The Witches of St. Petersburg

¹ 28 August 1889, Peterhof, St Petersburg

Right from the very beginning, Militza knew it was not going to work. She was like that. She knew things, saw things, sensed things… Second sight is what they called it. She saw the omens were bad… and the omens never lie.

She’d lit a candle the night before, something she and her mother had always done – a little bit of apotropaic magic to ward off evil. You place a lit candle in the window to dispel the dark, welcoming in the light and good fortune. But it kept on going out. There was a breeze, an ill wind, which meant that no matter how many times she lit the flame, it flickered, guttered and died.

Naturally, she didn’t tell her sister. Anastasia was two years younger and upset enough already, so much so she’d woken up in tears. What sort of bride wakes up in tears on her wedding day?

‘I can’t,’ she sobbed, propped up by a pile of soft, white pillows. ‘I just can’t.’

At the time, Militza didn’t know what to do. Anastasia was weeping copiously; her black hair, loose around her face, clung in damp curls to her wet cheeks. Her huge black eyes were mournful and completely piteous.

‘You’ve got to help me!’

‘He’s not so bad,’ Militza heard herself lying to her sister. ‘He’s a good match.’

‘How can you say that? He is sixteen years older than me, he has been married before and—’

‘And he’s been hand-picked by Papa.’

‘I’ve only known him for four weeks. Four weeks! His eyes are cold and his heart is even colder. Oh God! Why didn’t Papa choose someone else?’

‘He has his reasons – and he expects both of us to do our duty.’ Militza stroked her sister’s damp hair, trying to placate her. But it was no use.

‘I want to marry for love!’ she exclaimed, collapsing back on her bed and staring up at the ornate ceiling of the Grand Palace.

The floral gilt border shone in the early morning sun, the crystal chandelier glittering and swinging a little in the breeze. The opulence and splendour of their surroundings were completely overwhelming.

Militza laughed, she couldn’t believe what her sister had just said. ‘Don’t be so naive, Stana! Women like us don’t marry for love.’

How typical of Anastasia! Even when the sisters were growing up in their father’s court in Cetinje, Montenegro, running along the narrow corridors of their cosy little palace with its russet walls and white shutters, Anastasia had been the romantic, the one who believed the fairy tales their mother told. She’d listen, wide-eyed, sitting on her knee playing with wooden poppets and planning her own wedding. She’d always fantasized, had always thought, always known, that one day her prince would come. Out of all the sisters – and there were nine of them at the last count – Anastasia was the dreamer, the romantic. Even the Montenegrin belief that daughters were a misfortune seemed to pass her by. She ignored her parents’ endless conversations about money and about the dearth of suitors, she was impervious to their father building a nunnery on the shores of Lake Skadar in case he needed to house his ever-growing cabal of useless daughters – and she was deaf to her mother’s schemes and plans as to how to rid themselves of so many costly women.

So, when the two sisters were invited to St Petersburg, at the behest of the Tsar Alexander III, Stana was the first to be thrilled, the first to be excited, giddy with the idea of the clothes, the parties, the whirl and, unlike Militza, she was the last to realize: the plan.

‘Women like us marry for money,’ Militza reminded her sister. ‘We marry for position, security and status and, as we have none—’

‘But we are Princesses!’

‘Of a feudal backwater, with barely an army to call its own.’

Stana looked shocked.

‘We both know that is true,’ continued Militza, ‘and so we have to take what we are given, take who our father chooses, which will always be whoever he deems useful, who can advance him and our country. And our job? Our job is to produce children. Sons. We’re a couple of brood mares! That’s why the Tsar invited us here. We’ve been told as much.’

‘A brood mare…’ she sighed.

‘You’re almost twenty-one, Stana! You are not young any more. You can’t have little girl fantasies of a handsome prince rescuing you from your fate.’

‘So we’re to be sold off for thirty pieces of silver!’

‘A little more than that, I hope!’ Militza laughed. Stana did not. ‘We do not have a choice,’ her sister conceded quietly.

‘A life without choice,’ Stana stared at her sister and slowly shook her head, ‘is no life at all.’

‘It’s our duty.’

‘Duty to whom?’

‘Our father, our country.’ She paused. ‘Honestly, it is not so bad. And you hope, you pray, that eventually, over time, you can grow to love your husband.’

‘Do you love your husband?’ asked Stana, sitting up.

Militza smiled. ‘It hasn’t been long.’

