happy,’ Militza declared very formally. ‘She urges you to be happy. Be happy, my love, that is all she is saying, over and over… Try and be happy.’
‘Excellent,’ said George, rubbing his hands together and pushing his chair away from the table. ‘That’s all good advice. Now…’
Suddenly Militza slumped forward on the table and three candles blew out. A whistling wind rushed through the room and a lamp fell off the table by the door; the temperature in the room dropped dramatically and Stana reached out and grabbed Peter’s hand.
‘This isn’t good,’ she mumbled.
‘What’s wrong with Militza?’ demanded Peter, standing up.
‘Sit down!’ said Stana, her dark eyes rounded with fear and she grabbed hold of his hand again. ‘Everyone has to keep sitting down! Sit down and don’t break the circle!’
Militza dragged herself up off the table, slowly raising her head. In the light of one candle her face looked dramatically different, the flesh was hanging, the muscles were flaccid, her mouth was drooping at the corners, her shoulders were hunched and her eyes heavily lidded. She looked remarkably like an old man. Peter gasped. He was horrified. He had never seen anything like it. Even George sat back and stared. The Tsar let go of Militza’s hand.
‘She’s transfiguring,’ said Stana, staring at her sister.
‘How extraordinary,’ mumbled Peter.
‘How unpleasant,’ said George.
‘Your… father… is… here,’ Militza announced very slowly in a deep voice that seemed not to come from her own body at all.
‘Whose father?’ whispered Peter.
‘Your… father!’ she said turning a raised finger and pointing to Nicholas.
‘The Tsar!’ said Nicholas looking shocked.
‘You’re the Tsar,’ said George.
Nicholas turned and looked at Militza; not only did she look terrifying, with her flaccid grey skin and half-closed eyes, but she also looked vaguely familiar. Nicholas’s already pale face blanched further as the blood drained. His large watery blue eyes shone in the candlelight as he remembered the last time he’d seen his father: the thick fog that surrounded the Maly Palace in Livadia, the horrific sound of blood being coughed up, the oxygen tanks, the nose bleeds, the vomiting, the Emperor awaiting death, while the Holy Man, John of Kronstadt, held him in his arms, whispering words of religious comfort as the last rays of the sun disappeared from the sky. The noise of the Holy Man’s mutterings, his hooded black cloak, his long dark beard – Nicholas would never forget it. His mother, Marie Fyodorovna, weeping, plus the sweet smell of death and the constant religious chanting still haunted him in the early hours.
‘Should I ask him some questions?’ he stammered. He had always been slightly afraid of his father and he knew that the Emperor had never really had a high opinion of him.
‘No,’ replied Militza, inhaling and exhaling heavily, her palms flat on the table as she fought the powerful waves of the spirit. The whole experience was obviously exhausting her. ‘He wants to tell you something.’ She looked up again at Nicholas. Her black eyes were blank as if she were blind. ‘And he wants you to listen!’
‘Right.’ He looked across the table at his wife. She smiled weakly in support.
‘Fear not,’ began Militza, ‘I am well. The illness is past and I am well.’ Nicholas nodded, thankful. ‘The Coronation will pass well. Many thousands will come. Many thousands will want to come and pay tribute. But beware the advice of others. My brothers.’
‘Absolutely.’ Nicholas looked puzzled.
Militza shook her head. Her eyes were rolling backwards in her skull as she gripped on to the table again. Her fingers nails dug deep into the cloth. ‘Beware the advice of others,’ she repeated, rocking in her chair, her head moving from side to side. ‘And Khodynka Field.’
‘What field?’ asked Alexandra.
‘This is ridiculous!’ declared George getting up from the table.
‘Sit down!’ said Peter, tugging at the sleeve of his brother-in-law’s dinner jacket, forcing him back into his seat.
‘I am not sure I understand what you mean, Father?’ ventured Nicholas tentatively, as if he was talking to a cankerous old man, his eyes shifting nervously from his wife to Militza and back again.
‘My brothers.’ Militza whispered deeply and quietly. Her whole body hunched and twisted over itself in exasperation. Her hands clawed at the tablecloth, pulling it towards her.
Nicholas stared at his wife for guidance. She nodded at him, with encouragement. ‘Um, thank you… Father… I shall listen to your advice. I shall listen to it and act upon it faithfully.’
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.