Militza was working her way through the crowd just as the orchestra struck up another mazurka, scanning the puce, pinked faces in the Pavilion Hall, looking for her sister. Where was she? What was she doing? Her behaviour was going to jeopardize everything that she, Militza and, indeed, their father had been working for. How could she?
In and out, between the white pillars, Militza searched. The enormous glittering chandeliers above did little to illuminate proceedings and the whirl, the swirl, the constantly circulating and dancing figures were beginning to disorientate Militza who was growing more and more confused by the second. In the swirling melee she saw Alix’s face, her calves, her thighs… she could taste her. She needed air and she needed it quickly. The heat of her incredibly heavy ornate costume was beginning to consume her. Added to that was the blind panic that it was all about to come crashing down around her and she broke out in a cold sweat. She tried breathing deeply, panting, but the sweating and her parched mouth were too much. She had to get out of the hall. Anywhere. Immediately. She needed air or she was going to faint. Eventually she found her way to a small, curved French window. The door handles were stiff; it was February and she didn’t suppose they expected anyone to go out into the Hanging Garden. She pushed on the doors and staggered outside.
It was a cold night and the cloud was winning the battle with the stars. Even so, the Hanging Gardens were reasonably warm. Built above the imperial stables, surrounded on all sides by galleries, they were away from the heat and the noise and yet were protected against the harsh elements of a winter’s night in St Petersburg.
Relief. Militza breathed deeply and she willed herself to calm down. She flapped her skirts and tried to loosen the tight collar of her heavily embroidered black and gold caftan. She leant against a wall for support as she inhaled and exhaled, feeling its cold solidity against her back. As she closed her eyes, she heard a stifled squeal and she suddenly realized she was not alone on the roof.
Moving rapidly into the shadows, she flattened herself against the wall, behind a climbing evergreen jasmine and peered through the leaves. There, about four arched windows further along from her, she could see a couple below a statue, bent over each other in the darkness. The woman had her skirts pushed high up over her back, her underwear was gathered in a pool around her ankles and her white buttocks were visible in the shaft of pale moonlight. He had pulled up his robes and loosened his trousers to the floor. They were quite clearly copulating. She’d squealed as he’d first thrust into her, but now she was moaning. The more he pummelled and pounded, the louder she cried. He was gathering momentum as he gripped on the ankles of the statue for support. She was on the tips of her toes, raising her rump, her back arching with pleasure, her chin thrust forward and her mouth wide open as she welcomed him, more and more. He moved harder and faster and her thighs shook with each penetration as the force rippled down her legs. He then slowed and moved more determinedly. Her hands edged out from underneath her, as she, too, grabbed hold of the statue for support. One more. Two more. Three more. A fourth. The woman cried out a shrill yelp, weeping with joy as she shuddered and then collapsed, spent, up against the statue. He folded himself on top of her back.
Militza stood completely still. Then, eventually, she slowly closed her eyes. She would recognize that cry anywhere.
16
August 1903, Sarov, Tambov Region
‘He is so intolerably stupid. He has no curiosity, no conversation, no idea about anything other than the everyday. He barely reads, he can only speak French and Russian – in short, dear sister, he is a terrible bore.’
Militza remembered smiling as she stood in the white heat of the Tambov sun. Her sister’s description of her husband had been so apposite that even at the height of their extremely fiery exchange after the Medieval Ball, six months before, it had made her laugh. It was so true. The man was not Stana’s intellectual equaclass="underline" he was boorish – and worse, he was boring. They were utterly unsuited. The candles on the eve of her wedding were right, as candles and magic always are. It was a poor match. Everyone knew it. But they were married now. And there was little either of them could do about it.
Militza had waited almost a week before discussing the scene she’d witnessed in the Hanging Garden. Perhaps it was out of embarrassment, or perhaps she was hoping the situation might resolve itself; either way, Militza avoided her sister and spent most of that week rearranging her library. She had taken delivery of some particularly rare books from Watkins of London and she’d locked herself away for the week, taking great pleasure in reading them.
So, when she finally did decide to confront her sister, it was seven days later in St Petersburg. It was a dark grey February afternoon when she called at the palace, only to discover her sister in one of the smaller studies on the second floor. The curtains were drawn, the lights were off and the air was redolent with the stench of incense. Stana and Brana were on their knees, chanting and lighting a series of black votive candles. In front of them was a macabre-looking icon of a dancing skeleton dressed as a saint, complete with golden halo.
‘What are you doing?’
Militza was shocked to find her sister performing something so base. Both the women remained motionless, petrified like statues. It was Brana who eventually spoke first.
‘Praying to Santa Muerte,’ she replied, with a shrug.
‘Lighting black candles? Black? Whom do you wish vengeance on?’
Militza looked from one to the other. This is what she and Stana used to do as children. This was Catholic magic, Catholic ritual. Not something they’d brought with them to Russia.
‘Brana?’ she asked.
‘I am only doing as I am told,’ mumbled the crone.
‘What do you expect me to do?’ Stana spun around. She looked different. Her normally bright clear skin was grey and her eyes were dulled with depression. ‘I hate him,’ she said simply. ‘I love my children. Of course I love them. They are the only things that make my life worth living. But I am humiliated, Militza. Every time George goes to Biarritz, to his actress, another small part of my soul dies.’ She sighed. ‘I am trapped and I don’t know what to do. I did as Father told me. I married the man of his choice – and now what? Must I spend the rest of my days being dutiful? Still in service to that wretched country of ours? Sometimes I think the nunnery would have be preferable.’
‘I am so sorry,’ said Militza, shaking her head.
‘Don’t be. The pity’s the worst of it. “Poor Stana and her dreadful husband.”’ She laughed dryly. ‘And now I have found someone who makes me happy. Is it wrong to want to be happy? Nikolasha makes me happy. He is dashing and strong and popular at court, unlike George. And he loves me.’
She looked at Militza. Her sister always had a plan. What was to be done?
Stana would keep her distance, demanded Militza. Stana naturally protested. It would be unbearable, impossible. But Militza was adamant. Stana would spend the summer in the Crimea, as far away from her lover as possible. While he was going to occupy himself with his borzois and his estates in Tula, South of Moscow, Stana was going to try and take control of herself and hopefully, eventually, these ridiculous, lustful feelings would eventually go away. That was the idea at least.