‘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.
‘Don’t tell me you aren’t curious? And haven’t you asked the same question yourself several times over in the comfort of your peach boudoir?’ He smiled, nodding for her continue. ‘Go on…’
She watched him cut the cards with his left hand before she laid them out in formation. She turned over the first card. ‘Ah. The High Priestess… of course,’ she said, moving the card dexterously through her fingers. ‘Wisdom, sound judgement, foresight and intuition.’
‘I have also added some black henbane, so tell our friend that if she has hallucinations, or sensations of flying, she’s not a witch but should decrease the dose immediately.’ He chuckled to himself.
Militza turned over the next card. ‘The Star… Hope. Effort. Faith. Inspiration…’
‘Otherwise she should have a teaspoon in warm water every day,’ continued the doctor. ‘And her husband should always mount her from the right. If he mounts from the left she will have another girl. Is that understood?’
Militza nodded, slowly turning over a new card. ‘So, a teaspoon?’
‘Every day.’
They both looked down at the card. ‘The Wheel of Fortune… Destiny. Fate.’
‘The cards are being very accurate tonight,’ concluded Badmaev.
‘They always are. No matter how many times you ask them the same question, they will always come out the same.’ She picked another and turned it over.
‘The Ace of Cups,’ he said, staring. Look! There you go – fertility and joy!’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Fertility and joy.’ She placed the small envelope very carefully into her silver-thread evening bag and looked back down at the card. ‘But upside down.’
‘Upside down,’ he repeated. They both stared disappointedly at the card. ‘So, the antithesis is true?’
‘Yes.’ Picking the card up, she turned it round in her slim fingers. She sat back in her chair and sighed.
‘But for how long?’ asked Badmaev. ‘How long exactly will the antithesis be true?’
‘Time is not something that Spirit understands,’ said Militza. ‘You know that.’
‘But the wait…’
‘The wait is unbearable,’ she whispered. ‘It is agony. And it eats away at her soul.’
‘Do you mind if I take my turn?’ came a familiar, unpleasant voice.
‘Count Yusupov!’ declared Dr Badmaev leaping out of his seat, swiftly picking up the cards. ‘Of course! We were just finishing…’
Before Militza could say a word of protest Dr Badmaev had vacated his seat for the Count. ‘My dear,’ he said, leaning forward and firmly gripping Militza’s wrist with his sweaty hand. ‘How very charming to see you again.’
‘Count Yusupov,’ she replied, staring at his painful, plump fingers. ‘I didn’t think this was your sort of salon. A little beneath you?’
‘Needs must, my dear. And anyway, I have heard the Tsar likes this sort of thing. Apparently, it is all the rage!’
Militza looked down. ‘If you continue to grip me so fiercely, I will not be able to deal the cards.’ Her black eyes shone with fury.
‘I have no interest in your frivolities,’ he replied, leaning closer and licking his lips.
‘People are beginning to stare,’ she hissed. He loosened his grip but leant further across the table.
‘A small bird tells me that you and your sister have penetrated right to the heart of the palace,’ he began, raising a large eyebrow.
‘Which palace?’ smiled Militza, shuffling the cards. ‘There are so many in this city.’
‘Don’t play coy with me, Goat Girl!’ he spat; a small splash of saliva landed on Militza’s cheek. She slowly closed her eyes and wiped it away with her finger.
‘Shuffle,’ she said, handing him the cards.
He looked at the cards suspiciously, but he inhaled and began to shuffle. ‘People don’t like you. They don’t like you and they don’t like your sinister little sister; most of all, they don’t like your little girl games.’
‘My little girl games?’ repeated Militza furiously taking the cards back and snapping down three of them.
‘Games,’ he repeated. ‘This rubbish!’ He gestured dismissively towards the card table. ‘They want you to desist.’
‘Or what?’ asked Militza turning the three cards over.
‘Or—’
‘Death,’ she said, looking down at the table. ‘Ten of Swords.’ She paused, taking in the image of a hunched young man with ten daggers firmly planted in his back. ‘The King of Swords.’ Militza stared down at the cards. She pushed her chair away slightly. She had never seen anything quite like this before.
‘What?’ demanded Felix, staring at the cards. ‘What? Tell me!’ His face was growing darker, his heart was beating faster. What was the witch hiding?
‘It’s just little girls’ games,’ she whispered.
‘Girls’ games,’ the Count repeated. ‘I have nothing to fear.’
She sighed and looked down at the table, avoiding his gaze. Uncontrollably one tear ran swiftly down her cheek and she deftly swept it aside with her index finger. It was unlike her to feel so emotional, but she had seen something, something terribly sad indeed.