In fact, it was just four weeks since she herself had been a bride. Her marriage had also been arranged by her father and the Tsar. She’d even sat next to Alexander III as he toasted the union between her and her husband, his cousin Grand Duke Peter Nikolayevich.

‘I drink to the health of the only sincere and faithful friend of Russia,’ Alexander had said, before placing the golden goblet to his lips. There had been no mention of happiness, or of joy, or love of any kind. That’s not to say that Peter was not charming, he most certainly was, but the real reason behind the union did not go unnoticed by the newspapers.

‘It would be unwise to ignore the tender feelings which prompted this celebration,’ said one. ‘But it would be foolish not to recognize all the great national and political reasons, which have joined together, in friendship and family ties, the mighty Royal House of the Romanovs of Russia and the modest court of Montenegro.’

‘The modest court of Montenegro…’ Militza smiled ruefully. That phrase had made her father furious, incandescent. She turned to stare out of the window at the manicured gardens below. It was such a beautiful day. The morning sky was fresh and cloudless, perfect for a wedding; the fountains at Peterhof were sparkling like decadent glasses of fizzing champagne and a warm wind was blowing off the Gulf of Finland. She and Stana were young and beautiful, they should both be so happy.

So why did she feel the desperate sickness of foreboding in her throat and the tight knot of dread deep in the pit of her stomach?

Militza dared not look Stana in the eye. What could she tell her? She was supposed to be the strong one, the cleverest of all the children, fluent in Persian, Russian, French as well as all the languages of her motherland. She was the one who had the sensible head, the clear vision. Zorka, the eldest, might well be able to predict earthquakes and their mother could tell the sex of unborn babies, but it was she, Militza, who had the real power, the one who could really see things. She was the one who spoke to Spirit, the one who was headstrong, who had an answer for everything. Known in her family as a reader of runes and oracles, a sibyl who always found it hard to curb her tongue, why was she so quiet now? What was she to say? That Stana had no choice but to accept this widower duke as her husband? That marriage was lonely? That she herself was struggling to find happiness? That the wedding night was something you just had to get through?

And she knew her husband, Peter, and he also knew where she had come from. He had toured Montenegro with her, witnessed the toasting and fireworks that greeted their engagement. He’d sailed down the Croatian coast in his beautiful white yacht to stay with her family in Cetinje, had seen their unprepossessing palace, its narrow corridors and wooden shutters, he had walked through their scrub of a garden without so much as a fountain, or a manicured lawn, and they’d travelled back to Russia together to be married.

But Stana, poor Stana, had not been so fortunate. She had met her soon-to-be husband just four weeks before, their father selecting him from the shallow pool of eligible suitors at Militza’s wedding. Quite what made the widower, with a motherless seven-year-old son, stand out for their father, neither of them knew.

All Militza knew was there was to be no celebratory cannon fire on Stana’s wedding day, no party at the Tsar’s palace. In fact, neither the Tsar nor even their father were going to attend. It was as if Nikola could not wait to give Stana away, at any price.

Militza sighed. What were they doing here, two sisters so far from home? How could their father have done this? She couldn’t help but think how cruel it was to be born a woman, how cruel it was to be powerless and unable to decide one’s own fate. However, she said nothing, did nothing, except continue to stare out of the window and try to quell her own misgivings.

It took Stana half an hour to compose herself enough to sip her tea. She had it strong and sweetened with a little cherry jam dipped in on a silver teaspoon. The maid had delivered a plate piled high with warm blini with soured cream and honey, but neither of them could stomach anything.

‘You’re right,’ Stana declared flatly, as she licked the jam off her spoon. ‘There is nothing else to be done. I have no choice. It is either George—’

‘Or the nunnery on Lake Skadar.’

They looked at each other. It should have been a funny joke: it was something they’d laughed about as children, that they’d end up in the nunnery their father was building. Militza had often declared, in lofty tones, that she was looking forward to a life of learning without distraction. But the older they became and the steeper and thicker grew the convent’s walls, the more of a terrifying reality it was. How could their father truly think this was a good solution to the problem of having so many daughters? Anything, anywhere, anyone – even George – would be better than the nunnery on Lake Skadar.

Militza leant over and took the spoon out of her sister’s mouth. ‘Don’t do that. We are not at home any more.’

