‘I’m sorry,’ said Stana.
‘None of us could ever sleep at that hideous palace.’ He shivered a little at its memory. ‘The irony! Sent there for our own safety after his murder, only to have our nights turned white with the noise of Paul’s screaming, the wailing soul. And now,’ he said pulling her extremely close, so that his nose was almost touching her, ‘you have brought him here! For fun?’
‘Time to grow up. Go and rule!’
Nikolasha froze and looked over Stana’s shoulder in the direction of the voice. Militza was standing by the table, facing him. Backlit by candles, she appeared in silhouette, the index finger of her right hand pointing at him.
‘Time to grow up. Go and rule!’ Her tone was hateful, hard and completely heartless. It did not sound like her at all.
‘Lord Jesus,’ whispered Nikolasha, crossing himself as he looked across at her in the darkness. ‘How does she know?’
‘Know what?’ asked Stana.
‘What the murderers said after they pulled my great uncle from his bed having just killed his father? “Time to grow up. Go and rule.” He shook his head. ‘No wonder my family are haunted by death, no wonder they hide in their palaces, fearful of assassination. No wonder they cower when they’ve been hunted and shot like dogs over and over again, for centuries.’
‘Sergei!’ Militza declared.
Nikolasha left the corner of the room and approached her. Militza was standing next to her chair, her hands by her sides, her eyes glazed, repeating the same word. ‘Sergei.’ Over and over.
‘Sergei? What? Sergei? Who?’ Nikolasha quizzed her ever more intensely. ‘None of the assassins were called Sergei.’
‘Spirit?’ Philippe now stood up, his voice sounded a little panicked. ‘Spirit. Paul. Who is Sergei?’
‘Sergei!’ Militza crashed her fist on the table. Everyone gasped as glasses smashed and a goblet of red wine splashed across the table.
‘Oh dear!’ Countess Ignatiev leapt out of her seat. ‘Someone call a servant!’
Then suddenly there was shouting and a loud hammering of rifle butts on the panelled wooden doors. A man burst through, accompanied by the sound of rattling sabres.
‘Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna?’ he bellowed, his cheeks crimsoned above the great grey bushiness of his moustache. ‘Grand Duchess Anastasia Sergeyvna?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Philippe Nizier-Vachot?’
Everyone stood still, some with drinks in hand, as if paused mid-conversation. A small group of soldiers entered the room and surveyed it, taking in the Ouija board, the planchette, the smell of incense and the heady aroma of hashish and herbs. It was obvious this was no ordinary gathering. The dark arts were most certainly being practised here.
‘Nizier Philippe?’ the red-faced officer barked again.
‘Oui?’ came Philippe’s tentative reply.
‘Outside!’ the soldier ordered, pointing towards the next room.
There was a pause as Philippe, his faced blanching rapidly, walked slowly out of the room.
‘Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolayevna?’
His eyes darted from face to face. Stana said nothing. She silently picked up her small evening reticule and walked in a slow and dignified manner towards the door.
‘But this is a private party—’ began Countess Ignatiev, starting towards the door.
‘Sit down!’ he shouted. ‘This is not a matter that concerns you.’
‘But it is my house,’ she insisted.
‘Then do as you are told!’ he replied, indicating a chair.
‘I am not sure this is correct,’ announced Nikolasha, stepping forward.
‘Grand Duke,’ replied the officer, bowing his head, ‘I have my orders if you would like to see them?’
‘Yes, I would,’ he stated stepping forward. ‘What is your business with Monsieur Philippe and their Imperial Highnesses? One of whom is my sister-in-law?’
‘Nikolasha, there is no need. Let us not make a scene and ruin everyone’s evening. I am sure it is nothing. I am sure we shall be fine; just let my husband know what has happened. Let’s go,’ declared Militza, gathering herself up off her chair. Spirit apparently having left her almost as quickly as it had arrived, she appeared to be alert and focussed. ‘And let us accept whatever the Fates have in store for us.’
Outside on the street it should have been too cold to snow, but somehow flakes were falling. Beneath a street light, their white breath bellowing, a small unit of waiting soldiers were covered, their shoulders and bearskin hats frosted white. They had been outside for quite some time.
‘In here.’ The crimson-faced major indicated a large carriage.
‘Who? Me? Just me?’ asked Philippe, skittish with panic, looking left and right, slipping and dancing about in the snow. His round face was growing red as he tugged repeatedly at the large corners of his moustache. ‘I am a French citizen, you know; I need to contact the Embassy. I have done nothing wrong. I know lots of people, very important people – I know the Tsar!’
‘All of you,’ the officer hit the side of the door with the butt of his rifle, ‘in here.’
‘All of us?’ Philippe’s relief was palpable. He had no idea where he was going but at least he was not going on his own. ‘After you, ladies!’ he said, laughing a little wildly as he opened the carriage door and offered his hand.
Wrapped in her sable fur, Stana was the first inside, sitting down on the poorly padded seat. Militza followed, her silver fox in hand.
‘It’s all right,’ she said sitting down next to her sister. ‘Look,’ she said, nodding towards the bench opposite. ‘We have travelling rugs. They don’t give prisoners travelling rugs.’
‘They might do,’ replied Philippe, sitting down and immediately covering his legs with the thick rug. ‘You never know what is going to happen. Especially not in this Godforsaken country. I wish I had never set foot in the place. It’s freezing and dark and so are the people. This is not going to end well.’
‘That is neither charming nor helpful,’ snapped Stana. ‘Just because you have been arrested before.’
‘Not for anything serious,’ insisted Philippe.
‘I call impersonating a doctor serious.’ Stana grabbed hold of the blanket.
‘Not if you are curing people,’ he replied.
‘It’s against the law.’
‘So is witchcraft.’
‘Not if you are curing people,’ retorted Stana, shivering with cold. She pulled back the short black curtain and peeked through the frosted glass of the carriage window. The streets of St Petersburg were almost entirely deserted, the few people braving the cold at such a late hour wrapped up tightly, their footsteps silent and their shoulders hunched. ‘I wonder where they are taking us?’ she asked suddenly, inhaling and biting her bottom lip as she tried to control the wave of rising panic. She looked across at her sister. ‘Where do you think? Why didn’t you let Nikolasha stop them?’
‘I didn’t think there was much he could do,’ she replied sanguinely.
‘But where are they taking us?’
Militza shrugged. ‘We shall know soon enough.’
They travelled in silence through the night. The only noise was that of the carriage wheels slicing through the snow and the longer the journey continued, the tighter the knot became in Stana’s stomach. Philippe somehow managed to doze, occasionally erupting into loud snores as his large nose tipped backwards towards the ceiling of the carriage. Militza, on the other hand, never moved. She sat stock-still, staring ahead as if in some sort of trance.