‘No,’ came Alix’s tart reply, as she looked the girl up and down. ‘The gown,’ she remarked, taking in the pretty yellow sleeves and the low neckline, ‘is not suitable for a girl so young.’
‘It—’
‘It suggests loose morals.’ The Tsarina placed her glass of untouched champagne down on the table. ‘And a girl of low class. Or a tradesman’s daughter. It is not at all becoming.’
As the Tsarina walked away and was swallowed up by the crowd of glittering silks and jewellery, Marina burst into tears.
‘Keep quiet,’ said Militza, tugging her daughter by the arm. ‘Don’t make a scene.’ But Marina was inconsolable. She was not a girl who brimmed with confidence; she did not look like the other debutantes with their pink cheeks and fair curls. She was pale, with black pools for eyes; Militza often wondered if she’d inherited more than just her looks.
‘Why did she say that? Why?’ she sobbed.
Militza looked around the ballroom; they were beginning to attract attention. ‘Come outside.’ She pulled her weeping daughter through the crowded ballroom, weaving and elbowing her way through the throng to the library next to the giant entrance hall. ‘What is wrong with you!’
‘What is wrong with her!’ wept the girl, tugging at her dress in disgust. ‘She is unkind and evil. The woman’s a witch!’
‘I don’t think you are allowed to say that of the Tsarina without ending up in the Peter and Paul Fortress,’ said a voice.
Mother and daughter turned to see Anna Vyrubova standing in the doorway, her plump figure pulled into a tight pink ballgown, her large bosom covered in a modest voile. Her top lip might have been glistening with sweat from the heat of the ballroom, but there was a look of triumph in her eyes.
‘She’s upset,’ spat Militza.
‘But those sorts of comments are treasonous,’ declared Anna.
‘Just leave us,’ said Militza.
‘Or what? Or you’ll try and send me away too?’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ snapped Militza, hugging her daughter close.
‘The Tsarina’s upset with you,’ smiled Anna, her hands on her hips. ‘She doesn’t like it when someone tries to take her Friend away.’
‘I introduced her to Grisha – why would I want to take him away?’
As soon as she said it, Militza realized it was a mistake. To enter into conversation with this woman was an error, because there was no telling what she might say, what conversations she might repeat, what bons mots she might decide to share. Militza had been a fool to underestimate this woman. A fool to write her off so easily. Appearances were deceptive and she of all people should know that. Just because the woman looked bovine, it didn’t mean she was. In that moment she realized that she and her sister were in a lethal fight. A fight for influence, position, power, a fight they could not afford to lose.
Leaving word with her husband to stay at the party, Militza left the ball with her weeping daughter. Their early arrival at the palace shocked the footman as he dozed in the chair in the hall; equally disconcerting to him was the fact that the Grand Duchess and Marina arrived alone, leaving the Grand Duke and his son at the ball.
‘Wake Brana!’ barked Militza as she ushered her daughter up the stairs. ‘And tell her to find the black votive candles immediately and meet me in my private salon.’
‘The black, Your Imperial Highness?’ The footman bowed.
‘Yes! Black! And get on with it!’
A very basic spell calling on Santa Muerte should do the trick. Easy, thought Militza, as she counselled her distressed daughter – easy, strong and powerful. It was far beneath her and she knew it: this was crude magic, the same spell she’d once berated her sister for. Santa Muerte and black votive candles might not be terribly sophisticated but Anna could suddenly discover she was not in such rude health after all.
So as Marina lay in her bedroom, staring at the ceiling quietly, seething with humiliation, Militza lit her candles in front of the gruesome image of Santa Muetre, the dancing spirit of death whose magic she began to call upon.
Round and round the room, Militza spun, mumbling, muttering her zagovor as the black candles burnt in front of the grinning skull. Her heart beat faster as she felt Anna’s heart beat faster. Up and down the ballroom the tubby little woman galloped. She’d never been asked to dance by so many young men before. So many lovely young men! It must be her proximity to the Tsarina, she concluded, that was making her so attractive. Everyone loves power and she, Anna, yes Anna, was right at the centre of it. What fun!
Round and round Militza spun, fashioning a small fat poppet of black wax in her dexterous, well-practised hands. She would see to it that Anna, the little gossip, the eyes and ears of the Tsarina, the smuggest of all confidantes, would see and hear no more. Olga Lokhtina might have started the rumour about Militza denouncing Rasputin, but it was Anna, Anna who’d spread it, Anna who’d fanned the flames, Anna who was the toxic cancer at the heart of the court.
Up and down Anna trotted, her pink dress pinching her waist, the heat and her dress’s high neck beginning to suffocate her. If only Militza had wax from a ‘dead’ candle, she thought, for candles made from the fat of the dead are much more efficient at dispatching the living, but they were increasingly hard to get hold of these days. Fewer peasants were inclined to exhume the dead to make tallow candles, especially when an old church candle was almost as useful. But not quite useful enough. So Militza spun faster, manipulating the wax from her votive candle and chanting louder and all the while plump little Anna Vyrubova struggled for breath as she was swung around, forced up and down, under the arm, holding hands, whooping along. And the faster she danced, the tighter the dress became, the shorter her breath. Militza stuck the pins into the short fat poppet she’d made. One, she jabbed the stomach. Two, she pierced the leg. Three, she slowly pushed the needle into the doll’s silent, open mouth.
Anna Vyrubova didn’t seem able to scream as she fell to the ground in agonizing pain. Her stomach hurt, her headache was excruciating and for a good few minutes her mouth opened and shut, but not a word could come out.
‘She looked like a giant codfish,’ said Roman the next morning as he drank his coffee at breakfast. ‘She was like this…’ He opened and closed his mouth. ‘And her face was scarlet and there were blotches all over her skin.’
‘Nothing more?’ asked Militza.
‘It was quite a scene,’ said Peter, an amused curl to his lips. ‘She was rolling around on the ground, holding that expansive waist of hers. I have never seen anything like it.’
‘And nothing else?’
Roman shook his head. ‘The Tsarina took her home.’
‘She probably needed an excuse to leave the party,’ said Peter, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘I have never seen anyone drink champagne with such reluctance in my life!’
‘Maybe I should go and visit poor Anna…’ suggested Militza.
‘I shouldn’t bother,’ said Roman. ‘They took her back to Tsarskoye Selo.’
‘The Tsarina refused to stay the night in town, again,’ confirmed Peter. ‘It is far too dangerous for her in the city. Or so she maintains.’