‘Don’t I know it! I hate this place! The Grand Palace!’ she snorted. ‘It’s like a cage!’ Stana leapt out of her chair and walked towards the large open windows. ‘Why does it have to be him?’ She turned back towards Militza with her large imploring eyes. ‘Why does it have to be now? I know people are talking. I hear them whisper. I feel them stare. What is that stupid saying of theirs? “An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar?” Well, that’s us. A couple of uninvited Tatars. They don’t like us. They disdain us.’ Her pretty lips curled. ‘I’m scared. I’m scared of these big, cold palaces. I’m scared of the people who live here – and most of all I’m scared of my husband. He doesn’t love me, I know he doesn’t. He can barely look me in the eye.’

‘He proposed to you and that’s all that matters.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘I don’t know what else to say.’

The sisters sat in silence and drank their tea. The only noise was the scraping of Stana’s spoon as she stirred more jam around her cup.

‘I just wish Mother were here,’ said Stana, suddenly putting down her cup and pulling her knees up under her chin. ‘Both Mother and Papa came to your wedding.’

‘You will be fine.’ Militza squeezed her hand.

‘I miss our little palace.’

Militza looked out through the large open window to the beautifully manicured lawns beyond. ‘So do I…’ She added swiftly, turning back to her sister, ‘You will be fine. You are not alone. You have me to look after you.’

‘You?’ Stana’s eyes filled again with tears.

‘I will look after you.’

‘Please… I am not sure I can do it without you. You’ve always been the strong one, the clever one – the one everyone looked up to.’ She grabbed hold of her sister’s shoulders and gripped them tightly. ‘Promise you’ll make it all right? Promise!’

Her grip was strong, her pain evident. Militza looked deep into her sister’s black eyes. Perhaps it was guilt that fate had dealt her the better hand, perhaps it was instinct, the older sibling’s duty to look after the other, or perhaps it was just the raw vision of her sister’s shattered heart, but Militza did not pause. She did not waver. ‘I promise,’ she whispered. ‘Cross my heart.’ She hooked a strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, before cupping her chin. ‘Together, we can do anything,’ she said softly, then kissed Stana’s cheek.

Years later, Militza remembered, then and there, that with one small kiss, she had sealed both their fates. Forever after she was obliged to help her sister, to come to her rescue. She’d promised. She’d crossed her heart. There was nothing more to discuss.

‘Smile,’ she said. ‘You’re getting married.’

The wedding was at 3 p.m. and Stana had much to do. As was traditional, her dress was in the style of the court. Made of white silk, it was embroidered with silver thread, pearls and a scattering of diamonds around the neck and it took her over an hour to put on. Her fine lace stockings were difficult to fit in the heat, and her new lady’s maid, Natalya, took an age tugging them over Stana’s knees. The lace underskirts were fitted next, to give the dress volume, followed by the starched petticoats. A wider dress, made of silver and silk, was layered over the top. The inverted V at the front allowed the other skirt of finer silver tissue to peek through. Due to the late summer heat and humidity, instead of a more usual heavy velvet train Stana had opted for a simple mantilla and veil of delicate handmade Chantilly lace. It was attached to a diamond and pearl tiara, her wedding present from the Tsar. Fortunately, Monsieur Delacroix was on hand to make sure her coiffure was perfect. A corpulent fellow with a florid complexion and a long, waxed moustache, he arrived amid much flamboyant fanfare, accompanied by a phalanx of flunkies and a fug of lavender. Monsieur Delacroix had been court hairdresser for so long he knew more secrets than the police, more gossip than the servants, but most especially he knew about nervous brides and he never travelled anywhere without a chilled bottle of Roederer champagne. His energy, and indeed alcohol, went a little way to lightening the mood.

‘So, have you heard the Grand Duchess Vladimir is pregnant?’ declared Monsieur Delacroix, combing Stana’s hair. ‘That’s number four or five.’

‘How fortunate,’ replied Militza, sipping her champagne.

‘That’s a lot of babies,’ commented Stana, staring into the mirror.

‘All that money and all those children – and still no nearer to the throne!’ he laughed into his round chest. ‘You know when the Tsar was in that railway accident at Borki in the Ukraine last year? When twenty-one people died?’ He turned to heat up his curling tongs. ‘Rumour has it that neither she nor her husband returned to Russia, or even asked about his older brother’s health. They were sitting in France with their fingers crossed, spitting at the Devil, hoping against hope the Tsar and all his children would be wiped out, and they’d inherit the throne! Ouch!’ he said, burning his index finger on the hot brass as he pulled a set of tongs out from the gas-fired heater. ‘I don’t think the Tsar has forgiven him. It’ll be you soon,’ he joked, pausing mid-comb and nodding towards Stana’s slim belly.

