The Witches of St. Petersburg

Militza stood in the hall. She could hear him panting with fear from behind the heavy silk curtain. She glanced across. His pale eyes stared at her from the darkness. The most powerful man in Russia was finally asking her for help. He’d arrived drenched in sweat, his clothes sodden, his bare feet crimson with cold. He’d come careering through the woods like a deer chased by a pack of hungry wolves, had begged her for protection, implored her, promised her anything, everything – and she could hardly contain her pleasure.

They hammered again. The glass in the windows at the front of the palace rattled. A few of the domestic household, some sixty souls, were now gathered on the stairs, some shocked, some quizzical, some clasping their hands together in terror. All were staring at the doors. These were dangerous times; there was more than a whiff of revolution in the air and anything could happen. The burgundy-liveried footman went to open the door.

‘Wait!’ commanded Militza, taking a step forward and raising her hand. She pulled a diamond comb from the back of her head, shook her long, dark hair over her shoulders and partially opened the front of her red velvet robe. ‘Now,’ she said and nodded.

The footman pulled back the brass lock and opened the great doors. An icy blast tore into the hall. In front of her stood a seething gang of some twenty or so policemen. Dressed in navy tunics with lambskin helmets, they surged towards her, their breath white and their eyes wild with the chase. The young officer in charge lunged forward.

‘It has gone midnight! What in God’s name,’ Militza demanded, dramatically crossing herself, ‘are you doing waking my household at this hour?’

‘Where is he?’ barked the officer, leaning in, glancing around the hall.

‘How dare you!’ Militza stood her ground.

‘I am sorry, Your Imperial Highness.’ The young man withdrew slightly, cheeks tinged with contrition, clutching a piece of paper. ‘We are searching for Rasputin. Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin—’

‘The devil!’ someone shouted.

The young officer swung around. ‘Quiet!’ he snarled. He turned slowly back and, wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve, he smiled. ‘We believe he came this way.’

‘Well, I am sorry to disappoint,’ Militza replied, returning his smile, ‘but I have been here, alone, all evening and, as you can see…’ She looked down at her smooth, white, carefully exposed skin, ‘I am about to retire.’