Over that summer they were forced to convert part, or all, of their palaces in the Crimea into makeshift convalescent hospitals for soldiers coming home from the Front. Militza quickly realized they had to move with the times or look out of place. The Russo-Japanese war was lost, the naval fleet destroyed, there were strikes in schools and factories and the murder of policemen and Cossacks, as well as riots in all corners of the land. There was a mutiny of sailors in nearby Odessa on the battleship Potemkin. They had apparently thrown the officers over the side – along with the rotten meat they’d been served – and then trained their guns on the city. They were only stopped from ransacking other towns up and down the Black Sea coast when the ship ran out of fuel.
There was distinctly more than a whiff of revolution in the air. It was a stench. Like the smell of smoke before a fire, people could sense it coming.
Tensions had been running so high at Znamenka that they’d spilt over into a stand-up argument between Nikolasha and Nicky. Dinner had been a little protracted and some wine had been drunk, but that was not to say that the sentiments weren’t heartfelt. Militza was shuffling her Cards of Marseilles, preparing for a little after-dinner tarot, as it had been a few weeks since Nicky had dined with them. He’d come on his own as Alix was once again bedridden, this time with her bad heart.
They were discussing the plans drawn up by Sergei Witte, an older advisor of Nicky’s father, to quell the tides of discontent. Witte had suggested there was a plain and simple choice between a military dictatorship and a constitution and Nicky was debating between the two with Nikolasha, who had recently been given charge of the St Petersburg Military District. The discussion became progressively heated. And while Peter kept his counsel and made sure their glasses were full, Militza kept them in fresh supplies of cigarettes as they argued into the night about the increased hostility, the widespread terror – so much so that when they took their own train back from the Crimea they were advised to travel without the lights on in case they were mobbed.
Then, suddenly, Militza remembered, Nikolasha leapt off the divan in the Red Salon, where they’d gathered after dinner, took his pistol out of his holster and declared dramatically, ‘If the Emperor doesn’t accept the Witte programme, if he wants to force me to become a Dictator, I shall kill myself in his presence with this revolver. We must support Witte at all costs. It is necessary for the good of Russia!’
‘What’s it?’ asked Stana, grateful to put down her embroidery.
‘The boy is bleeding again, from the navel – it’s a haemorrhage. The doctor has been called to the palace forty-two times in two months.’
‘Forty-two?’ Stana’s face blanched a little.
‘Alix has been crying on the telephone this morning, saying the child is crawling, trying to learn to walk, and he’s had a bang. But what can you do? It is only going to get worse.’
‘Much worse,’ agreed Stana.
‘The blood can’t be blamed on Gunst and her bandages forever. We need to find a solution, for if that boy dies, what will happen to us?’
‘Us?’ Stana frowned.
‘Our power will disappear overnight.’ Militza walked across the salon, plucked a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. A long grey plume of smoke curled out from between her lips. ‘Perhaps we need to find someone new, as Philippe predicted?’
‘New?’
‘Someone to restore her faith?’
‘What about John of Kronstadt? He has the power to heal through prayer?’
‘He is tied up with helping the poor and the needy. He would not come for a bump or a tumble down the stairs. No. We need someone else. Brana has been on the lookout. She’s looked over St Petersburg, trawled the monasteries outside. If only…’
‘If only Philippe were still alive?’ Stana said. ‘If only…’ She looked a little wistful. ‘It’s been two months since he died and I miss him terribly. Remember him predicting his own death? 1905, he said. Do you remember? And it happened, just as he said. Everything happened, just as he said. I miss him so. I miss his counsel, his wise words. The letters were never enough. I can’t believe we didn’t manage to see him again before he died. I shall always regret that. He was such a dear friend to us all.’
‘He said someone new would come,’ said Militza. ‘But this time we need someone of our own making, someone who we can control. Someone who is entirely ours, who answers to us and only to us, who has no past to haunt us. We have Father to think of, our country to think of – and we are not going to let all that we have worked for trickle through our fingers like grains of sand.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’ Stana demanded, looking at her sister with more than a little irritation. She picked up her sewing and started to stitch. Whatever her sister had in mind she wanted none of it. She was becoming increasingly bored with Militza’s lust for power. They had been at the heart of court life for the past five years and frankly, now that she had fallen into the arms of Nikolasha, she had become a lot less interested.
Not that their relationship had been allowed beyond the walls of Znamenka, which was where Nikolasha was now living and where Stana was a persistent visitor. Unable to stem the growing love between them, Militza had decided it was safer and easier to allow them the confines of the Red Salon. However, she was amazed how a glimpse of happiness had diminished her sister’s ambitions. When Stana was with Nikolasha, little else mattered, least of all the politics of empire. The Montenegrin army had fought alongside the Russians in the Russo-Japanese war – surely that was enough to cement their countries together? Granted, the outcome had been neither short nor victorious and it had only exacerbated Russia’s internal problems, rather than solved them. But they had fought shoulder to shoulder: they were brothers in arms and no new guru was going to improve on that.
‘I have told her we’ve found someone already,’ Militza said. ‘So now we have to…’
‘Don’t bring me into this. The boy needs a doctor, not a guru.’
‘The doctors don’t know anything. They treat his haemophilia with endless amounts of aspirin. They think it is the new drug to cure all ills. But no one knows what it actually does. What is aspirin? And is it good for weak blood? Weak blood that doesn’t clot?’
‘How do you know it is haemophilia?’
Militza stared at her sister, her dark eyes narrowed. ‘Even the Pharaohs had the good sense to ban women from having any more children if their firstborn died from a small wound that never healed. How else can you explain what is happening to Alexei? She is Victoria’s granddaughter. He has the “royal disease”, that much is sure. Her brother Frittie died of it – she told us how he fell and they couldn’t stop the bleeding. We have both seen it spread through the royal families of Europe, taking princes whenever its caprice fancies.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t help but think Empress Maria Fyodorovna made a terrible, appalling mistake with Alix. Of all the brides to choose. It was stark neglect, of her and of the Russian Court in finding a wife for Nicky!’
‘You know Alexei won’t live beyond the age of five?’ said Stana.
‘He must.’
‘And how do you propose to make that happen?’
‘We’ll manifest someone.’ Stana put down her sewing and looked at her sister. ‘And tonight is the most auspicious of nights.’
‘Tonight?’ Stana was looking nervous.
‘All Hallows’ Eve.’ Militza took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘The best night of the year to raise someone.’
‘Or something…’ Stana paused. ‘Do you have any idea what you are doing?’