‘Me? What?’

‘Lots of boys, that’s what every wife needs.’ Stana blushed. Noticing the bride’s evident discomfort, Delacroix continued swiftly, ‘The Grand Duchess Vladimir is sponsoring Cartier to open up here. She’s just ordered another kokoshnik tiara.’ He rolled his small currant eyes and tweaked the end of his moustache. ‘Apparently, they are all going crazy trying to source the diamonds, scouring Siberia! Not that anything can rival her Vladimir Tiara, the one she was given when she got married. That’s got more pearls than the Indian Ocean. I think she wants more stones than the Yusupovs, but no one can compete with them.’

He worked meticulously to smooth Stana’s hair into the two traditional fat ringlets that he placed hanging down over each shoulder. After he had brushed each curl, he then sprayed her hair with a mist of violet cologne from Guerlain in Paris. Finally, he picked up the diamond tiara with the flats of his palms and, careful not to dirty it with his sweat, set it gingerly in place.

‘There!’ he said, deftly wielding a small silver hand mirror. ‘Perfect.’

Stana got out of her seat and turned to look at herself in a full-length mirror. The tiara, the French lace veil, the silver dress, her dark hair all curled and smooth; she barely recognized herself. She looked ethereal, a princess from a different time and place. She looked across at her sister whose eyes were full of tears.

‘You look beautiful,’ Militza whispered.

There was a knock at the door and Brana, the elderly nursemaid the sisters had insisted on bringing with them from Montenegro, shuffled in. Hunched, dressed in a loose knitted shawl, with her thick grey hair plaited across the top of her head, she was an unusual sight in these rarefied surroundings. The refined Monsieur Delacroix took a step back, even Natalya, the maid, left her mouth open. From the coastal city of Ulcinj, one of the pirate capitals of the Adriatic, she had been with the girls since their birth and had looked after their mother, Milena, before them.

‘Since your mama is not here… Roses,’ she said, holding out the tightly bound bridal bouquet. She spoke in Albanian. The hairdresser and the maid were at a loss to understand. ‘And myrtle,’ she added, with a wide, toothless smile. ‘The height of fashion since Queen Victoria’s wedding, or so I am told.’

‘Oh Brana! Thank you!’ Stana bent down to hug and kiss her fleshless cheek. ‘You always think of everything!’

Stana returned to the mirror. The bouquet was the finishing touch. Her heart stopped. The wedding was suddenly real and she felt sick to the pit of her stomach.

‘It’ll be all right.’ She spoke softly to her own reflection, her mouth dry with nerves.

‘Be a brave girl now,’ said Brana smiling at Stana. ‘Your mother,’ she continued, rootling around in a pocket in her skirts, ‘was engaged at six, married at thirteen when she was not yet a woman. It took her a full four years to produce. And look at her now…’ She smiled. ‘Eleven children.’ She handed a small blue bottle to Militza. ‘And another one on the way.’

‘Open your mouth,’ demanded Militza, taking a step towards her sister.

‘What is it?’ asked Stana doing just as she was told.

‘Laudanum.’ Militza squeezed the top of the glass pipette. ‘A few drops of bitterness and then you won’t feel a thing.’

It was around two thirty when they set off from Peterhof towards the Sergeyevsko Estate in an open carriage pulled by six bay horses and festooned with white roses. Militza travelled with her sister, as did a substantial guard of honour all dressed in their immaculate scarlet uniforms. Arriving at the white marble church at exactly 3 p.m., they were met by throngs of newsmen and the official court photographer as well as crowds of excited onlookers who had gathered from all the nearby estates.

‘God help me,’ mumbled Stana, turning her glazed eyes on the crowds and then back towards her sister. ‘God help us.’

The carriage drew to a halt and the crowd fell silent. In attendance were some six grand dukes dressed in full plumed military splendour, their golden buttons and epaulettes glinting in the strong afternoon sun. At six feet seven inches, Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevich, Militza’s recently acquired brother-in-law, certainly stood out from the crowd. His straight nose, his intelligent, sharp blue eyes and elegantly waxed moustache, made him a welcome sight in the sea of unfamiliar faces. He smiled encouragingly at the approaching bride.

