‘Yes!’ Militza agreed suddenly, standing up and starting to pace the room. Her sister looked at her a little surprised. ‘Monsieur Philippe never fails.’ She nodded. ‘He always succeeds. He never fails. We never fail.’ It was as if she were trying to convince herself. ‘The Tsarina simply did not believe enough. It is that simple. Should always be kept very simple. She needs to try harder; she needs to submit entirely to Philippe’s will. To the will of God.’
‘I am glad you understand,’ smiled Philippe, smoothing down his fecund moustache. ‘I have done nothing wrong. I am a man of my word. I have cured all my patients from many terrible diseases – and those I haven’t cured simply didn’t believe enough. Remember the other day, when I calmed a storm while we were sailing on the Standart?’
‘Yes,’ enthused Stana. ‘We were so lucky you were there, otherwise who knows what would have happened!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Militza, remembering the dark gathering clouds and the subsequent lashing rains and the hands of Philippe raised at the bow of the Standart as he shouted incantations into the roaring wind. It took a while for the storm to abate, but abate it did, and everyone who’d been cowering below decks, holding on for dear life, gave him the credit. ‘You did calm the storm. You absolutely did calm the storm.’
‘As God is my witness, you did,’ added Stana.
‘So, as you can see, I am a man of my word.’ Maître Philippe smiled confidently, his argument won.
It was four days later and the midnight sun was low in the sky when Militza and Stana left Znamenka carrying two small wicker baskets and a couple of sharp knives. It was St John’s Eve’s night – midsummer’s eve – and the most auspicious night of the year for gathering herbs. This was a childhood hobby that had, over the years, gained in importance, but that night, Militza remembered, was perhaps the most significant of all. They had been invited to see the newborn, Anastasia, at Tsarskoye Selo the following day, which, given that she was only a few days old, was a great honour indeed. It suggested to Militza that all was not lost with the Tsar and the Tsarina; it appeared they were to be given a second chance. However, to arrive without a persuasive plan would be foolish, possibly terminal. Like losing one’s footing on a steep cliff, it would leave their hard-worn position entirely vacant, ready for someone else to step into, as they themselves fell, bruised and lacerated, all the way down.
‘So, we reiterate Philippe’s suggestion,’ began Militza as she walked through the woods, hitching up her white skirts, already damp with dew.
Being alone in the forest all night with her sister brought her no fear. In fact, she loved the feeling of solitude, loved listening to the wind as it rustled through the leaves of the silver birch; it was as if the trees themselves were talking to her, muttering and mumbling their secrets, telling them exactly where to find the woodland treasures that they were seeking. She loved the light during the hours of night this far north, when the weak sun never waned and the sky was a pale, clean, clear blue; it was as if everything was crisp and new, about to be reborn again.
‘Alix simply didn’t believe enough,’ she continued, picking her way along the path. ‘She may have thought she had, but she did not.’
‘Maître Philippe doesn’t fail,’ agreed Stana, sounding equally determined. ‘We just have to make her realize her mistake. It’s all her own fault; if only she’d trusted Philippe, trusted us a little more.’
‘It’s not just her we need to convince. There!’ Militza said, pointing to a small patch of blue flowers nestled at the foot of a tree. ‘Knapweed. Adam’s Head, the Tsar of herbs, for the Tsar of Russia.’ She smiled. ‘Just what we were looking for.’
Stana rushed over with all the enthusiasm of a child, knelt down and cradled the small blue flower in her hand. ‘What a perfect specimen – and gathering morning dew just as it should be. We couldn’t wish for better.’
‘Lord, bless me.’ Militza took a small wooden crucifix out from deep in her dress pocket and, waving it over the flowers, started to chant. ‘And you, Mother Fresh Earth, bless me to cull this plant.’ She made the sign of the cross over the front of her breast. ‘You have brought it forth for man’s use and thus I take it. From the earth a plant. From God a medicine. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ repeated her sister.
Militza took out the short sharp-bladed knife and knelt down before the plant. A curl of loose birch leaves blew off the ground and spun and danced before them like a wisp.
Militza smiled. ‘Here come the woodland spirits,’ she said, looking up at her sister. ‘Are you ready? Turn around, otherwise the herbs will lose their power.’
Stana turned her back and prayed. ‘Holy Adam ploughed, Jesus Christ gave seed, the Lord sowed it, the Mother of God watered it and gave it to the Orthodox people as an aid.’ She crossed herself and spat three times on the ground. ‘Amen.’
‘Amen,’ repeated Militza and plunged the point of the knife into the palm of her hand. A searing agony ripped through her and she cried out. Her eyes watered, but as she exhaled through her half-open mouth, she began to feel the rush, the high, giddy joy of the pain. She sucked on the wound, drawing the blood closer to the surface. Eventually two scarlet drips appeared and snaked down her wrist, staining the white cuff of her dress. She knelt over the flower, squeezing her left hand harder and harder until finally another three large drops fell, splattering the small blue petals.
‘Adam’s Head, the dew of midsummer morn and the blood of a witch,’ declared Stana and she swiftly sliced the stem close to the root. ‘It does not get more powerful than that.’
‘Mix with holy water and, even the most barren will conceive a son.’
Later that morning they opened the door to the Tsarina’s bedchamber. Crepuscular, with the curtains tightly drawn and devoid of oxygen, the room was hot and crammed with photographs, icons and endless painted images. Between the two brass beds, swathed in the pink bows and a fussy English floral-wreath patterned chintz, every nook, cranny, surface and space was crammed with pots, plants, bronze statues or little knickknacks from Alix’s travels, the effect was not only an assault on the eyes, but overpoweringly claustrophobic.
Through the half-light they could see Alix propped up on her pillows, the mewling infant by her side. The Tsarina’s hair was loose, her face covered in a cold, dank sheen and she looked weak and lost. Such was the shock and the disappointment of a fourth daughter she had, apparently, been driven mad by insomnia. She had not slept for three days, stalked by the twin demons of guilt and fear. On closer inspection the sisters saw that her eyes were rubbed red raw, her mouth was dry and her parted lips were barely capable of speech.
‘You are here. At last,’ she said.
She spoke so softly the sisters had to strain to hear her. She closed her eyes as a tear slipped out of the corner of one eye and slithered down her cheek. ‘Tell me all is not lost.’ She turned her head towards the closed window and tried to stifle a small cry. ‘Tell me I am not lost.’
‘All is not lost,’ replied Militza, sitting on the bed and taking Alix’s thin hand in hers. ‘You are not lost.’
‘We’re here now,’ added Stana, sitting down on the end of the bed. ‘And we have something for you.’
While Alix stared listlessly, Militza placed twelve little wooden dolls, one by one, in a circle on the bed. Made from laundry pegs carved from rowan wood, hand-snipped headscarves of various hues were tightly pinned around their smooth, faceless heads. The last time she’d used her Herod’s daughters, Militza had managed to quell the worryingly high fever that had gripped the son of Stana’s lady’s maid, Natalya. For two nights he had tossed and turned, pale and pouring sweat, but eventually the dolls had performed their magic, and the fever had calmed. This morning as they sat in the dark, stuffy bedchamber, Militza was hoping they might cool Alix’s fever and help her overcome the terrible disappointment of Anastasia’s birth.