Much to the consternation of the Dowager Empress, whose previously frosty behaviour towards the ‘Black Spiders’ as she now called the sisters, became increasingly hostile. Minny could not stand to be in the mere presence of either Stana or Militza and would quite often refuse to attend any function she knew they might attend. Militza was fascinated by the withdrawal of the Dowager Empress. How unlike Maria not to have to put up more of a fight, she thought at the time. The Dowager Empress, along with the Grand Duchess Vladimir, might still control pockets of St Petersburg, but she had totally lost control over her son. The Tsar and Tsarina’s circle was now so small, and the influence that the two sisters now exerted so strong, that no one dared cross them. Helped in part by Dr Badmaev and his regular supply of hashish and his cocaine elixir – of which Militza was growing increasingly fond – the sisters’ grip around the couple became very tight indeed. Along with that, the gossip became increasingly vicious and slanderous.
‘You will enjoy what I heard yesterday at the Yacht Club,’ pronounced Peter, as he lit a cigarette at the breakfast table one morning and slowly stirred his coffee. ‘You and Alix are having an affair. Or was it Stana? I am not quite sure.’ He chuckled and twisted the ends of his moustache. ‘And Philippe is in the bedroom with you both! Or was it all three of you? I had rather too much claret to remember. But it was jolly amusing, nonetheless!’
‘Fascinating,’ replied Militza, dressed in a pale blue silk morning dress, as she slowly punctured two raw egg yolks with a silver fork and whipped them into a light froth at the bottom of her glass. ‘One should never underestimate the creative power of jealousy.’
She put her lips to the rim of glass, opened her throat, and swiftly swallowed the medicinal cocktail. She was not overly keen on her early morning egg potion but since the Grand Duchess Vladimir had been overheard extolling its health-giving properties, all the ladies of the court, including Alix, were drinking raw egg for breakfast.
Militza slowly pressed the corners of her mouth with her napkin as she tried to calm herself. The mere mention of her closeness with Alix made her heart beat faster. She had not kissed her again since that hot, heady afternoon in her bedchamber, but she had thought about it, relentlessly, as she lay in bed, the images churning around in her head, the smell of Alix’s flesh, the touch of her bosom, the taste of her. Militza had become so intimately familiar with Alix, her moon cycle and her desperate desire to have a son, that she now knew of every occasion she was penetrated by the Tsar and how and for how long, and whether he mounted from the left, or the right, or from behind, that there were times when she felt herself flushed with a hot, fiery emotion that was hard to explain.
All she knew was that it was a dangerous emotion, for it clouded her judgement. She’d made that mistake once before and she was not going to let it happen a second time.
A footman bringing a letter on a silver salver disturbed her thoughts. She plucked it from the tray and turned it over and over in her hands. She’d recognize that script and seal anywhere.
‘Who’s that from?’ asked Peter, with vague interest, looking over the top of his newspaper. Sporting his navy silk dressing gown and monogrammed maroon velvet slippers, he had yet to dress for the day.
‘Father.’
‘What does he want now? Not more guns? I am intrigued to know what he did with the last forty thousand. And quite how you managed to procure those I have no idea.’
‘They were a present from a grateful Emperor on the birth of his fourth daughter.’ Militza smiled at her husband as she opened the letter.
‘No one is grateful for four daughters,’ replied Peter, taking a sip of coffee.
‘Queen Victoria had five,’ retorted Militza. ‘God rest her soul.’
Peter coughed. ‘What does your father want?’
‘Money… Grain… More money.’ Militza skimmed the letter, turning over the pages. ‘He wants to build more roads.’ She put the letter down, before adding with a small shrug. ‘He is trying to drag Montenegro into this new twentieth century.’
‘A lofty ambition, I am sure,’ agreed Peter, twisting the corners of his dark brown moustache. ‘But a little hard to do with one hand tied behind your back financially.’
‘That’s why he has daughters in high places.’ Militza smiled, breaking off a small piece of black bread. ‘I heard someone call him the father-in-law of Europe the other day!’
Peter looked less amused. ‘Why can’t he ask your sister? Why is it always us Russians who end up paying?’
‘Well, Zorka is dead so I am not sure she is of any use.’ Militza held the piece of bread to her lips and stared defiantly down the length of the highly polished rosewood table at her husband.
‘There is no need to be sarcastic. I am well aware your sister died…’
‘Along with her son.’
‘Along with her son,’ repeated Peter.
‘Andrei was his name. And she was twenty-five!’ Militza’s laugh was a little hysterical. ‘But such is the lot of us women. You either burn us at the stake or drown us along with all our healing properties and our worldly powers. Or you try and kill us with children. And if we don’t die having them, then we kill ourselves trying to have them.’
Peter ignored his wife. He’d heard this little speech quite often, especially late at night when the two sisters got together with their tarot de Marseilles, reading palms or runes and they always returned to the land of witches, mavens and wanderers where women were once revered for their intuition and powers and not burnt at the stake for witchcraft.
‘Actually, I was thinking more of Elena, now that she is Queen of Italy,’ he eventually replied.
‘She’s only been Queen for just over twelve months!’
‘Even so,’ continued Peter, slowly squeezing the white tip of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger before extinguishing it in the malachite ashtray in front of him, ‘it isn’t good to ask too often, for too much. People start to begrudge you. It’s annoying. Especially when your position is so precarious.’
‘Our position,’ corrected Militza, as she fixed her husband with a dark stare. ‘Ours, my darling, for you and I are linked. Our position is linked. Our privilege is linked, as is our access. We ride high together.’
She reached across to a small scarlet bottle sitting next to her empty glass. She picked it up, removed the lid and carefully squeezed the rubber-topped pipette, drawing up some liquid from the bottle, before swiftly delivering a river of droplets on to the surface of her own protruding, curled tongue. She sucked the tincture back, with a relishing hissing sound, half closing her eyes.
‘High? But for how long?’ Peter put down his newspaper. ‘Your friend—’
‘“Our Friend”, that’s what Alix calls him now. And I rather like it.’
‘“Our Friend” is not terribly popular, you know. There are mumblings, there’s talk.’
‘There is always talk. That’s all there is – talk.’
Militza pulse was beginning to race. It was difficult to ascertain whether it was her growing irritation with her husband, or merely the powerful effects of Dr Badmaev’s cocaine elixir.
‘There is no need to be so bad-tempered,’ continued Peter. ‘I was just passing on what I had heard.’