‘Papa would be so proud,’ Militza whispered in her sister’s ear.

‘Help me,’ Stana muttered listlessly in reply.

Stana stood up in the carriage and swooned slightly. The drugs, the weight of the dress, the heat of summer. Militza gasped, as did some members of the crowd. Stana gripped on the side of the carriage to balance herself, her white hands shaking as she fumbled. Fortunately, Nikolai Nikolayevich was swift enough to catch Stana before she fell. He rushed forward, pushing aside a footman, slipping his hands firmly around her waist as her legs went from under her. He pulled her close to his chest and her head fell against his shoulder; she shivered as she tried to control herself. Breathing in deeply, all she could smell was the lemon sharpness of his cologne.

‘Thank you.’ Her lips parted in a dry smile. The smallest bead of sweat slithered down her temple.

‘Your Highness,’ he replied, holding her firmly at the elbows. ‘Do you need a glass of water?’

‘No need.’

‘A little air?’

Stana shook her head.

‘Don’t worry,’ he added, turning to address the anxious-looking Militza. ‘She just needs a moment. You go inside. I will look after her, I promise.’

Militza hesitated, she was late, she should go inside the church, but… She looked at him again.

‘I promise,’ he said, again, holding Stana a little more closely to his chest. ‘Go.’

Militza nodded and turned. As soon as she walked through the open doors, the sweet, sickly odour of incense and lilies filled the air. It smelt more like a funeral than a wedding. Lit by the glow of a thousand candles, the cream of St Petersburg society was lined up, decked out in their finery and, as they jockeyed for the best position, their diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls, gold and silver silks all coruscated like a basket of wet vipers writhing in the sun. Militza was momentarily blinded by the opulence and gripped on to her fan all the more tightly as she walked through the church. She heard the conversation dip and felt the glare of a hundred pairs of eyes. Dressed in a yellow silk dress, with a yellow diamond necklace and the small diamond tiara her husband had recently presented to her, she nervously scanned the church.

The first to approach her was the Tsar’s sister, the Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna who was married to Prince Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, second son of Queen Victoria. Her diamond and Burmese ruby parure was impressive, yet her little round face was impassive and sagging with boredom.

She yawned gently. ‘So here we all are, again. Twice in four weeks.’ She managed a pinched smile as she thrice kissed the air next to Militza’s cheeks. ‘What a horribly hot day.’ She flapped her huge mother-of-pearl fan by way of a demonstration. ‘And my brother is not coming. He is in Denmark. Copenhagen. With Mama’s family,’ she added with a little shake of her coronet. ‘A previous engagement.’

‘Shame,’ added Prince Alfred, who looked as weary as his wife as he surveyed the scene. ‘It makes it so much less of an occasion without the Tsar.’

‘And your father, the King of…?’ Maria Alexandrovna paused very pointedly, fiddling with her large ruby ring.

‘The Crown Prince of Montenegro.’ Militza could feel her cheeks beginning to flush with irritation. This was not the first time someone had pretended not to remember the name of her country.

‘Not here either?’ she remarked, her lips pursed, already knowing the answer.

‘Sadly, my mother is confined.’

‘What is it now – ten?’ The Grand Duchess giggled. ‘Not even the old serfs had that many children!’

‘Twelve,’ replied Militza her eyes finally alighting on the tall, slender frame of her husband. ‘Will you excuse me?’

She fled, weaving her way through the rustle of silk and glimmer of diamonds straight to his side.

‘There you are!’ He leant over to kiss her. ‘Everything all right?’ he whispered in her ear.

‘I’ve given her a little something for her nerves.’

He stood and smiled at her. Dressed in an immaculately fitting red Hussar’s uniform, with large gold epaulettes that highlighted his broad shoulders, there was a glint in Peter’s grey eyes, a generous curl on his moustachioed lips; he was a charming ebullient sort, who always looked as if he was about to tell the most excellent story.

‘Good girl,’ he replied, tapping the back of her hand. ‘I wish you’d spared a little for me!’ he added, with a small sigh as he gazed across the church. ‘It’s quite a turnout. Difficult for a young girl. Well done you.’ He nodded, squeezing her hand. ‘I remember our wedding day,’ he added.

‘I should hope so!’ Militza smiled. ‘It wasn’t that long ago.’

‘Four weeks and five days.’ He smiled. ‘That tiara suits you.’

‘You chose well,’ she replied.

‘Thank you, my lady.’ He bowed in jest. ‘I have an eye for beautiful things,’ he declared, before turning to talk to the guests standing on his right.

‘For the love of Christ!’ hissed a rather beautiful woman as she bustled in front of Militza. Wearing an overly embroidered court dress trimmed with pearls, she had two heavy diamonds swinging from her earlobes and a substantial diamond and pearl tiara on her head. She exuded the ennui of entitlement. ‘I don’t know why we are here!’

‘I agree,’ mumbled her husband, stroking his thick moustache. ‘Who’s heard of a court wedding without the Tsar?’

‘Can you blame him? I only wish I too had managed to slip away to Demark. It’s embarrassing. Such a dark little shrew of a girl. With no money! And from some God-awful backwater no one has ever heard of. What on earth is George doing? Couldn’t he get anything better? Montenegro, of all places. The streets are full of goats!’

‘Have you heard they’ve even brought a crone with them?’ added her husband. ‘A crone! I suppose they can’t afford a proper lady-in-waiting.’

Militza dug her sharp fingernails into the palms of her hands. How she wished her father had not forced both her and Stana to come here. Even the nunnery on Lake Skadar was preferable to this.

‘Ah, Felix! Zinaida! Lovely to see you!’ declared Peter, turning towards his wife and noticing the couple in front of her. ‘Militza, my darling,’ he added, ‘have you met the Yusupovs? The most glamorous couple in all of Russia!’

Militza’s voice died in her throat as a hush came over the crowd and all eyes turned towards the entrance. Stana and Nikolai Nikolayevich stood in the doorway, the bright afternoon sunshine pouring in behind them. Thank goodness, her sister had a little more colour in her pale cheeks, but still Militza felt her chest tighten with nerves. Everyone stared. She looked back across the church towards the groom.

George Maximilianovich, sixth Duke of Leuchtenberg, stood dressed in his immaculate scarlet military uniform, complete with rows of gleaming medals and a bright turquoise sash, his back set firmly towards the door. Why doesn’t he turn around? she thought. All men turn around to watch their future wife enter the church. Militza looked back at her sister, who was holding so tightly on to Nikolai Nikolayevich’s hand that her knuckles had turned white. Not that he appeared to notice, he was so intent on helping her down the aisle.

Just as Stana raised her head high to walk towards the priest, there was a commotion behind her. Everyone turned to witness the late arrival of the Grand Duchess Vladimir, Maria Pavlovna, and her portly husband, the heavily moustachioed Grand Duke, younger brother of the Tsar. Amid much huffing, puffing and fan waving, they followed the bride into the church and took up their place just inside the entrance. Militza stared. Loaded down with jewels, a necklace, a collier de chien, a devant de corsage, a tiara, brooches and a sash, all made of sapphires and diamonds, the Grand Duchess sparkled with self-importance as her every facet caught the sun. Seemingly oblivious to the sensitivity of the moment, Maria Pavlovna smiled and nodded to the assembled company, overshadowing the arrival of the bride. She was not a woman known for her tact, that much Militza knew. She filled her enormous palace with gamblers and ne’er-do-wells and was the epicentre of St Petersburg society. No one could eat, dance or entertain in the city without her say-so. However, even for the Grand Duchess Vladimir, such an entrance was more than a little vulgar.

‘That woman just has to be the centre of attention all the time,’ Peter whispered into his wife’s ear. ‘Dreadful.’

More interestingly, thought Militza, watching Maria Pavlovna smile and nod and mouth little words, flapping her fan, Monsieur Delacroix’s gossip appeared to be well sourced. Maria Pavlovna’s normally angular face had filled out slightly and her dress was not as tightly fitted as high fashion dictated. She was definitely with child.

The priest, Father Anthony, valiantly ignored the attempted interruption and continued to bless the rings. George and Stana exchanged their vows, him with significantly more volume than her. Yet Stana looked serene holding her candle and barely faltered as she leant forward to kiss the icon. Even the tight-lipped Maria Alexandrovna managed to muster a small smile on her otherwise sour little face.

When the ceremony was over, George’s son, little Alexander Romonovsky, led the procession out of the church, holding the icon firmly in his young hands. He was clearly taking his responsibilities very seriously, for he bit his bottom lip all the way out of the church to Villa Sergievka and the reception itself.

And what a reception it was. One that few, if any, would ever forget.